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sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/05.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Prince/section_2_part_1.txt

The Prince.chapter v

chapter v

{"name": "Chapter V", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section3/", "summary": "How to Govern Cities and Principalities That, Prior to Being Occupied, Lived Under Their Own Laws Machiavelli describes three ways to hold states that have been accustomed to living freely under their own laws. The first is to devastate them. The second is for the conqueror to occupy them. The third is to allow the state to maintain its own laws, but to charge taxes and establish an oligarchy to keep the state friendly. The third option is advantageous because the newly imposed oligarchy will work hard to secure the authority of the conquering prince within the conquered state because it owes its existence to the prince and cannot survive without his support. Thus, as long as the goal is not to devastate the other state, it is easiest to rule it through the use of its own citizens. Complete destruction is the most certain way of securing a state that has been free in the past. A prince who does not take this route places himself in a position to be destroyed himself. No matter how long it has been since the state was acquired, rebellions will always revive the legacy of ancient institutions and notions of former liberty, even if the state has benefited from the prince's rule. This sense of tradition will unify the people against the prince. On the other hand, cities or provinces that are accustomed to being ruled by a prince are easy to take over once the ruling family has been destroyed. People in such states are accustomed to obedience and do not know how to live in freedom without having someone to rule over them. Therefore, the new prince can win the province and hold onto it more easily. In republics , sentiments of hatred and revenge against the conquering prince will run strong. The memories of ancient liberty never die, so a prince will be better off destroying the republic or personally occupying the conquered state", "analysis": ""}

Whenever those states which have been acquired as stated have been accustomed to live under their own laws and in freedom, there are three courses for those who wish to hold them: the first is to ruin them, the next is to reside there in person, the third is to permit them to live under their own laws, drawing a tribute, and establishing within it an oligarchy which will keep it friendly to you. Because such a government, being created by the prince, knows that it cannot stand without his friendship and interest, and does it utmost to support him; and therefore he who would keep a city accustomed to freedom will hold it more easily by the means of its own citizens than in any other way. There are, for example, the Spartans and the Romans. The Spartans held Athens and Thebes, establishing there an oligarchy; nevertheless they lost them. The Romans, in order to hold Capua, Carthage, and Numantia, dismantled them, and did not lose them. They wished to hold Greece as the Spartans held it, making it free and permitting its laws, and did not succeed. So to hold it they were compelled to dismantle many cities in the country, for in truth there is no safe way to retain them otherwise than by ruining them. And he who becomes master of a city accustomed to freedom and does not destroy it, may expect to be destroyed by it, for in rebellion it has always the watchword of liberty and its ancient privileges as a rallying point, which neither time nor benefits will ever cause it to forget. And whatever you may do or provide against, they never forget that name or their privileges unless they are disunited or dispersed, but at every chance they immediately rally to them, as Pisa after the hundred years she had been held in bondage by the Florentines. But when cities or countries are accustomed to live under a prince, and his family is exterminated, they, being on the one hand accustomed to obey and on the other hand not having the old prince, cannot agree in making one from amongst themselves, and they do not know how to govern themselves. For this reason they are very slow to take up arms, and a prince can gain them to himself and secure them much more easily. But in republics there is more vitality, greater hatred, and more desire for vengeance, which will never permit them to allow the memory of their former liberty to rest; so that the safest way is to destroy them or to reside there.

Chapter V

https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section3/

How to Govern Cities and Principalities That, Prior to Being Occupied, Lived Under Their Own Laws Machiavelli describes three ways to hold states that have been accustomed to living freely under their own laws. The first is to devastate them. The second is for the conqueror to occupy them. The third is to allow the state to maintain its own laws, but to charge taxes and establish an oligarchy to keep the state friendly. The third option is advantageous because the newly imposed oligarchy will work hard to secure the authority of the conquering prince within the conquered state because it owes its existence to the prince and cannot survive without his support. Thus, as long as the goal is not to devastate the other state, it is easiest to rule it through the use of its own citizens. Complete destruction is the most certain way of securing a state that has been free in the past. A prince who does not take this route places himself in a position to be destroyed himself. No matter how long it has been since the state was acquired, rebellions will always revive the legacy of ancient institutions and notions of former liberty, even if the state has benefited from the prince's rule. This sense of tradition will unify the people against the prince. On the other hand, cities or provinces that are accustomed to being ruled by a prince are easy to take over once the ruling family has been destroyed. People in such states are accustomed to obedience and do not know how to live in freedom without having someone to rule over them. Therefore, the new prince can win the province and hold onto it more easily. In republics , sentiments of hatred and revenge against the conquering prince will run strong. The memories of ancient liberty never die, so a prince will be better off destroying the republic or personally occupying the conquered state

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_25_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 26

chapter 26

{"name": "Chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim35.asp", "summary": "Doramin is an impressive character with proud, intent eyes. He is also a fat man who is unable to walk alone. Two men are required to assist him when he wants to raise or lower himself. His wife, on the other hand, is a thin, delicate woman who fusses over her husband. She serves as his adviser. Their only son, Dain Waris, is twenty-five, and Doramin wants to insure a safe place for him after his death. Dain Waris becomes Jim's best friend, and the two respect each other greatly. Doramin sought Jim's help in fighting Raja Allang and Sherif Ali. Jim accepted the challenge, and establishing peace on the island became his purpose for existence. He knew that he would have to do something dramatic in order to beat the enemy and suggested openly attacking Sherif Ali. Dain Waris was the first to accept Jim's plan; soon all of Doramin's people became his allies, offering assistance.", "analysis": "Notes Doramin and his family are developed in this chapter. Dain Waris, who later becomes a key figure in the novel, is introduced for the first time. Conrad is careful to explain that Dain Waris and Jim are best friends. In fact, Dain Waris is the first to side with Jim on his plan to attach Sherif Ali and he also saves Jim's life. This chapter gives hints of the impending tragedy that is to occur later in the novel. Conrad emphasizes Doramin's two pistols, which Stein had given him. These pistols will be used to kill Jim. Conrad also emphasizes the close relationship between Doramin and his son Dain Waris. It is because of his son that Doramin wants Jim to help in making Patusan a peaceful island. When Dain Waris is killed, Conrad has prepared the reader for the chief turning against Jim. In his description of Jim's swift rise to the top of the Malay society, Conrad shows his ethnocentrism. Jim's whiteness is often emphasized in his description. He is the great white hope of European fantasy. The people are chaotic and warring before he arrives and upon his arrival, they become peaceful and orderly. Since Britain was still heavily invested in imperialism at the time Conrad wrote, he made imperialism, with its basis in white supremacy, seem altruistic."}

'Doramin was one of the most remarkable men of his race I had ever seen. His bulk for a Malay was immense, but he did not look merely fat; he looked imposing, monumental. This motionless body, clad in rich stuffs, coloured silks, gold embroideries; this huge head, enfolded in a red-and-gold headkerchief; the flat, big, round face, wrinkled, furrowed, with two semicircular heavy folds starting on each side of wide, fierce nostrils, and enclosing a thick-lipped mouth; the throat like a bull; the vast corrugated brow overhanging the staring proud eyes--made a whole that, once seen, can never be forgotten. His impassive repose (he seldom stirred a limb when once he sat down) was like a display of dignity. He was never known to raise his voice. It was a hoarse and powerful murmur, slightly veiled as if heard from a distance. When he walked, two short, sturdy young fellows, naked to the waist, in white sarongs and with black skull-caps on the backs of their heads, sustained his elbows; they would ease him down and stand behind his chair till he wanted to rise, when he would turn his head slowly, as if with difficulty, to the right and to the left, and then they would catch him under his armpits and help him up. For all that, there was nothing of a cripple about him: on the contrary, all his ponderous movements were like manifestations of a mighty deliberate force. It was generally believed he consulted his wife as to public affairs; but nobody, as far as I know, had ever heard them exchange a single word. When they sat in state by the wide opening it was in silence. They could see below them in the declining light the vast expanse of the forest country, a dark sleeping sea of sombre green undulating as far as the violet and purple range of mountains; the shining sinuosity of the river like an immense letter S of beaten silver; the brown ribbon of houses following the sweep of both banks, overtopped by the twin hills uprising above the nearer tree-tops. They were wonderfully contrasted: she, light, delicate, spare, quick, a little witch-like, with a touch of motherly fussiness in her repose; he, facing her, immense and heavy, like a figure of a man roughly fashioned of stone, with something magnanimous and ruthless in his immobility. The son of these old people was a most distinguished youth. 'They had him late in life. Perhaps he was not really so young as he looked. Four- or five-and-twenty is not so young when a man is already father of a family at eighteen. When he entered the large room, lined and carpeted with fine mats, and with a high ceiling of white sheeting, where the couple sat in state surrounded by a most deferential retinue, he would make his way straight to Doramin, to kiss his hand--which the other abandoned to him, majestically--and then would step across to stand by his mother's chair. I suppose I may say they idolised him, but I never caught them giving him an overt glance. Those, it is true, were public functions. The room was generally thronged. The solemn formality of greetings and leave-takings, the profound respect expressed in gestures, on the faces, in the low whispers, is simply indescribable. "It's well worth seeing," Jim had assured me while we were crossing the river, on our way back. "They are like people in a book, aren't they?" he said triumphantly. "And Dain Waris--their son--is the best friend (barring you) I ever had. What Mr. Stein would call a good 'war-comrade.' I was in luck. Jove! I was in luck when I tumbled amongst them at my last gasp." He meditated with bowed head, then rousing himself he added--'"Of course I didn't go to sleep over it, but . . ." He paused again. "It seemed to come to me," he murmured. "All at once I saw what I had to do . . ." 'There was no doubt that it had come to him; and it had come through war, too, as is natural, since this power that came to him was the power to make peace. It is in this sense alone that might so often is right. You must not think he had seen his way at once. When he arrived the Bugis community was in a most critical position. "They were all afraid," he said to me--"each man afraid for himself; while I could see as plain as possible that they must do something at once, if they did not want to go under one after another, what between the Rajah and that vagabond Sherif." But to see that was nothing. When he got his idea he had to drive it into reluctant minds, through the bulwarks of fear, of selfishness. He drove it in at last. And that was nothing. He had to devise the means. He devised them--an audacious plan; and his task was only half done. He had to inspire with his own confidence a lot of people who had hidden and absurd reasons to hang back; he had to conciliate imbecile jealousies, and argue away all sorts of senseless mistrusts. Without the weight of Doramin's authority, and his son's fiery enthusiasm, he would have failed. Dain Waris, the distinguished youth, was the first to believe in him; theirs was one of those strange, profound, rare friendships between brown and white, in which the very difference of race seems to draw two human beings closer by some mystic element of sympathy. Of Dain Waris, his own people said with pride that he knew how to fight like a white man. This was true; he had that sort of courage--the courage in the open, I may say--but he had also a European mind. You meet them sometimes like that, and are surprised to discover unexpectedly a familiar turn of thought, an unobscured vision, a tenacity of purpose, a touch of altruism. Of small stature, but admirably well proportioned, Dain Waris had a proud carriage, a polished, easy bearing, a temperament like a clear flame. His dusky face, with big black eyes, was in action expressive, and in repose thoughtful. He was of a silent disposition; a firm glance, an ironic smile, a courteous deliberation of manner seemed to hint at great reserves of intelligence and power. Such beings open to the Western eye, so often concerned with mere surfaces, the hidden possibilities of races and lands over which hangs the mystery of unrecorded ages. He not only trusted Jim, he understood him, I firmly believe. I speak of him because he had captivated me. His--if I may say so--his caustic placidity, and, at the same time, his intelligent sympathy with Jim's aspirations, appealed to me. I seemed to behold the very origin of friendship. If Jim took the lead, the other had captivated his leader. In fact, Jim the leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the friendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body. Every day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom. I felt convinced of it, as from day to day I learned more of the story. 'The story! Haven't I heard the story? I've heard it on the march, in camp (he made me scour the country after invisible game); I've listened to a good part of it on one of the twin summits, after climbing the last hundred feet or so on my hands and knees. Our escort (we had volunteer followers from village to village) had camped meantime on a bit of level ground half-way up the slope, and in the still breathless evening the smell of wood-smoke reached our nostrils from below with the penetrating delicacy of some choice scent. Voices also ascended, wonderful in their distinct and immaterial clearness. Jim sat on the trunk of a felled tree, and pulling out his pipe began to smoke. A new growth of grass and bushes was springing up; there were traces of an earthwork under a mass of thorny twigs. "It all started from here," he said, after a long and meditative silence. On the other hill, two hundred yards across a sombre precipice, I saw a line of high blackened stakes, showing here and there ruinously--the remnants of Sherif Ali's impregnable camp. 'But it had been taken, though. That had been his idea. He had mounted Doramin's old ordnance on the top of that hill; two rusty iron 7-pounders, a lot of small brass cannon--currency cannon. But if the brass guns represent wealth, they can also, when crammed recklessly to the muzzle, send a solid shot to some little distance. The thing was to get them up there. He showed me where he had fastened the cables, explained how he had improvised a rude capstan out of a hollowed log turning upon a pointed stake, indicated with the bowl of his pipe the outline of the earthwork. The last hundred feet of the ascent had been the most difficult. He had made himself responsible for success on his own head. He had induced the war party to work hard all night. Big fires lighted at intervals blazed all down the slope, "but up here," he explained, "the hoisting gang had to fly around in the dark." From the top he saw men moving on the hillside like ants at work. He himself on that night had kept on rushing down and climbing up like a squirrel, directing, encouraging, watching all along the line. Old Doramin had himself carried up the hill in his arm-chair. They put him down on the level place upon the slope, and he sat there in the light of one of the big fires--"amazing old chap--real old chieftain," said Jim, "with his little fierce eyes--a pair of immense flintlock pistols on his knees. Magnificent things, ebony, silver-mounted, with beautiful locks and a calibre like an old blunderbuss. A present from Stein, it seems--in exchange for that ring, you know. Used to belong to good old McNeil. God only knows how _he_ came by them. There he sat, moving neither hand nor foot, a flame of dry brushwood behind him, and lots of people rushing about, shouting and pulling round him--the most solemn, imposing old chap you can imagine. He wouldn't have had much chance if Sherif Ali had let his infernal crew loose at us and stampeded my lot. Eh? Anyhow, he had come up there to die if anything went wrong. No mistake! Jove! It thrilled me to see him there--like a rock. But the Sherif must have thought us mad, and never troubled to come and see how we got on. Nobody believed it could be done. Why! I think the very chaps who pulled and shoved and sweated over it did not believe it could be done! Upon my word I don't think they did. . . ." 'He stood erect, the smouldering brier-wood in his clutch, with a smile on his lips and a sparkle in his boyish eyes. I sat on the stump of a tree at his feet, and below us stretched the land, the great expanse of the forests, sombre under the sunshine, rolling like a sea, with glints of winding rivers, the grey spots of villages, and here and there a clearing, like an islet of light amongst the dark waves of continuous tree-tops. A brooding gloom lay over this vast and monotonous landscape; the light fell on it as if into an abyss. The land devoured the sunshine; only far off, along the coast, the empty ocean, smooth and polished within the faint haze, seemed to rise up to the sky in a wall of steel. 'And there I was with him, high in the sunshine on the top of that historic hill of his. He dominated the forest, the secular gloom, the old mankind. He was like a figure set up on a pedestal, to represent in his persistent youth the power, and perhaps the virtues, of races that never grow old, that have emerged from the gloom. I don't know why he should always have appeared to me symbolic. Perhaps this is the real cause of my interest in his fate. I don't know whether it was exactly fair to him to remember the incident which had given a new direction to his life, but at that very moment I remembered very distinctly. It was like a shadow in the light.'

Chapter 26

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim35.asp

Doramin is an impressive character with proud, intent eyes. He is also a fat man who is unable to walk alone. Two men are required to assist him when he wants to raise or lower himself. His wife, on the other hand, is a thin, delicate woman who fusses over her husband. She serves as his adviser. Their only son, Dain Waris, is twenty-five, and Doramin wants to insure a safe place for him after his death. Dain Waris becomes Jim's best friend, and the two respect each other greatly. Doramin sought Jim's help in fighting Raja Allang and Sherif Ali. Jim accepted the challenge, and establishing peace on the island became his purpose for existence. He knew that he would have to do something dramatic in order to beat the enemy and suggested openly attacking Sherif Ali. Dain Waris was the first to accept Jim's plan; soon all of Doramin's people became his allies, offering assistance.

Notes Doramin and his family are developed in this chapter. Dain Waris, who later becomes a key figure in the novel, is introduced for the first time. Conrad is careful to explain that Dain Waris and Jim are best friends. In fact, Dain Waris is the first to side with Jim on his plan to attach Sherif Ali and he also saves Jim's life. This chapter gives hints of the impending tragedy that is to occur later in the novel. Conrad emphasizes Doramin's two pistols, which Stein had given him. These pistols will be used to kill Jim. Conrad also emphasizes the close relationship between Doramin and his son Dain Waris. It is because of his son that Doramin wants Jim to help in making Patusan a peaceful island. When Dain Waris is killed, Conrad has prepared the reader for the chief turning against Jim. In his description of Jim's swift rise to the top of the Malay society, Conrad shows his ethnocentrism. Jim's whiteness is often emphasized in his description. He is the great white hope of European fantasy. The people are chaotic and warring before he arrives and upon his arrival, they become peaceful and orderly. Since Britain was still heavily invested in imperialism at the time Conrad wrote, he made imperialism, with its basis in white supremacy, seem altruistic.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_23_to_27.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_7_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 23-27

chapters 23-27

{"name": "Chapters 23-27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-23-27", "summary": "On his way to Patusan, Jim carries a letter from Mr. Stein to Cornelius, together with a silver ring common among natives as his introduction to Doramin, Mr. Stein's \"war-comrades\" friend. Doramin gave him the ring as a parting gift and promise of eternal friendship. Stein had saved Doramin's life at one point. Now Jim keeps the ring around his neck. Set to leave, Marlow notices three books tumble out of Jim's valise: the complete Shakespeare. Marlow is struck by this choice of Jim's. He is also struck when Jim, taking the revolver Marlow has offered him, forgets the two small boxes of cartridges. Jim calls to Marlow: \"You - shall - hear - of - me\" . Marlow visits Patusan two years later, and at the mouth of the river, the elderly headman of the fisher-folk village comes to board Stein's schooner and tells Marlow about a certain \"Tuan Jim,\" the first white man he ever saw. As he goes down the river, he can see Jim going down the river for the first time, and the narrative subtly shifts to Jim's perspective: Jim is describing how he felt seeing the first houses, how the boat came onto the bank. A boat full of armed men behind him, people coming out of the gate straight at him, his revolver empty, he just stood there. He asked them what was the matter, and it stunned them. Kassim, the Rajah's counselor, announced that the Rajah wanted to see him. The Rajah kept him prisoner for three days. He was a fearful soul who hated Doramin and was deeply afraid of Jim. Jim was held by the north front of the stockade which, on his third day in Patusan, he leaped over. His leap of escape was a flying one over the mouth of a muddy creek. Traveling by foot, he reached Doramin, as the women screamed and children cried. He produced the ring. Doramin and his motherly wife were of the merchant class and were viewed with great respect and dignity. They were involved in a deep, factional fight regarding trade, since the Rajah had been pretending he was the only trader in the country. Doramin, fat, imposing, monumental, and motionless, was growing old, and the area was fraught with insecurity. The couple had had a son late in life, named Dain Waris. Dain Waris was very distinguished and about twenty-four or twenty-five. He was adored by his parents, and he would become Jim's best friend. Dain Waris understands Jim very well. Jim next describes to Marlow the extent to which he has become a legend. Like a judge, he feels a keen responsibility for the social order. Many believe he has supernatural powers. An old man from a faraway village even came to ask Jim if he should divorce his wife. A key victory in war settled his stature and respect, having concluded a quarrel with the Rajah. A stockade that had already been knocked to pieces caused the story to circulate that Jim had thrown it down with the touch of a finger. Dain Waris had saved Jim's life at that time. There had been a hot five minutes in the stockade, and then all was clear. Jim cries that it was \"Immense!\" . As a result of the battle, Tamb' Itam, a stranger to Patusan who had been detained by the Rajah, bolted from him in order to become Jim's devoted servant. He was inseparable from Jim, like a \"morose shadow\" .", "analysis": "The narrative scatters chronologically. The reader gets a brief view of Jim's success in Patusan, and we learn that Marlow visits him there. The narrative then returns to Jim's perspective, as he first learns about the opportunity Stein is giving him. The silver ring is a traditional symbol of the romantic quest, of which Jim's journey is an example: it takes him into the heart of an unknown place, where the ring will help him inherit the cultural and other ties that Stein made in those parts long ago. He has the opportunity to prove himself, while Stein plays the part of providing luck or chance. From then on, Jim is on his own. The prospect of anonymity is, for Jim, a possible freedom. He discovers that he is not so bad after all, something Marlow had sensed from the beginning. Thrown into a whirlwind of self-confusion, Jim now proves his worth. It is not certain, however, that this success will help him reconcile with his previous failure, since his personality remains obsessed with a particular, fixed aspect of the past. While people can change generally, the past cannot. Hence, the question of Jim's fate ultimately turns on how he learns to live with his past. When Marlow notes Jim's copy of Shakespeare, the scene resonates against the recent scene with Stein, who made reference to the poet's Hamlet. This detail provides a further sense of connection between the romantics, Jim and Stein, regarding the question of how one is to live. The search into literature for answers is Conrad's subtle hint, being an author himself, that his literary work endeavors to answer the complex questions of how to be and how to live. From the moment Jim arrives in Patusan, he exhibits courage. His judgment is flawless, and he makes the correct leap from his imprisonment when he needs to. This contrasts with his leap from the Patna and with his earlier failure to leap at the best time. These successful leaps in Patusan, moreover, provide the seeds of the mythmaking that envelops Jim, who comes to be known as \"Tuan Jim\" or \"Lord Jim.\" This romanticized \"Jim\" can fly. He cannot die. The story even trickles down to a faraway place where Marlow will hear that the legend has discovered a giant emerald. When Marlow once again encounters Jim, he feels the pride of a father. He is glad that Jim has successfully made use of the opportunity he received. Something of the stammering, young, ineloquent man remains, but Marlow notes: \"Now and then, though, a word, a sentence, would escape him that showed how deeply, how solemnly, he felt about that work which had given him the certitude of rehabilitation. That is why he seemed to love the land and the people with a sort of fierce egoism, with a contemptuous tenderness\" . While Jim looks upon the land with one eye on possession, Marlow still concludes that \"all his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these things that made him master had made him captive, too\" . Marlow is coming to understand Jim very well. This understanding is reiterated: \"Jim the leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the friendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body. Every day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom\" . In other words, the freedom he had sought, the freedom that comes with honor and power generally, must be held accountable to others. Binding oneself to others is constraining: you can't leap or run away. The responsibility is severe. Jim has inserted himself as a necessary and important part of the social fabric in Patusan, and, in this way, the community is not unlike that of a ship on the sea. Thus while Jim is exiled from the sea, this new oceanic wilderness is isolating in a new way. He has assumed a position not unlike the one he had held on board the Patna as first mate. In Patusan, a name that resonates with the sound of \"Patna,\" Jim is isolated even while he is in position to guide the community. An important point to keep in mind in thinking about the communities on board the Patna and in Patusan is their \"otherness\"; both sets of people for whom Jim is responsible differ considerably from the Western figures who dominate the novel. The ship had been filled with Muslim pilgrims heading for Mecca, and Patusan is filled with a community of Southeast Asian islanders. Stein, also, had been intimately involved with a Malay community. In all these cases, though Jim and Stein had been relatively isolated insofar as they were white men, the white men achieved dominance and held a high stature among the population. This white ascendancy has been critiqued as problematic in much of Conrad's work, gaining some energy from being set in \"exotic\" locations. Note that Dain Waris \"knew how to fight like a white man ... he had also a European mind\"--which, from the perspective of the speaker, suggests the superiority of the Western presence in that part of the world, as well as the superiority of a native man who is like a white man . Though colonialism was a fact of the time, critics have argued that Conrad fails to render the native characters in his work with the subtlety and generosity he affords his white characters."}

'He did not return till next morning. He had been kept to dinner and for the night. There never had been such a wonderful man as Mr. Stein. He had in his pocket a letter for Cornelius ("the Johnnie who's going to get the sack," he explained, with a momentary drop in his elation), and he exhibited with glee a silver ring, such as natives use, worn down very thin and showing faint traces of chasing. 'This was his introduction to an old chap called Doramin--one of the principal men out there--a big pot--who had been Mr. Stein's friend in that country where he had all these adventures. Mr. Stein called him "war-comrade." War-comrade was good. Wasn't it? And didn't Mr. Stein speak English wonderfully well? Said he had learned it in Celebes--of all places! That was awfully funny. Was it not? He did speak with an accent--a twang--did I notice? That chap Doramin had given him the ring. They had exchanged presents when they parted for the last time. Sort of promising eternal friendship. He called it fine--did I not? They had to make a dash for dear life out of the country when that Mohammed--Mohammed--What's-his-name had been killed. I knew the story, of course. Seemed a beastly shame, didn't it? . . . 'He ran on like this, forgetting his plate, with a knife and fork in hand (he had found me at tiffin), slightly flushed, and with his eyes darkened many shades, which was with him a sign of excitement. The ring was a sort of credential--("It's like something you read of in books," he threw in appreciatively)--and Doramin would do his best for him. Mr. Stein had been the means of saving that chap's life on some occasion; purely by accident, Mr. Stein had said, but he--Jim--had his own opinion about that. Mr. Stein was just the man to look out for such accidents. No matter. Accident or purpose, this would serve his turn immensely. Hoped to goodness the jolly old beggar had not gone off the hooks meantime. Mr. Stein could not tell. There had been no news for more than a year; they were kicking up no end of an all-fired row amongst themselves, and the river was closed. Jolly awkward, this; but, no fear; he would manage to find a crack to get in. 'He impressed, almost frightened, me with his elated rattle. He was voluble like a youngster on the eve of a long holiday with a prospect of delightful scrapes, and such an attitude of mind in a grown man and in this connection had in it something phenomenal, a little mad, dangerous, unsafe. I was on the point of entreating him to take things seriously when he dropped his knife and fork (he had begun eating, or rather swallowing food, as it were, unconsciously), and began a search all round his plate. The ring! The ring! Where the devil . . . Ah! Here it was . . . He closed his big hand on it, and tried all his pockets one after another. Jove! wouldn't do to lose the thing. He meditated gravely over his fist. Had it? Would hang the bally affair round his neck! And he proceeded to do this immediately, producing a string (which looked like a bit of a cotton shoe-lace) for the purpose. There! That would do the trick! It would be the deuce if . . . He seemed to catch sight of my face for the first time, and it steadied him a little. I probably didn't realise, he said with a naive gravity, how much importance he attached to that token. It meant a friend; and it is a good thing to have a friend. He knew something about that. He nodded at me expressively, but before my disclaiming gesture he leaned his head on his hand and for a while sat silent, playing thoughtfully with the bread-crumbs on the cloth . . . "Slam the door--that was jolly well put," he cried, and jumping up, began to pace the room, reminding me by the set of the shoulders, the turn of his head, the headlong and uneven stride, of that night when he had paced thus, confessing, explaining--what you will--but, in the last instance, living--living before me, under his own little cloud, with all his unconscious subtlety which could draw consolation from the very source of sorrow. It was the same mood, the same and different, like a fickle companion that to-day guiding you on the true path, with the same eyes, the same step, the same impulse, to-morrow will lead you hopelessly astray. His tread was assured, his straying, darkened eyes seemed to search the room for something. One of his footfalls somehow sounded louder than the other--the fault of his boots probably--and gave a curious impression of an invisible halt in his gait. One of his hands was rammed deep into his trousers' pocket, the other waved suddenly above his head. "Slam the door!" he shouted. "I've been waiting for that. I'll show yet . . . I'll . . . I'm ready for any confounded thing . . . I've been dreaming of it . . . Jove! Get out of this. Jove! This is luck at last . . . You wait. I'll . . ." 'He tossed his head fearlessly, and I confess that for the first and last time in our acquaintance I perceived myself unexpectedly to be thoroughly sick of him. Why these vapourings? He was stumping about the room flourishing his arm absurdly, and now and then feeling on his breast for the ring under his clothes. Where was the sense of such exaltation in a man appointed to be a trading-clerk, and in a place where there was no trade--at that? Why hurl defiance at the universe? This was not a proper frame of mind to approach any undertaking; an improper frame of mind not only for him, I said, but for any man. He stood still over me. Did I think so? he asked, by no means subdued, and with a smile in which I seemed to detect suddenly something insolent. But then I am twenty years his senior. Youth is insolent; it is its right--its necessity; it has got to assert itself, and all assertion in this world of doubts is a defiance, is an insolence. He went off into a far corner, and coming back, he, figuratively speaking, turned to rend me. I spoke like that because I--even I, who had been no end kind to him--even I remembered--remembered--against him--what--what had happened. And what about others--the--the--world? Where's the wonder he wanted to get out, meant to get out, meant to stay out--by heavens! And I talked about proper frames of mind! '"It is not I or the world who remember," I shouted. "It is you--you, who remember." 'He did not flinch, and went on with heat, "Forget everything, everybody, everybody." . . . His voice fell. . . "But you," he added. '"Yes--me too--if it would help," I said, also in a low tone. After this we remained silent and languid for a time as if exhausted. Then he began again, composedly, and told me that Mr. Stein had instructed him to wait for a month or so, to see whether it was possible for him to remain, before he began building a new house for himself, so as to avoid "vain expense." He did make use of funny expressions--Stein did. "Vain expense" was good. . . . Remain? Why! of course. He would hang on. Let him only get in--that's all; he would answer for it he would remain. Never get out. It was easy enough to remain. '"Don't be foolhardy," I said, rendered uneasy by his threatening tone. "If you only live long enough you will want to come back." '"Come back to what?" he asked absently, with his eyes fixed upon the face of a clock on the wall. 'I was silent for a while. "Is it to be never, then?" I said. "Never," he repeated dreamily without looking at me, and then flew into sudden activity. "Jove! Two o'clock, and I sail at four!" 'It was true. A brigantine of Stein's was leaving for the westward that afternoon, and he had been instructed to take his passage in her, only no orders to delay the sailing had been given. I suppose Stein forgot. He made a rush to get his things while I went aboard my ship, where he promised to call on his way to the outer roadstead. He turned up accordingly in a great hurry and with a small leather valise in his hand. This wouldn't do, and I offered him an old tin trunk of mine supposed to be water-tight, or at least damp-tight. He effected the transfer by the simple process of shooting out the contents of his valise as you would empty a sack of wheat. I saw three books in the tumble; two small, in dark covers, and a thick green-and-gold volume--a half-crown complete Shakespeare. "You read this?" I asked. "Yes. Best thing to cheer up a fellow," he said hastily. I was struck by this appreciation, but there was no time for Shakespearian talk. A heavy revolver and two small boxes of cartridges were lying on the cuddy-table. "Pray take this," I said. "It may help you to remain." No sooner were these words out of my mouth than I perceived what grim meaning they could bear. "May help you to get in," I corrected myself remorsefully. He however was not troubled by obscure meanings; he thanked me effusively and bolted out, calling Good-bye over his shoulder. I heard his voice through the ship's side urging his boatmen to give way, and looking out of the stern-port I saw the boat rounding under the counter. He sat in her leaning forward, exciting his men with voice and gestures; and as he had kept the revolver in his hand and seemed to be presenting it at their heads, I shall never forget the scared faces of the four Javanese, and the frantic swing of their stroke which snatched that vision from under my eyes. Then turning away, the first thing I saw were the two boxes of cartridges on the cuddy-table. He had forgotten to take them. 'I ordered my gig manned at once; but Jim's rowers, under the impression that their lives hung on a thread while they had that madman in the boat, made such excellent time that before I had traversed half the distance between the two vessels I caught sight of him clambering over the rail, and of his box being passed up. All the brigantine's canvas was loose, her mainsail was set, and the windlass was just beginning to clink as I stepped upon her deck: her master, a dapper little half-caste of forty or so, in a blue flannel suit, with lively eyes, his round face the colour of lemon-peel, and with a thin little black moustache drooping on each side of his thick, dark lips, came forward smirking. He turned out, notwithstanding his self-satisfied and cheery exterior, to be of a careworn temperament. In answer to a remark of mine (while Jim had gone below for a moment) he said, "Oh yes. Patusan." He was going to carry the gentleman to the mouth of the river, but would "never ascend." His flowing English seemed to be derived from a dictionary compiled by a lunatic. Had Mr. Stein desired him to "ascend," he would have "reverentially"--(I think he wanted to say respectfully--but devil only knows)--"reverentially made objects for the safety of properties." If disregarded, he would have presented "resignation to quit." Twelve months ago he had made his last voyage there, and though Mr. Cornelius "propitiated many offertories" to Mr. Rajah Allang and the "principal populations," on conditions which made the trade "a snare and ashes in the mouth," yet his ship had been fired upon from the woods by "irresponsive parties" all the way down the river; which causing his crew "from exposure to limb to remain silent in hidings," the brigantine was nearly stranded on a sandbank at the bar, where she "would have been perishable beyond the act of man." The angry disgust at the recollection, the pride of his fluency, to which he turned an attentive ear, struggled for the possession of his broad simple face. He scowled and beamed at me, and watched with satisfaction the undeniable effect of his phraseology. Dark frowns ran swiftly over the placid sea, and the brigantine, with her fore-topsail to the mast and her main-boom amidships, seemed bewildered amongst the cat's-paws. He told me further, gnashing his teeth, that the Rajah was a "laughable hyaena" (can't imagine how he got hold of hyaenas); while somebody else was many times falser than the "weapons of a crocodile." Keeping one eye on the movements of his crew forward, he let loose his volubility--comparing the place to a "cage of beasts made ravenous by long impenitence." I fancy he meant impunity. He had no intention, he cried, to "exhibit himself to be made attached purposefully to robbery." The long-drawn wails, giving the time for the pull of the men catting the anchor, came to an end, and he lowered his voice. "Plenty too much enough of Patusan," he concluded, with energy. 'I heard afterwards he had been so indiscreet as to get himself tied up by the neck with a rattan halter to a post planted in the middle of a mud-hole before the Rajah's house. He spent the best part of a day and a whole night in that unwholesome situation, but there is every reason to believe the thing had been meant as a sort of joke. He brooded for a while over that horrid memory, I suppose, and then addressed in a quarrelsome tone the man coming aft to the helm. When he turned to me again it was to speak judicially, without passion. He would take the gentleman to the mouth of the river at Batu Kring (Patusan town "being situated internally," he remarked, "thirty miles"). But in his eyes, he continued--a tone of bored, weary conviction replacing his previous voluble delivery--the gentleman was already "in the similitude of a corpse." "What? What do you say?" I asked. He assumed a startlingly ferocious demeanour, and imitated to perfection the act of stabbing from behind. "Already like the body of one deported," he explained, with the insufferably conceited air of his kind after what they imagine a display of cleverness. Behind him I perceived Jim smiling silently at me, and with a raised hand checking the exclamation on my lips. 'Then, while the half-caste, bursting with importance, shouted his orders, while the yards swung creaking and the heavy boom came surging over, Jim and I, alone as it were, to leeward of the mainsail, clasped each other's hands and exchanged the last hurried words. My heart was freed from that dull resentment which had existed side by side with interest in his fate. The absurd chatter of the half-caste had given more reality to the miserable dangers of his path than Stein's careful statements. On that occasion the sort of formality that had been always present in our intercourse vanished from our speech; I believe I called him "dear boy," and he tacked on the words "old man" to some half-uttered expression of gratitude, as though his risk set off against my years had made us more equal in age and in feeling. There was a moment of real and profound intimacy, unexpected and short-lived like a glimpse of some everlasting, of some saving truth. He exerted himself to soothe me as though he had been the more mature of the two. "All right, all right," he said, rapidly, and with feeling. "I promise to take care of myself. Yes; I won't take any risks. Not a single blessed risk. Of course not. I mean to hang out. Don't you worry. Jove! I feel as if nothing could touch me. Why! this is luck from the word Go. I wouldn't spoil such a magnificent chance!" . . . A magnificent chance! Well, it _was_ magnificent, but chances are what men make them, and how was I to know? As he had said, even I--even I remembered--his--his misfortune against him. It was true. And the best thing for him was to go. 'My gig had dropped in the wake of the brigantine, and I saw him aft detached upon the light of the westering sun, raising his cap high above his head. I heard an indistinct shout, "You--shall--hear--of--me." Of me, or from me, I don't know which. I think it must have been of me. My eyes were too dazzled by the glitter of the sea below his feet to see him clearly; I am fated never to see him clearly; but I can assure you no man could have appeared less "in the similitude of a corpse," as that half-caste croaker had put it. I could see the little wretch's face, the shape and colour of a ripe pumpkin, poked out somewhere under Jim's elbow. He, too, raised his arm as if for a downward thrust. Absit omen!' 'The coast of Patusan (I saw it nearly two years afterwards) is straight and sombre, and faces a misty ocean. Red trails are seen like cataracts of rust streaming under the dark-green foliage of bushes and creepers clothing the low cliffs. Swampy plains open out at the mouth of rivers, with a view of jagged blue peaks beyond the vast forests. In the offing a chain of islands, dark, crumbling shapes, stand out in the everlasting sunlit haze like the remnants of a wall breached by the sea. 'There is a village of fisher-folk at the mouth of the Batu Kring branch of the estuary. The river, which had been closed so long, was open then, and Stein's little schooner, in which I had my passage, worked her way up in three tides without being exposed to a fusillade from "irresponsive parties." Such a state of affairs belonged already to ancient history, if I could believe the elderly headman of the fishing village, who came on board to act as a sort of pilot. He talked to me (the second white man he had ever seen) with confidence, and most of his talk was about the first white man he had ever seen. He called him Tuan Jim, and the tone of his references was made remarkable by a strange mixture of familiarity and awe. They, in the village, were under that lord's special protection, which showed that Jim bore no grudge. If he had warned me that I would hear of him it was perfectly true. I was hearing of him. There was already a story that the tide had turned two hours before its time to help him on his journey up the river. The talkative old man himself had steered the canoe and had marvelled at the phenomenon. Moreover, all the glory was in his family. His son and his son-in-law had paddled; but they were only youths without experience, who did not notice the speed of the canoe till he pointed out to them the amazing fact. 'Jim's coming to that fishing village was a blessing; but to them, as to many of us, the blessing came heralded by terrors. So many generations had been released since the last white man had visited the river that the very tradition had been lost. The appearance of the being that descended upon them and demanded inflexibly to be taken up to Patusan was discomposing; his insistence was alarming; his generosity more than suspicious. It was an unheard-of request. There was no precedent. What would the Rajah say to this? What would he do to them? The best part of the night was spent in consultation; but the immediate risk from the anger of that strange man seemed so great that at last a cranky dug-out was got ready. The women shrieked with grief as it put off. A fearless old hag cursed the stranger. 'He sat in it, as I've told you, on his tin box, nursing the unloaded revolver on his lap. He sat with precaution--than which there is nothing more fatiguing--and thus entered the land he was destined to fill with the fame of his virtues, from the blue peaks inland to the white ribbon of surf on the coast. At the first bend he lost sight of the sea with its labouring waves for ever rising, sinking, and vanishing to rise again--the very image of struggling mankind--and faced the immovable forests rooted deep in the soil, soaring towards the sunshine, everlasting in the shadowy might of their tradition, like life itself. And his opportunity sat veiled by his side like an Eastern bride waiting to be uncovered by the hand of the master. He too was the heir of a shadowy and mighty tradition! He told me, however, that he had never in his life felt so depressed and tired as in that canoe. All the movement he dared to allow himself was to reach, as it were by stealth, after the shell of half a cocoa-nut floating between his shoes, and bale some of the water out with a carefully restrained action. He discovered how hard the lid of a block-tin case was to sit upon. He had heroic health; but several times during that journey he experienced fits of giddiness, and between whiles he speculated hazily as to the size of the blister the sun was raising on his back. For amusement he tried by looking ahead to decide whether the muddy object he saw lying on the water's edge was a log of wood or an alligator. Only very soon he had to give that up. No fun in it. Always alligator. One of them flopped into the river and all but capsized the canoe. But this excitement was over directly. Then in a long empty reach he was very grateful to a troop of monkeys who came right down on the bank and made an insulting hullabaloo on his passage. Such was the way in which he was approaching greatness as genuine as any man ever achieved. Principally, he longed for sunset; and meantime his three paddlers were preparing to put into execution their plan of delivering him up to the Rajah. '"I suppose I must have been stupid with fatigue, or perhaps I did doze off for a time," he said. The first thing he knew was his canoe coming to the bank. He became instantaneously aware of the forest having been left behind, of the first houses being visible higher up, of a stockade on his left, and of his boatmen leaping out together upon a low point of land and taking to their heels. Instinctively he leaped out after them. At first he thought himself deserted for some inconceivable reason, but he heard excited shouts, a gate swung open, and a lot of people poured out, making towards him. At the same time a boat full of armed men appeared on the river and came alongside his empty canoe, thus shutting off his retreat. '"I was too startled to be quite cool--don't you know? and if that revolver had been loaded I would have shot somebody--perhaps two, three bodies, and that would have been the end of me. But it wasn't. . . ." "Why not?" I asked. "Well, I couldn't fight the whole population, and I wasn't coming to them as if I were afraid of my life," he said, with just a faint hint of his stubborn sulkiness in the glance he gave me. I refrained from pointing out to him that they could not have known the chambers were actually empty. He had to satisfy himself in his own way. . . . "Anyhow it wasn't," he repeated good-humouredly, "and so I just stood still and asked them what was the matter. That seemed to strike them dumb. I saw some of these thieves going off with my box. That long-legged old scoundrel Kassim (I'll show him to you to-morrow) ran out fussing to me about the Rajah wanting to see me. I said, 'All right.' I too wanted to see the Rajah, and I simply walked in through the gate and--and--here I am." He laughed, and then with unexpected emphasis, "And do you know what's the best in it?" he asked. "I'll tell you. It's the knowledge that had I been wiped out it is this place that would have been the loser." 'He spoke thus to me before his house on that evening I've mentioned--after we had watched the moon float away above the chasm between the hills like an ascending spirit out of a grave; its sheen descended, cold and pale, like the ghost of dead sunlight. There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery. It is to our sunshine, which--say what you like--is all we have to live by, what the echo is to the sound: misleading and confusing whether the note be mocking or sad. It robs all forms of matter--which, after all, is our domain--of their substance, and gives a sinister reality to shadows alone. And the shadows were very real around us, but Jim by my side looked very stalwart, as though nothing--not even the occult power of moonlight--could rob him of his reality in my eyes. Perhaps, indeed, nothing could touch him since he had survived the assault of the dark powers. All was silent, all was still; even on the river the moonbeams slept as on a pool. It was the moment of high water, a moment of immobility that accentuated the utter isolation of this lost corner of the earth. The houses crowding along the wide shining sweep without ripple or glitter, stepping into the water in a line of jostling, vague, grey, silvery forms mingled with black masses of shadow, were like a spectral herd of shapeless creatures pressing forward to drink in a spectral and lifeless stream. Here and there a red gleam twinkled within the bamboo walls, warm, like a living spark, significant of human affections, of shelter, of repose. 'He confessed to me that he often watched these tiny warm gleams go out one by one, that he loved to see people go to sleep under his eyes, confident in the security of to-morrow. "Peaceful here, eh?" he asked. He was not eloquent, but there was a deep meaning in the words that followed. "Look at these houses; there's not one where I am not trusted. Jove! I told you I would hang on. Ask any man, woman, or child . . ." He paused. "Well, I am all right anyhow." 'I observed quickly that he had found that out in the end. I had been sure of it, I added. He shook his head. "Were you?" He pressed my arm lightly above the elbow. "Well, then--you were right." 'There was elation and pride, there was awe almost, in that low exclamation. "Jove!" he cried, "only think what it is to me." Again he pressed my arm. "And you asked me whether I thought of leaving. Good God! I! want to leave! Especially now after what you told me of Mr. Stein's . . . Leave! Why! That's what I was afraid of. It would have been--it would have been harder than dying. No--on my word. Don't laugh. I must feel--every day, every time I open my eyes--that I am trusted--that nobody has a right--don't you know? Leave! For where? What for? To get what?" 'I had told him (indeed it was the main object of my visit) that it was Stein's intention to present him at once with the house and the stock of trading goods, on certain easy conditions which would make the transaction perfectly regular and valid. He began to snort and plunge at first. "Confound your delicacy!" I shouted. "It isn't Stein at all. It's giving you what you had made for yourself. And in any case keep your remarks for McNeil--when you meet him in the other world. I hope it won't happen soon. . . ." He had to give in to my arguments, because all his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these things that made him master had made him a captive, too. He looked with an owner's eye at the peace of the evening, at the river, at the houses, at the everlasting life of the forests, at the life of the old mankind, at the secrets of the land, at the pride of his own heart; but it was they that possessed him and made him their own to the innermost thought, to the slightest stir of blood, to his last breath. 'It was something to be proud of. I, too, was proud--for him, if not so certain of the fabulous value of the bargain. It was wonderful. It was not so much of his fearlessness that I thought. It is strange how little account I took of it: as if it had been something too conventional to be at the root of the matter. No. I was more struck by the other gifts he had displayed. He had proved his grasp of the unfamiliar situation, his intellectual alertness in that field of thought. There was his readiness, too! Amazing. And all this had come to him in a manner like keen scent to a well-bred hound. He was not eloquent, but there was a dignity in this constitutional reticence, there was a high seriousness in his stammerings. He had still his old trick of stubborn blushing. Now and then, though, a word, a sentence, would escape him that showed how deeply, how solemnly, he felt about that work which had given him the certitude of rehabilitation. That is why he seemed to love the land and the people with a sort of fierce egoism, with a contemptuous tenderness.' '"This is where I was prisoner for three days," he murmured to me (it was on the occasion of our visit to the Rajah), while we were making our way slowly through a kind of awestruck riot of dependants across Tunku Allang's courtyard. "Filthy place, isn't it? And I couldn't get anything to eat either, unless I made a row about it, and then it was only a small plate of rice and a fried fish not much bigger than a stickleback--confound them! Jove! I've been hungry prowling inside this stinking enclosure with some of these vagabonds shoving their mugs right under my nose. I had given up that famous revolver of yours at the first demand. Glad to get rid of the bally thing. Look like a fool walking about with an empty shooting-iron in my hand." At that moment we came into the presence, and he became unflinchingly grave and complimentary with his late captor. Oh! magnificent! I want to laugh when I think of it. But I was impressed, too. The old disreputable Tunku Allang could not help showing his fear (he was no hero, for all the tales of his hot youth he was fond of telling); and at the same time there was a wistful confidence in his manner towards his late prisoner. Note! Even where he would be most hated he was still trusted. Jim--as far as I could follow the conversation--was improving the occasion by the delivery of a lecture. Some poor villagers had been waylaid and robbed while on their way to Doramin's house with a few pieces of gum or beeswax which they wished to exchange for rice. "It was Doramin who was a thief," burst out the Rajah. A shaking fury seemed to enter that old frail body. He writhed weirdly on his mat, gesticulating with his hands and feet, tossing the tangled strings of his mop--an impotent incarnation of rage. There were staring eyes and dropping jaws all around us. Jim began to speak. Resolutely, coolly, and for some time he enlarged upon the text that no man should be prevented from getting his food and his children's food honestly. The other sat like a tailor at his board, one palm on each knee, his head low, and fixing Jim through the grey hair that fell over his very eyes. When Jim had done there was a great stillness. Nobody seemed to breathe even; no one made a sound till the old Rajah sighed faintly, and looking up, with a toss of his head, said quickly, "You hear, my people! No more of these little games." This decree was received in profound silence. A rather heavy man, evidently in a position of confidence, with intelligent eyes, a bony, broad, very dark face, and a cheerily of officious manner (I learned later on he was the executioner), presented to us two cups of coffee on a brass tray, which he took from the hands of an inferior attendant. "You needn't drink," muttered Jim very rapidly. I didn't perceive the meaning at first, and only looked at him. He took a good sip and sat composedly, holding the saucer in his left hand. In a moment I felt excessively annoyed. "Why the devil," I whispered, smiling at him amiably, "do you expose me to such a stupid risk?" I drank, of course, there was nothing for it, while he gave no sign, and almost immediately afterwards we took our leave. While we were going down the courtyard to our boat, escorted by the intelligent and cheery executioner, Jim said he was very sorry. It was the barest chance, of course. Personally he thought nothing of poison. The remotest chance. He was--he assured me--considered to be infinitely more useful than dangerous, and so . . . "But the Rajah is afraid of you abominably. Anybody can see that," I argued with, I own, a certain peevishness, and all the time watching anxiously for the first twist of some sort of ghastly colic. I was awfully disgusted. "If I am to do any good here and preserve my position," he said, taking his seat by my side in the boat, "I must stand the risk: I take it once every month, at least. Many people trust me to do that--for them. Afraid of me! That's just it. Most likely he is afraid of me because I am not afraid of his coffee." Then showing me a place on the north front of the stockade where the pointed tops of several stakes were broken, "This is where I leaped over on my third day in Patusan. They haven't put new stakes there yet. Good leap, eh?" A moment later we passed the mouth of a muddy creek. "This is my second leap. I had a bit of a run and took this one flying, but fell short. Thought I would leave my skin there. Lost my shoes struggling. And all the time I was thinking to myself how beastly it would be to get a jab with a bally long spear while sticking in the mud like this. I remember how sick I felt wriggling in that slime. I mean really sick--as if I had bitten something rotten." 'That's how it was--and the opportunity ran by his side, leaped over the gap, floundered in the mud . . . still veiled. The unexpectedness of his coming was the only thing, you understand, that saved him from being at once dispatched with krisses and flung into the river. They had him, but it was like getting hold of an apparition, a wraith, a portent. What did it mean? What to do with it? Was it too late to conciliate him? Hadn't he better be killed without more delay? But what would happen then? Wretched old Allang went nearly mad with apprehension and through the difficulty of making up his mind. Several times the council was broken up, and the advisers made a break helter-skelter for the door and out on to the verandah. One--it is said--even jumped down to the ground--fifteen feet, I should judge--and broke his leg. The royal governor of Patusan had bizarre mannerisms, and one of them was to introduce boastful rhapsodies into every arduous discussion, when, getting gradually excited, he would end by flying off his perch with a kriss in his hand. But, barring such interruptions, the deliberations upon Jim's fate went on night and day. 'Meanwhile he wandered about the courtyard, shunned by some, glared at by others, but watched by all, and practically at the mercy of the first casual ragamuffin with a chopper, in there. He took possession of a small tumble-down shed to sleep in; the effluvia of filth and rotten matter incommoded him greatly: it seems he had not lost his appetite though, because--he told me--he had been hungry all the blessed time. Now and again "some fussy ass" deputed from the council-room would come out running to him, and in honeyed tones would administer amazing interrogatories: "Were the Dutch coming to take the country? Would the white man like to go back down the river? What was the object of coming to such a miserable country? The Rajah wanted to know whether the white man could repair a watch?" They did actually bring out to him a nickel clock of New England make, and out of sheer unbearable boredom he busied himself in trying to get the alarum to work. It was apparently when thus occupied in his shed that the true perception of his extreme peril dawned upon him. He dropped the thing--he says--"like a hot potato," and walked out hastily, without the slightest idea of what he would, or indeed could, do. He only knew that the position was intolerable. He strolled aimlessly beyond a sort of ramshackle little granary on posts, and his eyes fell on the broken stakes of the palisade; and then--he says--at once, without any mental process as it were, without any stir of emotion, he set about his escape as if executing a plan matured for a month. He walked off carelessly to give himself a good run, and when he faced about there was some dignitary, with two spearmen in attendance, close at his elbow ready with a question. He started off "from under his very nose," went over "like a bird," and landed on the other side with a fall that jarred all his bones and seemed to split his head. He picked himself up instantly. He never thought of anything at the time; all he could remember--he said--was a great yell; the first houses of Patusan were before him four hundred yards away; he saw the creek, and as it were mechanically put on more pace. The earth seemed fairly to fly backwards under his feet. He took off from the last dry spot, felt himself flying through the air, felt himself, without any shock, planted upright in an extremely soft and sticky mudbank. It was only when he tried to move his legs and found he couldn't that, in his own words, "he came to himself." He began to think of the "bally long spears." As a matter of fact, considering that the people inside the stockade had to run to the gate, then get down to the landing-place, get into boats, and pull round a point of land, he had more advance than he imagined. Besides, it being low water, the creek was without water--you couldn't call it dry--and practically he was safe for a time from everything but a very long shot perhaps. The higher firm ground was about six feet in front of him. "I thought I would have to die there all the same," he said. He reached and grabbed desperately with his hands, and only succeeded in gathering a horrible cold shiny heap of slime against his breast--up to his very chin. It seemed to him he was burying himself alive, and then he struck out madly, scattering the mud with his fists. It fell on his head, on his face, over his eyes, into his mouth. He told me that he remembered suddenly the courtyard, as you remember a place where you had been very happy years ago. He longed--so he said--to be back there again, mending the clock. Mending the clock--that was the idea. He made efforts, tremendous sobbing, gasping efforts, efforts that seemed to burst his eyeballs in their sockets and make him blind, and culminating into one mighty supreme effort in the darkness to crack the earth asunder, to throw it off his limbs--and he felt himself creeping feebly up the bank. He lay full length on the firm ground and saw the light, the sky. Then as a sort of happy thought the notion came to him that he would go to sleep. He will have it that he _did_ actually go to sleep; that he slept--perhaps for a minute, perhaps for twenty seconds, or only for one second, but he recollects distinctly the violent convulsive start of awakening. He remained lying still for a while, and then he arose muddy from head to foot and stood there, thinking he was alone of his kind for hundreds of miles, alone, with no help, no sympathy, no pity to expect from any one, like a hunted animal. The first houses were not more than twenty yards from him; and it was the desperate screaming of a frightened woman trying to carry off a child that started him again. He pelted straight on in his socks, beplastered with filth out of all semblance to a human being. He traversed more than half the length of the settlement. The nimbler women fled right and left, the slower men just dropped whatever they had in their hands, and remained petrified with dropping jaws. He was a flying terror. He says he noticed the little children trying to run for life, falling on their little stomachs and kicking. He swerved between two houses up a slope, clambered in desperation over a barricade of felled trees (there wasn't a week without some fight in Patusan at that time), burst through a fence into a maize-patch, where a scared boy flung a stick at him, blundered upon a path, and ran all at once into the arms of several startled men. He just had breath enough to gasp out, "Doramin! Doramin!" He remembers being half-carried, half-rushed to the top of the slope, and in a vast enclosure with palms and fruit trees being run up to a large man sitting massively in a chair in the midst of the greatest possible commotion and excitement. He fumbled in mud and clothes to produce the ring, and, finding himself suddenly on his back, wondered who had knocked him down. They had simply let him go--don't you know?--but he couldn't stand. At the foot of the slope random shots were fired, and above the roofs of the settlement there rose a dull roar of amazement. But he was safe. Doramin's people were barricading the gate and pouring water down his throat; Doramin's old wife, full of business and commiseration, was issuing shrill orders to her girls. "The old woman," he said softly, "made a to-do over me as if I had been her own son. They put me into an immense bed--her state bed--and she ran in and out wiping her eyes to give me pats on the back. I must have been a pitiful object. I just lay there like a log for I don't know how long." 'He seemed to have a great liking for Doramin's old wife. She on her side had taken a motherly fancy to him. She had a round, nut-brown, soft face, all fine wrinkles, large, bright red lips (she chewed betel assiduously), and screwed up, winking, benevolent eyes. She was constantly in movement, scolding busily and ordering unceasingly a troop of young women with clear brown faces and big grave eyes, her daughters, her servants, her slave-girls. You know how it is in these households: it's generally impossible to tell the difference. She was very spare, and even her ample outer garment, fastened in front with jewelled clasps, had somehow a skimpy effect. Her dark bare feet were thrust into yellow straw slippers of Chinese make. I have seen her myself flitting about with her extremely thick, long, grey hair falling about her shoulders. She uttered homely shrewd sayings, was of noble birth, and was eccentric and arbitrary. In the afternoon she would sit in a very roomy arm-chair, opposite her husband, gazing steadily through a wide opening in the wall which gave an extensive view of the settlement and the river. 'She invariably tucked up her feet under her, but old Doramin sat squarely, sat imposingly as a mountain sits on a plain. He was only of the nakhoda or merchant class, but the respect shown to him and the dignity of his bearing were very striking. He was the chief of the second power in Patusan. The immigrants from Celebes (about sixty families that, with dependants and so on, could muster some two hundred men "wearing the kriss") had elected him years ago for their head. The men of that race are intelligent, enterprising, revengeful, but with a more frank courage than the other Malays, and restless under oppression. They formed the party opposed to the Rajah. Of course the quarrels were for trade. This was the primary cause of faction fights, of the sudden outbreaks that would fill this or that part of the settlement with smoke, flame, the noise of shots and shrieks. Villages were burnt, men were dragged into the Rajah's stockade to be killed or tortured for the crime of trading with anybody else but himself. Only a day or two before Jim's arrival several heads of households in the very fishing village that was afterwards taken under his especial protection had been driven over the cliffs by a party of the Rajah's spearmen, on suspicion of having been collecting edible birds' nests for a Celebes trader. Rajah Allang pretended to be the only trader in his country, and the penalty for the breach of the monopoly was death; but his idea of trading was indistinguishable from the commonest forms of robbery. His cruelty and rapacity had no other bounds than his cowardice, and he was afraid of the organised power of the Celebes men, only--till Jim came--he was not afraid enough to keep quiet. He struck at them through his subjects, and thought himself pathetically in the right. The situation was complicated by a wandering stranger, an Arab half-breed, who, I believe, on purely religious grounds, had incited the tribes in the interior (the bush-folk, as Jim himself called them) to rise, and had established himself in a fortified camp on the summit of one of the twin hills. He hung over the town of Patusan like a hawk over a poultry-yard, but he devastated the open country. Whole villages, deserted, rotted on their blackened posts over the banks of clear streams, dropping piecemeal into the water the grass of their walls, the leaves of their roofs, with a curious effect of natural decay as if they had been a form of vegetation stricken by a blight at its very root. The two parties in Patusan were not sure which one this partisan most desired to plunder. The Rajah intrigued with him feebly. Some of the Bugis settlers, weary with endless insecurity, were half inclined to call him in. The younger spirits amongst them, chaffing, advised to "get Sherif Ali with his wild men and drive the Rajah Allang out of the country." Doramin restrained them with difficulty. He was growing old, and, though his influence had not diminished, the situation was getting beyond him. This was the state of affairs when Jim, bolting from the Rajah's stockade, appeared before the chief of the Bugis, produced the ring, and was received, in a manner of speaking, into the heart of the community.' 'Doramin was one of the most remarkable men of his race I had ever seen. His bulk for a Malay was immense, but he did not look merely fat; he looked imposing, monumental. This motionless body, clad in rich stuffs, coloured silks, gold embroideries; this huge head, enfolded in a red-and-gold headkerchief; the flat, big, round face, wrinkled, furrowed, with two semicircular heavy folds starting on each side of wide, fierce nostrils, and enclosing a thick-lipped mouth; the throat like a bull; the vast corrugated brow overhanging the staring proud eyes--made a whole that, once seen, can never be forgotten. His impassive repose (he seldom stirred a limb when once he sat down) was like a display of dignity. He was never known to raise his voice. It was a hoarse and powerful murmur, slightly veiled as if heard from a distance. When he walked, two short, sturdy young fellows, naked to the waist, in white sarongs and with black skull-caps on the backs of their heads, sustained his elbows; they would ease him down and stand behind his chair till he wanted to rise, when he would turn his head slowly, as if with difficulty, to the right and to the left, and then they would catch him under his armpits and help him up. For all that, there was nothing of a cripple about him: on the contrary, all his ponderous movements were like manifestations of a mighty deliberate force. It was generally believed he consulted his wife as to public affairs; but nobody, as far as I know, had ever heard them exchange a single word. When they sat in state by the wide opening it was in silence. They could see below them in the declining light the vast expanse of the forest country, a dark sleeping sea of sombre green undulating as far as the violet and purple range of mountains; the shining sinuosity of the river like an immense letter S of beaten silver; the brown ribbon of houses following the sweep of both banks, overtopped by the twin hills uprising above the nearer tree-tops. They were wonderfully contrasted: she, light, delicate, spare, quick, a little witch-like, with a touch of motherly fussiness in her repose; he, facing her, immense and heavy, like a figure of a man roughly fashioned of stone, with something magnanimous and ruthless in his immobility. The son of these old people was a most distinguished youth. 'They had him late in life. Perhaps he was not really so young as he looked. Four- or five-and-twenty is not so young when a man is already father of a family at eighteen. When he entered the large room, lined and carpeted with fine mats, and with a high ceiling of white sheeting, where the couple sat in state surrounded by a most deferential retinue, he would make his way straight to Doramin, to kiss his hand--which the other abandoned to him, majestically--and then would step across to stand by his mother's chair. I suppose I may say they idolised him, but I never caught them giving him an overt glance. Those, it is true, were public functions. The room was generally thronged. The solemn formality of greetings and leave-takings, the profound respect expressed in gestures, on the faces, in the low whispers, is simply indescribable. "It's well worth seeing," Jim had assured me while we were crossing the river, on our way back. "They are like people in a book, aren't they?" he said triumphantly. "And Dain Waris--their son--is the best friend (barring you) I ever had. What Mr. Stein would call a good 'war-comrade.' I was in luck. Jove! I was in luck when I tumbled amongst them at my last gasp." He meditated with bowed head, then rousing himself he added--'"Of course I didn't go to sleep over it, but . . ." He paused again. "It seemed to come to me," he murmured. "All at once I saw what I had to do . . ." 'There was no doubt that it had come to him; and it had come through war, too, as is natural, since this power that came to him was the power to make peace. It is in this sense alone that might so often is right. You must not think he had seen his way at once. When he arrived the Bugis community was in a most critical position. "They were all afraid," he said to me--"each man afraid for himself; while I could see as plain as possible that they must do something at once, if they did not want to go under one after another, what between the Rajah and that vagabond Sherif." But to see that was nothing. When he got his idea he had to drive it into reluctant minds, through the bulwarks of fear, of selfishness. He drove it in at last. And that was nothing. He had to devise the means. He devised them--an audacious plan; and his task was only half done. He had to inspire with his own confidence a lot of people who had hidden and absurd reasons to hang back; he had to conciliate imbecile jealousies, and argue away all sorts of senseless mistrusts. Without the weight of Doramin's authority, and his son's fiery enthusiasm, he would have failed. Dain Waris, the distinguished youth, was the first to believe in him; theirs was one of those strange, profound, rare friendships between brown and white, in which the very difference of race seems to draw two human beings closer by some mystic element of sympathy. Of Dain Waris, his own people said with pride that he knew how to fight like a white man. This was true; he had that sort of courage--the courage in the open, I may say--but he had also a European mind. You meet them sometimes like that, and are surprised to discover unexpectedly a familiar turn of thought, an unobscured vision, a tenacity of purpose, a touch of altruism. Of small stature, but admirably well proportioned, Dain Waris had a proud carriage, a polished, easy bearing, a temperament like a clear flame. His dusky face, with big black eyes, was in action expressive, and in repose thoughtful. He was of a silent disposition; a firm glance, an ironic smile, a courteous deliberation of manner seemed to hint at great reserves of intelligence and power. Such beings open to the Western eye, so often concerned with mere surfaces, the hidden possibilities of races and lands over which hangs the mystery of unrecorded ages. He not only trusted Jim, he understood him, I firmly believe. I speak of him because he had captivated me. His--if I may say so--his caustic placidity, and, at the same time, his intelligent sympathy with Jim's aspirations, appealed to me. I seemed to behold the very origin of friendship. If Jim took the lead, the other had captivated his leader. In fact, Jim the leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the friendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body. Every day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom. I felt convinced of it, as from day to day I learned more of the story. 'The story! Haven't I heard the story? I've heard it on the march, in camp (he made me scour the country after invisible game); I've listened to a good part of it on one of the twin summits, after climbing the last hundred feet or so on my hands and knees. Our escort (we had volunteer followers from village to village) had camped meantime on a bit of level ground half-way up the slope, and in the still breathless evening the smell of wood-smoke reached our nostrils from below with the penetrating delicacy of some choice scent. Voices also ascended, wonderful in their distinct and immaterial clearness. Jim sat on the trunk of a felled tree, and pulling out his pipe began to smoke. A new growth of grass and bushes was springing up; there were traces of an earthwork under a mass of thorny twigs. "It all started from here," he said, after a long and meditative silence. On the other hill, two hundred yards across a sombre precipice, I saw a line of high blackened stakes, showing here and there ruinously--the remnants of Sherif Ali's impregnable camp. 'But it had been taken, though. That had been his idea. He had mounted Doramin's old ordnance on the top of that hill; two rusty iron 7-pounders, a lot of small brass cannon--currency cannon. But if the brass guns represent wealth, they can also, when crammed recklessly to the muzzle, send a solid shot to some little distance. The thing was to get them up there. He showed me where he had fastened the cables, explained how he had improvised a rude capstan out of a hollowed log turning upon a pointed stake, indicated with the bowl of his pipe the outline of the earthwork. The last hundred feet of the ascent had been the most difficult. He had made himself responsible for success on his own head. He had induced the war party to work hard all night. Big fires lighted at intervals blazed all down the slope, "but up here," he explained, "the hoisting gang had to fly around in the dark." From the top he saw men moving on the hillside like ants at work. He himself on that night had kept on rushing down and climbing up like a squirrel, directing, encouraging, watching all along the line. Old Doramin had himself carried up the hill in his arm-chair. They put him down on the level place upon the slope, and he sat there in the light of one of the big fires--"amazing old chap--real old chieftain," said Jim, "with his little fierce eyes--a pair of immense flintlock pistols on his knees. Magnificent things, ebony, silver-mounted, with beautiful locks and a calibre like an old blunderbuss. A present from Stein, it seems--in exchange for that ring, you know. Used to belong to good old McNeil. God only knows how _he_ came by them. There he sat, moving neither hand nor foot, a flame of dry brushwood behind him, and lots of people rushing about, shouting and pulling round him--the most solemn, imposing old chap you can imagine. He wouldn't have had much chance if Sherif Ali had let his infernal crew loose at us and stampeded my lot. Eh? Anyhow, he had come up there to die if anything went wrong. No mistake! Jove! It thrilled me to see him there--like a rock. But the Sherif must have thought us mad, and never troubled to come and see how we got on. Nobody believed it could be done. Why! I think the very chaps who pulled and shoved and sweated over it did not believe it could be done! Upon my word I don't think they did. . . ." 'He stood erect, the smouldering brier-wood in his clutch, with a smile on his lips and a sparkle in his boyish eyes. I sat on the stump of a tree at his feet, and below us stretched the land, the great expanse of the forests, sombre under the sunshine, rolling like a sea, with glints of winding rivers, the grey spots of villages, and here and there a clearing, like an islet of light amongst the dark waves of continuous tree-tops. A brooding gloom lay over this vast and monotonous landscape; the light fell on it as if into an abyss. The land devoured the sunshine; only far off, along the coast, the empty ocean, smooth and polished within the faint haze, seemed to rise up to the sky in a wall of steel. 'And there I was with him, high in the sunshine on the top of that historic hill of his. He dominated the forest, the secular gloom, the old mankind. He was like a figure set up on a pedestal, to represent in his persistent youth the power, and perhaps the virtues, of races that never grow old, that have emerged from the gloom. I don't know why he should always have appeared to me symbolic. Perhaps this is the real cause of my interest in his fate. I don't know whether it was exactly fair to him to remember the incident which had given a new direction to his life, but at that very moment I remembered very distinctly. It was like a shadow in the light.' 'Already the legend had gifted him with supernatural powers. Yes, it was said, there had been many ropes cunningly disposed, and a strange contrivance that turned by the efforts of many men, and each gun went up tearing slowly through the bushes, like a wild pig rooting its way in the undergrowth, but . . . and the wisest shook their heads. There was something occult in all this, no doubt; for what is the strength of ropes and of men's arms? There is a rebellious soul in things which must be overcome by powerful charms and incantations. Thus old Sura--a very respectable householder of Patusan--with whom I had a quiet chat one evening. However, Sura was a professional sorcerer also, who attended all the rice sowings and reapings for miles around for the purpose of subduing the stubborn souls of things. This occupation he seemed to think a most arduous one, and perhaps the souls of things are more stubborn than the souls of men. As to the simple folk of outlying villages, they believed and said (as the most natural thing in the world) that Jim had carried the guns up the hill on his back--two at a time. 'This would make Jim stamp his foot in vexation and exclaim with an exasperated little laugh, "What can you do with such silly beggars? They will sit up half the night talking bally rot, and the greater the lie the more they seem to like it." You could trace the subtle influence of his surroundings in this irritation. It was part of his captivity. The earnestness of his denials was amusing, and at last I said, "My dear fellow, you don't suppose _I_ believe this." He looked at me quite startled. "Well, no! I suppose not," he said, and burst into a Homeric peal of laughter. "Well, anyhow the guns were there, and went off all together at sunrise. Jove! You should have seen the splinters fly," he cried. By his side Dain Waris, listening with a quiet smile, dropped his eyelids and shuffled his feet a little. It appears that the success in mounting the guns had given Jim's people such a feeling of confidence that he ventured to leave the battery under charge of two elderly Bugis who had seen some fighting in their day, and went to join Dain Waris and the storming party who were concealed in the ravine. In the small hours they began creeping up, and when two-thirds of the way up, lay in the wet grass waiting for the appearance of the sun, which was the agreed signal. He told me with what impatient anguishing emotion he watched the swift coming of the dawn; how, heated with the work and the climbing, he felt the cold dew chilling his very bones; how afraid he was he would begin to shiver and shake like a leaf before the time came for the advance. "It was the slowest half-hour in my life," he declared. Gradually the silent stockade came out on the sky above him. Men scattered all down the slope were crouching amongst the dark stones and dripping bushes. Dain Waris was lying flattened by his side. "We looked at each other," Jim said, resting a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. "He smiled at me as cheery as you please, and I dared not stir my lips for fear I would break out into a shivering fit. 'Pon my word, it's true! I had been streaming with perspiration when we took cover--so you may imagine . . ." He declared, and I believe him, that he had no fears as to the result. He was only anxious as to his ability to repress these shivers. He didn't bother about the result. He was bound to get to the top of that hill and stay there, whatever might happen. There could be no going back for him. Those people had trusted him implicitly. Him alone! His bare word. . . . 'I remember how, at this point, he paused with his eyes fixed upon me. "As far as he knew, they never had an occasion to regret it yet," he said. "Never. He hoped to God they never would. Meantime--worse luck!--they had got into the habit of taking his word for anything and everything. I could have no idea! Why, only the other day an old fool he had never seen in his life came from some village miles away to find out if he should divorce his wife. Fact. Solemn word. That's the sort of thing. . . He wouldn't have believed it. Would I? Squatted on the verandah chewing betel-nut, sighing and spitting all over the place for more than an hour, and as glum as an undertaker before he came out with that dashed conundrum. That's the kind of thing that isn't so funny as it looks. What was a fellow to say?--Good wife?--Yes. Good wife--old though. Started a confounded long story about some brass pots. Been living together for fifteen years--twenty years--could not tell. A long, long time. Good wife. Beat her a little--not much--just a little, when she was young. Had to--for the sake of his honour. Suddenly in her old age she goes and lends three brass pots to her sister's son's wife, and begins to abuse him every day in a loud voice. His enemies jeered at him; his face was utterly blackened. Pots totally lost. Awfully cut up about it. Impossible to fathom a story like that; told him to go home, and promised to come along myself and settle it all. It's all very well to grin, but it was the dashedest nuisance! A day's journey through the forest, another day lost in coaxing a lot of silly villagers to get at the rights of the affair. There was the making of a sanguinary shindy in the thing. Every bally idiot took sides with one family or the other, and one half of the village was ready to go for the other half with anything that came handy. Honour bright! No joke! . . . Instead of attending to their bally crops. Got him the infernal pots back of course--and pacified all hands. No trouble to settle it. Of course not. Could settle the deadliest quarrel in the country by crooking his little finger. The trouble was to get at the truth of anything. Was not sure to this day whether he had been fair to all parties. It worried him. And the talk! Jove! There didn't seem to be any head or tail to it. Rather storm a twenty-foot-high old stockade any day. Much! Child's play to that other job. Wouldn't take so long either. Well, yes; a funny set out, upon the whole--the fool looked old enough to be his grandfather. But from another point of view it was no joke. His word decided everything--ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali. An awful responsibility," he repeated. "No, really--joking apart, had it been three lives instead of three rotten brass pots it would have been the same. . . ." 'Thus he illustrated the moral effect of his victory in war. It was in truth immense. It had led him from strife to peace, and through death into the innermost life of the people; but the gloom of the land spread out under the sunshine preserved its appearance of inscrutable, of secular repose. The sound of his fresh young voice--it's extraordinary how very few signs of wear he showed--floated lightly, and passed away over the unchanged face of the forests like the sound of the big guns on that cold dewy morning when he had no other concern on earth but the proper control of the chills in his body. With the first slant of sun-rays along these immovable tree-tops the summit of one hill wreathed itself, with heavy reports, in white clouds of smoke, and the other burst into an amazing noise of yells, war-cries, shouts of anger, of surprise, of dismay. Jim and Dain Waris were the first to lay their hands on the stakes. The popular story has it that Jim with a touch of one finger had thrown down the gate. He was, of course, anxious to disclaim this achievement. The whole stockade--he would insist on explaining to you--was a poor affair (Sherif Ali trusted mainly to the inaccessible position); and, anyway, the thing had been already knocked to pieces and only hung together by a miracle. He put his shoulder to it like a little fool and went in head over heels. Jove! If it hadn't been for Dain Waris, a pock-marked tattooed vagabond would have pinned him with his spear to a baulk of timber like one of Stein's beetles. The third man in, it seems, had been Tamb' Itam, Jim's own servant. This was a Malay from the north, a stranger who had wandered into Patusan, and had been forcibly detained by Rajah Allang as paddler of one of the state boats. He had made a bolt of it at the first opportunity, and finding a precarious refuge (but very little to eat) amongst the Bugis settlers, had attached himself to Jim's person. His complexion was very dark, his face flat, his eyes prominent and injected with bile. There was something excessive, almost fanatical, in his devotion to his "white lord." He was inseparable from Jim like a morose shadow. On state occasions he would tread on his master's heels, one hand on the haft of his kriss, keeping the common people at a distance by his truculent brooding glances. Jim had made him the headman of his establishment, and all Patusan respected and courted him as a person of much influence. At the taking of the stockade he had distinguished himself greatly by the methodical ferocity of his fighting. The storming party had come on so quick--Jim said--that notwithstanding the panic of the garrison, there was a "hot five minutes hand-to-hand inside that stockade, till some bally ass set fire to the shelters of boughs and dry grass, and we all had to clear out for dear life." 'The rout, it seems, had been complete. Doramin, waiting immovably in his chair on the hillside, with the smoke of the guns spreading slowly above his big head, received the news with a deep grunt. When informed that his son was safe and leading the pursuit, he, without another sound, made a mighty effort to rise; his attendants hurried to his help, and, held up reverently, he shuffled with great dignity into a bit of shade, where he laid himself down to sleep, covered entirely with a piece of white sheeting. In Patusan the excitement was intense. Jim told me that from the hill, turning his back on the stockade with its embers, black ashes, and half-consumed corpses, he could see time after time the open spaces between the houses on both sides of the stream fill suddenly with a seething rush of people and get empty in a moment. His ears caught feebly from below the tremendous din of gongs and drums; the wild shouts of the crowd reached him in bursts of faint roaring. A lot of streamers made a flutter as of little white, red, yellow birds amongst the brown ridges of roofs. "You must have enjoyed it," I murmured, feeling the stir of sympathetic emotion. '"It was . . . it was immense! Immense!" he cried aloud, flinging his arms open. The sudden movement startled me as though I had seen him bare the secrets of his breast to the sunshine, to the brooding forests, to the steely sea. Below us the town reposed in easy curves upon the banks of a stream whose current seemed to sleep. "Immense!" he repeated for a third time, speaking in a whisper, for himself alone. 'Immense! No doubt it was immense; the seal of success upon his words, the conquered ground for the soles of his feet, the blind trust of men, the belief in himself snatched from the fire, the solitude of his achievement. All this, as I've warned you, gets dwarfed in the telling. I can't with mere words convey to you the impression of his total and utter isolation. I know, of course, he was in every sense alone of his kind there, but the unsuspected qualities of his nature had brought him in such close touch with his surroundings that this isolation seemed only the effect of his power. His loneliness added to his stature. There was nothing within sight to compare him with, as though he had been one of those exceptional men who can be only measured by the greatness of their fame; and his fame, remember, was the greatest thing around for many a day's journey. You would have to paddle, pole, or track a long weary way through the jungle before you passed beyond the reach of its voice. Its voice was not the trumpeting of the disreputable goddess we all know--not blatant--not brazen. It took its tone from the stillness and gloom of the land without a past, where his word was the one truth of every passing day. It shared something of the nature of that silence through which it accompanied you into unexplored depths, heard continuously by your side, penetrating, far-reaching--tinged with wonder and mystery on the lips of whispering men.'

Chapters 23-27

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-23-27

On his way to Patusan, Jim carries a letter from Mr. Stein to Cornelius, together with a silver ring common among natives as his introduction to Doramin, Mr. Stein's "war-comrades" friend. Doramin gave him the ring as a parting gift and promise of eternal friendship. Stein had saved Doramin's life at one point. Now Jim keeps the ring around his neck. Set to leave, Marlow notices three books tumble out of Jim's valise: the complete Shakespeare. Marlow is struck by this choice of Jim's. He is also struck when Jim, taking the revolver Marlow has offered him, forgets the two small boxes of cartridges. Jim calls to Marlow: "You - shall - hear - of - me" . Marlow visits Patusan two years later, and at the mouth of the river, the elderly headman of the fisher-folk village comes to board Stein's schooner and tells Marlow about a certain "Tuan Jim," the first white man he ever saw. As he goes down the river, he can see Jim going down the river for the first time, and the narrative subtly shifts to Jim's perspective: Jim is describing how he felt seeing the first houses, how the boat came onto the bank. A boat full of armed men behind him, people coming out of the gate straight at him, his revolver empty, he just stood there. He asked them what was the matter, and it stunned them. Kassim, the Rajah's counselor, announced that the Rajah wanted to see him. The Rajah kept him prisoner for three days. He was a fearful soul who hated Doramin and was deeply afraid of Jim. Jim was held by the north front of the stockade which, on his third day in Patusan, he leaped over. His leap of escape was a flying one over the mouth of a muddy creek. Traveling by foot, he reached Doramin, as the women screamed and children cried. He produced the ring. Doramin and his motherly wife were of the merchant class and were viewed with great respect and dignity. They were involved in a deep, factional fight regarding trade, since the Rajah had been pretending he was the only trader in the country. Doramin, fat, imposing, monumental, and motionless, was growing old, and the area was fraught with insecurity. The couple had had a son late in life, named Dain Waris. Dain Waris was very distinguished and about twenty-four or twenty-five. He was adored by his parents, and he would become Jim's best friend. Dain Waris understands Jim very well. Jim next describes to Marlow the extent to which he has become a legend. Like a judge, he feels a keen responsibility for the social order. Many believe he has supernatural powers. An old man from a faraway village even came to ask Jim if he should divorce his wife. A key victory in war settled his stature and respect, having concluded a quarrel with the Rajah. A stockade that had already been knocked to pieces caused the story to circulate that Jim had thrown it down with the touch of a finger. Dain Waris had saved Jim's life at that time. There had been a hot five minutes in the stockade, and then all was clear. Jim cries that it was "Immense!" . As a result of the battle, Tamb' Itam, a stranger to Patusan who had been detained by the Rajah, bolted from him in order to become Jim's devoted servant. He was inseparable from Jim, like a "morose shadow" .

The narrative scatters chronologically. The reader gets a brief view of Jim's success in Patusan, and we learn that Marlow visits him there. The narrative then returns to Jim's perspective, as he first learns about the opportunity Stein is giving him. The silver ring is a traditional symbol of the romantic quest, of which Jim's journey is an example: it takes him into the heart of an unknown place, where the ring will help him inherit the cultural and other ties that Stein made in those parts long ago. He has the opportunity to prove himself, while Stein plays the part of providing luck or chance. From then on, Jim is on his own. The prospect of anonymity is, for Jim, a possible freedom. He discovers that he is not so bad after all, something Marlow had sensed from the beginning. Thrown into a whirlwind of self-confusion, Jim now proves his worth. It is not certain, however, that this success will help him reconcile with his previous failure, since his personality remains obsessed with a particular, fixed aspect of the past. While people can change generally, the past cannot. Hence, the question of Jim's fate ultimately turns on how he learns to live with his past. When Marlow notes Jim's copy of Shakespeare, the scene resonates against the recent scene with Stein, who made reference to the poet's Hamlet. This detail provides a further sense of connection between the romantics, Jim and Stein, regarding the question of how one is to live. The search into literature for answers is Conrad's subtle hint, being an author himself, that his literary work endeavors to answer the complex questions of how to be and how to live. From the moment Jim arrives in Patusan, he exhibits courage. His judgment is flawless, and he makes the correct leap from his imprisonment when he needs to. This contrasts with his leap from the Patna and with his earlier failure to leap at the best time. These successful leaps in Patusan, moreover, provide the seeds of the mythmaking that envelops Jim, who comes to be known as "Tuan Jim" or "Lord Jim." This romanticized "Jim" can fly. He cannot die. The story even trickles down to a faraway place where Marlow will hear that the legend has discovered a giant emerald. When Marlow once again encounters Jim, he feels the pride of a father. He is glad that Jim has successfully made use of the opportunity he received. Something of the stammering, young, ineloquent man remains, but Marlow notes: "Now and then, though, a word, a sentence, would escape him that showed how deeply, how solemnly, he felt about that work which had given him the certitude of rehabilitation. That is why he seemed to love the land and the people with a sort of fierce egoism, with a contemptuous tenderness" . While Jim looks upon the land with one eye on possession, Marlow still concludes that "all his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these things that made him master had made him captive, too" . Marlow is coming to understand Jim very well. This understanding is reiterated: "Jim the leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the friendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body. Every day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom" . In other words, the freedom he had sought, the freedom that comes with honor and power generally, must be held accountable to others. Binding oneself to others is constraining: you can't leap or run away. The responsibility is severe. Jim has inserted himself as a necessary and important part of the social fabric in Patusan, and, in this way, the community is not unlike that of a ship on the sea. Thus while Jim is exiled from the sea, this new oceanic wilderness is isolating in a new way. He has assumed a position not unlike the one he had held on board the Patna as first mate. In Patusan, a name that resonates with the sound of "Patna," Jim is isolated even while he is in position to guide the community. An important point to keep in mind in thinking about the communities on board the Patna and in Patusan is their "otherness"; both sets of people for whom Jim is responsible differ considerably from the Western figures who dominate the novel. The ship had been filled with Muslim pilgrims heading for Mecca, and Patusan is filled with a community of Southeast Asian islanders. Stein, also, had been intimately involved with a Malay community. In all these cases, though Jim and Stein had been relatively isolated insofar as they were white men, the white men achieved dominance and held a high stature among the population. This white ascendancy has been critiqued as problematic in much of Conrad's work, gaining some energy from being set in "exotic" locations. Note that Dain Waris "knew how to fight like a white man ... he had also a European mind"--which, from the perspective of the speaker, suggests the superiority of the Western presence in that part of the world, as well as the superiority of a native man who is like a white man . Though colonialism was a fact of the time, critics have argued that Conrad fails to render the native characters in his work with the subtlety and generosity he affords his white characters.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/41.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_39_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 40

chapter 40

{"name": "Phase V: \"The Woman Pays,\" Chapter Forty", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-40", "summary": "At breakfast, Angel and his parents discuss his Brazil plan. Everyone tries to be optimistic, but Brazil has a bad reputation--a lot of farmers have emigrated there to seek their fortunes, and have returned disappointed within a year. Angel goes to the town after breakfast to withdraw his money from the bank. While he's there, he arranges for thirty pounds to be sent to Tess in eight months, along with instructions that she write to his father in case of any emergency. On his way back, he runs into Mercy Chant. She asks him about his plans in Brazil, and the conversation turns to the Roman Catholicism of most of the people there. Since she, like Angel's own parents, is a strict Protestant, she's shocked when he makes light of the religious differences of Catholicism. He apologizes for having shocked her, and wonders if he's going nuts. Angel has one other errand before leaving for Brazil. He has to go back to the place where he and Tess spent those few nights after their wedding to pay the rent and pick up a few things they'd left. When he gets there, he remembers how happy they were when they arrived, and wonders if he made a mistake. Then Izz Huett shows up--she says she came to visit them. Angel explains that they're not living there, and tells Izz that Tess is at her parents' house because he's going to find a farm in Brazil. Angel asks how everyone's doing at the dairy, and Izz says that she left, because the dairy was just too depressing, what with Retty's attempted suicide and Marian's descent into alcoholism. Angel offers Izz a ride home, since she lives pretty close by. On the way, she admits that she was pretty depressed, herself, since Angel and Tess left the dairy. Angel asks why, and Izz is like, \"hellooooo, I've had a crush on you for months!\" Angel's quiet for a while, and then thinks about how the whole system of marriage has screwed him . So he tells Izz that he and Tess separated for personal reasons--not just because he's going to Brazil first to check out the farm situation. And then he asks Izz if she'll go with him. She says yes, even though it would be wrong and immoral in the eyes of most people. Angel asks if she really loves him--loves him more than Tess? Izz says she loves him, but not more than Tess - no one could love him more than Tess. That honesty from Izz snaps Angel out of his momentary lunacy, and he turns the cart around to drop Izz off at home. Izz starts crying, of course, but calms down and, when they say good-bye, is able to forgive Angel for totally messing with her head. He sends his farewells to Marian and Retty through Izz, and asks her to tell them to be strong and good. He wavers as he drives away--he almost turns around to drive back to Tess at her parents' house, but decides that if he was right before, he's right now. The state of Tess's feeling for him has nothing to do with it. So, five days later, he leaves for Brazil from a ship out of London.", "analysis": ""}

At breakfast Brazil was the topic, and all endeavoured to take a hopeful view of Clare's proposed experiment with that country's soil, notwithstanding the discouraging reports of some farm-labourers who had emigrated thither and returned home within the twelve months. After breakfast Clare went into the little town to wind up such trifling matters as he was concerned with there, and to get from the local bank all the money he possessed. On his way back he encountered Miss Mercy Chant by the church, from whose walls she seemed to be a sort of emanation. She was carrying an armful of Bibles for her class, and such was her view of life that events which produced heartache in others wrought beatific smiles upon her--an enviable result, although, in the opinion of Angel, it was obtained by a curiously unnatural sacrifice of humanity to mysticism. She had learnt that he was about to leave England, and observed what an excellent and promising scheme it seemed to be. "Yes; it is a likely scheme enough in a commercial sense, no doubt," he replied. "But, my dear Mercy, it snaps the continuity of existence. Perhaps a cloister would be preferable." "A cloister! O, Angel Clare!" "Well?" "Why, you wicked man, a cloister implies a monk, and a monk Roman Catholicism." "And Roman Catholicism sin, and sin damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, Angel Clare." "_I_ glory in my Protestantism!" she said severely. Then Clare, thrown by sheer misery into one of the demoniacal moods in which a man does despite to his true principles, called her close to him, and fiendishly whispered in her ear the most heterodox ideas he could think of. His momentary laughter at the horror which appeared on her fair face ceased when it merged in pain and anxiety for his welfare. "Dear Mercy," he said, "you must forgive me. I think I am going crazy!" She thought that he was; and thus the interview ended, and Clare re-entered the Vicarage. With the local banker he deposited the jewels till happier days should arise. He also paid into the bank thirty pounds--to be sent to Tess in a few months, as she might require; and wrote to her at her parents' home in Blackmoor Vale to inform her of what he had done. This amount, with the sum he had already placed in her hands--about fifty pounds--he hoped would be amply sufficient for her wants just at present, particularly as in an emergency she had been directed to apply to his father. He deemed it best not to put his parents into communication with her by informing them of her address; and, being unaware of what had really happened to estrange the two, neither his father nor his mother suggested that he should do so. During the day he left the parsonage, for what he had to complete he wished to get done quickly. As the last duty before leaving this part of England it was necessary for him to call at the Wellbridge farmhouse, in which he had spent with Tess the first three days of their marriage, the trifle of rent having to be paid, the key given up of the rooms they had occupied, and two or three small articles fetched away that they had left behind. It was under this roof that the deepest shadow ever thrown upon his life had stretched its gloom over him. Yet when he had unlocked the door of the sitting-room and looked into it, the memory which returned first upon him was that of their happy arrival on a similar afternoon, the first fresh sense of sharing a habitation conjointly, the first meal together, the chatting by the fire with joined hands. The farmer and his wife were in the field at the moment of his visit, and Clare was in the rooms alone for some time. Inwardly swollen with a renewal of sentiment that he had not quite reckoned with, he went upstairs to her chamber, which had never been his. The bed was smooth as she had made it with her own hands on the morning of leaving. The mistletoe hung under the tester just as he had placed it. Having been there three or four weeks it was turning colour, and the leaves and berries were wrinkled. Angel took it down and crushed it into the grate. Standing there, he for the first time doubted whether his course in this conjecture had been a wise, much less a generous, one. But had he not been cruelly blinded? In the incoherent multitude of his emotions he knelt down at the bedside wet-eyed. "O Tess! If you had only told me sooner, I would have forgiven you!" he mourned. Hearing a footstep below, he rose and went to the top of the stairs. At the bottom of the flight he saw a woman standing, and on her turning up her face recognized the pale, dark-eyed Izz Huett. "Mr Clare," she said, "I've called to see you and Mrs Clare, and to inquire if ye be well. I thought you might be back here again." This was a girl whose secret he had guessed, but who had not yet guessed his; an honest girl who loved him--one who would have made as good, or nearly as good, a practical farmer's wife as Tess. "I am here alone," he said; "we are not living here now." Explaining why he had come, he asked, "Which way are you going home, Izz?" "I have no home at Talbothays Dairy now, sir," she said. "Why is that?" Izz looked down. "It was so dismal there that I left! I am staying out this way." She pointed in a contrary direction, the direction in which he was journeying. "Well--are you going there now? I can take you if you wish for a lift." Her olive complexion grew richer in hue. "Thank 'ee, Mr Clare," she said. He soon found the farmer, and settled the account for his rent and the few other items which had to be considered by reason of the sudden abandonment of the lodgings. On Clare's return to his horse and gig, Izz jumped up beside him. "I am going to leave England, Izz," he said, as they drove on. "Going to Brazil." "And do Mrs Clare like the notion of such a journey?" she asked. "She is not going at present--say for a year or so. I am going out to reconnoitre--to see what life there is like." They sped along eastward for some considerable distance, Izz making no observation. "How are the others?" he inquired. "How is Retty?" "She was in a sort of nervous state when I zid her last; and so thin and hollow-cheeked that 'a do seem in a decline. Nobody will ever fall in love wi' her any more," said Izz absently. "And Marian?" Izz lowered her voice. "Marian drinks." "Indeed!" "Yes. The dairyman has got rid of her." "And you!" "I don't drink, and I bain't in a decline. But--I am no great things at singing afore breakfast now!" "How is that? Do you remember how neatly you used to turn ''Twas down in Cupid's Gardens' and 'The Tailor's Breeches' at morning milking?" "Ah, yes! When you first came, sir, that was. Not when you had been there a bit." "Why was that falling-off?" Her black eyes flashed up to his face for one moment by way of answer. "Izz!--how weak of you--for such as I!" he said, and fell into reverie. "Then--suppose I had asked YOU to marry me?" "If you had I should have said 'Yes', and you would have married a woman who loved 'ee!" "Really!" "Down to the ground!" she whispered vehemently. "O my God! did you never guess it till now!" By-and-by they reached a branch road to a village. "I must get down. I live out there," said Izz abruptly, never having spoken since her avowal. Clare slowed the horse. He was incensed against his fate, bitterly disposed towards social ordinances; for they had cooped him up in a corner, out of which there was no legitimate pathway. Why not be revenged on society by shaping his future domesticities loosely, instead of kissing the pedagogic rod of convention in this ensnaring manner? "I am going to Brazil alone, Izz," said he. "I have separated from my wife for personal, not voyaging, reasons. I may never live with her again. I may not be able to love you; but--will you go with me instead of her?" "You truly wish me to go?" "I do. I have been badly used enough to wish for relief. And you at least love me disinterestedly." "Yes--I will go," said Izz, after a pause. "You will? You know what it means, Izz?" "It means that I shall live with you for the time you are over there--that's good enough for me." "Remember, you are not to trust me in morals now. But I ought to remind you that it will be wrong-doing in the eyes of civilization--Western civilization, that is to say." "I don't mind that; no woman do when it comes to agony-point, and there's no other way!" "Then don't get down, but sit where you are." He drove past the cross-roads, one mile, two miles, without showing any signs of affection. "You love me very, very much, Izz?" he suddenly asked. "I do--I have said I do! I loved you all the time we was at the dairy together!" "More than Tess?" She shook her head. "No," she murmured, "not more than she." "How's that?" "Because nobody could love 'ee more than Tess did! ... She would have laid down her life for 'ee. I could do no more." Like the prophet on the top of Peor, Izz Huett would fain have spoken perversely at such a moment, but the fascination exercised over her rougher nature by Tess's character compelled her to grace. Clare was silent; his heart had risen at these straightforward words from such an unexpected unimpeachable quarter. In his throat was something as if a sob had solidified there. His ears repeated, "SHE WOULD HAVE LAID DOWN HER LIFE FOR 'EE. I COULD DO NO MORE!" "Forget our idle talk, Izz," he said, turning the horse's head suddenly. "I don't know what I've been saying! I will now drive you back to where your lane branches off." "So much for honesty towards 'ee! O--how can I bear it--how can I--how can I!" Izz Huett burst into wild tears, and beat her forehead as she saw what she had done. "Do you regret that poor little act of justice to an absent one? O, Izz, don't spoil it by regret!" She stilled herself by degrees. "Very well, sir. Perhaps I didn't know what I was saying, either, wh--when I agreed to go! I wish--what cannot be!" "Because I have a loving wife already." "Yes, yes! You have!" They reached the corner of the lane which they had passed half an hour earlier, and she hopped down. "Izz--please, please forget my momentary levity!" he cried. "It was so ill-considered, so ill-advised!" "Forget it? Never, never! O, it was no levity to me!" He felt how richly he deserved the reproach that the wounded cry conveyed, and, in a sorrow that was inexpressible, leapt down and took her hand. "Well, but, Izz, we'll part friends, anyhow? You don't know what I've had to bear!" She was a really generous girl, and allowed no further bitterness to mar their adieux. "I forgive 'ee, sir!" she said. "Now, Izz," he said, while she stood beside him there, forcing himself to the mentor's part he was far from feeling; "I want you to tell Marian when you see her that she is to be a good woman, and not to give way to folly. Promise that, and tell Retty that there are more worthy men than I in the world, that for my sake she is to act wisely and well--remember the words--wisely and well--for my sake. I send this message to them as a dying man to the dying; for I shall never see them again. And you, Izzy, you have saved me by your honest words about my wife from an incredible impulse towards folly and treachery. Women may be bad, but they are not so bad as men in these things! On that one account I can never forget you. Be always the good and sincere girl you have hitherto been; and think of me as a worthless lover, but a faithful friend. Promise." She gave the promise. "Heaven bless and keep you, sir. Goodbye!" He drove on; but no sooner had Izz turned into the lane, and Clare was out of sight, than she flung herself down on the bank in a fit of racking anguish; and it was with a strained unnatural face that she entered her mother's cottage late that night. Nobody ever was told how Izz spent the dark hours that intervened between Angel Clare's parting from her and her arrival home. Clare, too, after bidding the girl farewell, was wrought to aching thoughts and quivering lips. But his sorrow was not for Izz. That evening he was within a feather-weight's turn of abandoning his road to the nearest station, and driving across that elevated dorsal line of South Wessex which divided him from his Tess's home. It was neither a contempt for her nature, nor the probable state of her heart, which deterred him. No; it was a sense that, despite her love, as corroborated by Izz's admission, the facts had not changed. If he was right at first, he was right now. And the momentum of the course on which he had embarked tended to keep him going in it, unless diverted by a stronger, more sustained force than had played upon him this afternoon. He could soon come back to her. He took the train that night for London, and five days after shook hands in farewell of his brothers at the port of embarkation.

Phase V: "The Woman Pays," Chapter Forty

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-40

At breakfast, Angel and his parents discuss his Brazil plan. Everyone tries to be optimistic, but Brazil has a bad reputation--a lot of farmers have emigrated there to seek their fortunes, and have returned disappointed within a year. Angel goes to the town after breakfast to withdraw his money from the bank. While he's there, he arranges for thirty pounds to be sent to Tess in eight months, along with instructions that she write to his father in case of any emergency. On his way back, he runs into Mercy Chant. She asks him about his plans in Brazil, and the conversation turns to the Roman Catholicism of most of the people there. Since she, like Angel's own parents, is a strict Protestant, she's shocked when he makes light of the religious differences of Catholicism. He apologizes for having shocked her, and wonders if he's going nuts. Angel has one other errand before leaving for Brazil. He has to go back to the place where he and Tess spent those few nights after their wedding to pay the rent and pick up a few things they'd left. When he gets there, he remembers how happy they were when they arrived, and wonders if he made a mistake. Then Izz Huett shows up--she says she came to visit them. Angel explains that they're not living there, and tells Izz that Tess is at her parents' house because he's going to find a farm in Brazil. Angel asks how everyone's doing at the dairy, and Izz says that she left, because the dairy was just too depressing, what with Retty's attempted suicide and Marian's descent into alcoholism. Angel offers Izz a ride home, since she lives pretty close by. On the way, she admits that she was pretty depressed, herself, since Angel and Tess left the dairy. Angel asks why, and Izz is like, "hellooooo, I've had a crush on you for months!" Angel's quiet for a while, and then thinks about how the whole system of marriage has screwed him . So he tells Izz that he and Tess separated for personal reasons--not just because he's going to Brazil first to check out the farm situation. And then he asks Izz if she'll go with him. She says yes, even though it would be wrong and immoral in the eyes of most people. Angel asks if she really loves him--loves him more than Tess? Izz says she loves him, but not more than Tess - no one could love him more than Tess. That honesty from Izz snaps Angel out of his momentary lunacy, and he turns the cart around to drop Izz off at home. Izz starts crying, of course, but calms down and, when they say good-bye, is able to forgive Angel for totally messing with her head. He sends his farewells to Marian and Retty through Izz, and asks her to tell them to be strong and good. He wavers as he drives away--he almost turns around to drive back to Tess at her parents' house, but decides that if he was right before, he's right now. The state of Tess's feeling for him has nothing to do with it. So, five days later, he leaves for Brazil from a ship out of London.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/75.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_74_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 45

part 2, chapter 45

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-45", "summary": "Julien mentions to his buddy Fouqe that he's willing to consider a last second escape from prison. Fouqe runs off to make the arrangements. Madame de Renal comes to visit Julien one last time. She's even run away from home to see him. Mathilde hears about how often Madame is visiting Julien and she goes crazy with jealousy. Worse yet, the guy back in Paris who wants to marry Mathilde has died in a duel. There are lots of last-second plans to stop Julien's execution, but to no avail. The day quickly comes, and Julien is beheaded. It's kind of abrupt, but yeah, he's dead. The funeral procession takes Julien's body to be buried. But Fouqe manages to get a hold of Julien's body before it's buried. Mathilde visits the house and holds Julien's head in her arms, just like one of her ancestors was rumored to have done for her lover's head a hundred years earlier. Three days after Julien's death, Madame de Renal drops dead for unknown reasons. She's hugging her children at the time. Yeah, pretty grim ending for sure.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER LXXV "I cannot play such a trick on that poor abbe Chas-Bernard, as to summon him," he said to Fouque: "it would prevent him from dining for three whole days.--But try and find some Jansenist who is a friend of M. Pirard." Fouque was impatiently waiting for this suggestion. Julien acquitted himself becomingly of all the duty a man owes to provincial opinion. Thanks to M. the abbe de Frilair, and in spite of his bad choice of a confessor, Julien enjoyed in his cell the protection of the priestly congregation; with a little more diplomacy he might have managed to escape. But the bad air of the cell produced its effect, and his strength of mind diminished. But this only intensified his happiness at madame de Renal's return. "My first duty is towards you, my dear," she said as she embraced him; "I have run away from Verrieres." Julien felt no petty vanity in his relations with her, and told her all his weaknesses. She was good and charming to him. In the evening she had scarcely left the prison before she made the priest, who had clung on to Julien like a veritable prey, go to her aunt's: as his only object was to win prestige among the young women who belonged to good Besancon society, madame de Renal easily prevailed upon him to go and perform a novena at the abbey of Bray-le-Haut. No words can do justice to the madness and extravagance of Julien's love. By means of gold, and by using and abusing the influence of her aunt, who was devout, rich and well-known, madame de Renal managed to see him twice a day. At this news, Mathilde's jealousy reached a pitch of positive madness. M. de Frilair had confessed to her that all his influence did not go so far as to admit of flouting the conventions by allowing her to see her sweetheart more than once every day. Mathilde had madame de Renal followed so as to know the smallest thing she did. M. de Frilair exhausted all the resources of an extremely clever intellect in order to prove to her that Julien was unworthy of her. Plunged though she was in all these torments, she only loved him the more, and made a horrible scene nearly every day. Julien wished, with all his might, to behave to the very end like an honourable man towards this poor young girl whom he had so strangely compromised, but the reckless love which he felt for madame de Renal swept him away at every single minute. When he could not manage to persuade Mathilde of the innocence of her rival's visits by all his thin excuses, he would say to himself: "at any rate the end of the drama ought to be quite near. The very fact of not being able to lie better will be an excuse for me." Mademoiselle de La Mole learnt of the death of the marquis de Croisenois. The rich M. de Thaler had indulged in some unpleasant remarks concerning Mathilde's disappearance: M. de Croisenois went and asked him to recant them: M. de Thaler showed him some anonymous letters which had been sent to him, and which were full of details so artfully put together that the poor marquis could not help catching a glimpse of the truth. M. de Thaler indulged in some jests which were devoid of all taste. Maddened by anger and unhappiness, M. de Croisenois demanded such unqualified satisfaction, that the millionaire preferred to fight a duel. Stupidity triumphed, and one of the most lovable of men met with his death before he was twenty-four. This death produced a strange and morbid impression on Julien's demoralised soul. "Poor Croisenois," he said to Mathilde, "really behaved very reasonably and very honourably towards us; he had ample ground for hating me and picking a quarrel with me, by reason of your indiscretion in your mother's salon; for the hatred which follows on contempt is usually frenzied." M. de Croisenois' death changed all Julien's ideas concerning Mathilde's future. He spent several days in proving to her that she ought to accept the hand of M. de Luz. "He is a nervous man, not too much of a Jesuit, and will doubtless be a candidate," he said to her. "He has a more sinister and persevering ambition than poor Croisenois, and as there has never been a dukedom in his family, he will be only too glad to marry Julien Sorel's widow." "A widow, though, who scorns the grand passions," answered Mathilde coldly, "for she has lived long enough to see her lover prefer to her after six months another woman who was the origin of all their unhappiness." "You are unjust! Madame de Renal's visits will furnish my advocate at Paris, who is endeavouring to procure my pardon, with the subject matter for some sensational phrases; he will depict the murderer honoured by the attention of his victim. That may produce an impression, and perhaps some day or other, you will see me provide the plot of some melodrama or other, etc., etc." A furious and impotent jealousy, a prolonged and hopeless unhappiness (for even supposing Julien was saved, how was she to win back his heart?), coupled with her shame and anguish at loving this unfaithful lover more than ever had plunged mademoiselle de la Mole into a gloomy silence, from which all the careful assiduity of M. de Frilair was as little able to draw her as the rugged frankness of Fouque. As for Julien, except in those moments which were taken up by Mathilde's presence, he lived on love with scarcely a thought for the future. "In former days," Julien said to her, "when I might have been so happy, during our walks in the wood of Vergy, a frenzied ambition swept my soul into the realms of imagination. Instead of pressing to my heart that charming arm which is so near my lips, the thoughts of my future took me away from you; I was engaged in countless combats which I should have to sustain in order to lay the foundations of a colossal fortune. No, I should have died without knowing what happiness was if you had not come to see me in this prison." Two episodes ruffled this tranquil life. Julien's confessor, Jansenist though he was, was not proof against an intrigue of the Jesuits, and became their tool without knowing it. He came to tell him one day that unless he meant to fall into the awful sin of suicide, he ought to take every possible step to procure his pardon. Consequently, as the clergy have a great deal of influence with the minister of Justice at Paris, an easy means presented itself; he ought to become converted with all publicity. "With publicity," repeated Julien. "Ha, Ha! I have caught you at it--I have caught you as well, my father, playing a part like any missionary." "Your youth," replied the Jansenist gravely, "the interesting appearance which Providence has given you, the still unsolved mystery of the motive for your crime, the heroic steps which mademoiselle de la Mole has so freely taken on your behalf, everything, up to the surprising affection which your victim manifests towards you, has contributed to make you the hero of the young women of Besancon. They have forgotten everything, even politics, on your account. Your conversion will reverberate in their hearts and will leave behind it a deep impression. You can be of considerable use to religion, and I was about to hesitate for the trivial reason that in a similar circumstance the Jesuits would follow a similar course. But if I did, even in the one case which has escaped their greedy clutches they would still be exercising their mischief. The tears which your conversation will cause to be shed will annul the poisonous effect of ten editions of Voltaire's works." "And what will be left for me," answered Julien, coldly, "if I despise myself? I have been ambitious; I do not mean to blame myself in any way. Further, I have acted in accordance with the code of the age. Now I am living from day to day. But I should make myself very unhappy if I were to yield to what the locality would regard as a piece of cowardice...." Madame de Renal was responsible for the other episode which affected Julien in quite another way. Some intriguing woman friend or other had managed to persuade this naive and timid soul that it was her duty to leave for St. Cloud, and go and throw herself at the feet of King Charles X. She had made the sacrifice of separating from Julien, and after a strain as great as that, she no longer thought anything of the unpleasantness of making an exhibition of herself, though in former times she would have thought that worse than death. "I will go to the king. I will confess freely that you are my lover. The life of a man, and of a man like Julien, too, ought to prevail over every consideration. I will tell him that it was because of jealousy that you made an attempt upon my life. There are numerous instances of poor young people who have been saved in such a case by the clemency of the jury or of the king." "I will leave off seeing you; I will shut myself up in my prison," exclaimed Julien, "and you can be quite certain that if you do not promise me to take no step which will make a public exhibition of us both, I will kill myself in despair the day afterwards. This idea of going to Paris is not your own. Tell me the name of the intriguing woman who suggested it to you. "Let us be happy during the small number of days of this short life. Let us hide our existence; my crime was only too self-evident. Mademoiselle de la Mole enjoys all possible influence at Paris. Take it from me that she has done all that is humanly possible. Here in the provinces I have all the men of wealth and prestige against me. Your conduct will still further aggravate those rich and essentially moderate people to whom life comes so easy.... Let us not give the Maslons, the Valenods, and the thousand other people who are worth more than they, anything to laugh about." Julien came to find the bad air of the cell unbearable. Fortunately, nature was rejoicing in a fine sunshine on the day when they announced to him that he would have to die, and he was in a courageous vein. He found walking in the open air as delicious a sensation as the navigator, who has been at sea for a long time, finds walking on the ground. "Come on, everything is going all right," he said to himself. "I am not lacking in courage." His head had never looked so poetical as at that moment when it was on the point of falling. The sweet minutes which he had formerly spent in the woods of Vergy crowded back upon his mind with extreme force. Everything went off simply, decorously, and without any affectation on his part. Two days before he had said to Fouque: "I cannot guarantee not to show some emotion. This dense, squalid cell gives me fits of fever in which I do not recognise myself, but fear?--no! I shall not be seen to flinch." He had made his arrangements in advance for Fouque to take Mathilde and madame de Renal away on the morning of his last day. "Drive them away in the same carriage," he had said. "Do you see that the post-horses do not leave off galloping. They will either fall into each other's arms, or manifest towards each other a mortal hatred. In either case the poor women will have something to distract them a little from their awful grief." Julien had made madame de Renal swear that she would live to look after Mathilde's son. "Who knows? Perhaps we have still some sensations after our death," he had said one day to Fouque. "I should like to rest, for rest is the right word, in that little grotto in the great mountain which dominates Verrieres. Many a time, as I have told you, I have spent the night alone in that grotto, and as my gaze would plunge far and wide over the richest provinces of France, ambition would inflame my heart. In those days it was my passion.... Anyway, I hold that grotto dear, and one cannot dispute that its situation might well arouse the desires of the philosopher's soul.... Well, you know! those good priests of Besancon will make money out of everything. If you know how to manage it, they will sell you my mortal remains." Fouque succeeded in this melancholy business. He was passing the night alone in his room by his friend's body when, to his great surprise, he saw Mathilde come in. A few hours before he had left her ten leagues from Besancon. Her face and eyes looked distraught. "I want to see him," she said. Fouque had not the courage either to speak or get up. He pointed with his finger to a big blue cloak on the floor; there was wrapped in it all that remained of Julien. She threw herself on her knees. The memory of Boniface de la Mole, and of Marguerite of Navarre gave her, no doubt, a superhuman courage. Her trembling hands undid the cloak. Fouque turned away his eyes. He heard Mathilde walking feverishly about the room. She lit several candles. When Fouque could bring himself to look at her, she had placed Julien's head on a little marble table in front of her, and was kissing it on the forehead. Mathilde followed her lover to the tomb which he had chosen. A great number of priests convoyed the bier, and, alone in her draped carriage, without anyone knowing it, she carried on her knees the head of the man whom she had loved so much. When they arrived in this way at the most elevated peak of the high mountains of the Jura, twenty priests celebrated the service of the dead in the middle of the night in this little grotto, which was magnificently illuminated by a countless number of wax candles. Attracted by this strange and singular ceremony, all the inhabitants of the little mountain villages which the funeral had passed through, followed it. Mathilde appeared in their midst in long mourning garments, and had several thousands of five-franc pieces thrown to them at the end of the service. When she was left alone with Fouque, she insisted on burying her lover's head with her own hands. Fouque nearly went mad with grief. Mathilde took care that this wild grotto should be decorated with marble monuments that had been sculpted in Italy at great expense. Madame de Renal kept her promise. She did not try to make any attempt upon her life; but she died embracing her children, three days after Julien. THE END.

Part 2, Chapter 45

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-45

Julien mentions to his buddy Fouqe that he's willing to consider a last second escape from prison. Fouqe runs off to make the arrangements. Madame de Renal comes to visit Julien one last time. She's even run away from home to see him. Mathilde hears about how often Madame is visiting Julien and she goes crazy with jealousy. Worse yet, the guy back in Paris who wants to marry Mathilde has died in a duel. There are lots of last-second plans to stop Julien's execution, but to no avail. The day quickly comes, and Julien is beheaded. It's kind of abrupt, but yeah, he's dead. The funeral procession takes Julien's body to be buried. But Fouqe manages to get a hold of Julien's body before it's buried. Mathilde visits the house and holds Julien's head in her arms, just like one of her ancestors was rumored to have done for her lover's head a hundred years earlier. Three days after Julien's death, Madame de Renal drops dead for unknown reasons. She's hugging her children at the time. Yeah, pretty grim ending for sure.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The White Devil/section_1_part_0.txt

The White Devil.act 1.scene 2

act 1, scene 2

{"name": "Act 1, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-1-scene-2", "summary": "The Duke of Brachiano arrives at the residence of Vittoria Corombona and her husband, Camillo. He complains to Vittoria's brother, Flamineo , telling him that he's hopelessly in love with Vittoria. Flamineo assures the Duke that Vittoria's into him too. Flamineo and Vittoria's maid, Zanche, will arrange a meeting for them late at night. He also tells the Duke that women like Vittoria aren't really shy or scared of seduction--they're just acting like it to enflame the desires of their suitors. When Brachiano worries about Vittoria's husband, Flamineo tells him that Camillo is just a wimp who can't please a woman. He also tells him that he shouldn't be overly hot to get with Vittoria--men who are in marriage always want to get out of it, even though others want to get in. Camillo approaches, as Flamineo finishes mocking him . Brachiano exits. Flamineo chats with Camillo about his marriage, and Camillo admits his been preoccupied with voyaging and doesn't remember when he last slept with her. He says he always wakes up with a \"flaw\" between him and Vittoria whenever they do have sex. Camillo admits that he knows Brachiano is trying to seduce his wife. Flamineo tries to convince him differently, reminding him of his favorable horoscope, but Camillo's not buying it. Flamineo pretends to advise him in favor of locking up his wife. Camillo thinks this is good advice, but Flamineo reveals he was kidding--that's a sure way to get cuckolded, regardless of your wife's chastity. He should let Vittoria remain at liberty. None of Flamineo's jokes about cuckoldry make Camillo less anxious, though. Flamineo tries to tell him that his jealousy is like a pair of glasses that are designed to distort appearances--you see adultery everywhere. Vittoria enters. Flamineo tells her she should be nicer to Camillo and accept his entreaties--while constantly mocking him in asides to the audience. He talks Camillo up, saying that he'll lie with Vittoria in an extremely luxurious bed and give her the philosopher's stone and so on. But, craftily, Flamineo tells Camillo not to sleep with Vittoria tonight--he needs to make her wait, so she'll be more eager. Camillo agrees, and tells Vittoria he needs to wait a night, like a silkworm, to spin a finer thread. He thinks this is a witty remark, and leaves. The maid, Zanche, prepares the cushions for Vittoria's midnight rendezvous with Brachiano. Brachiano arrives and confesses his love to Vittoria--she seems very receptive. But, all the while, Vittoria and Flamineo's mother, Cornelia, is listening in. Vittoria and Brachiano talk about exchanging jewels, in a somewhat sexually charged moment. Then, Vittoria tells Brachiano about a dream she had: in the dream, she's crying under a yew tree in a cemetery. Her husband, Camillo, and the Duke's wife, Isabella, come along and accuse her of trying to uproot the yew tree and replace it with an evil blackthorn. They try to bury her alive, but a whirlwind comes along and knocks over the yew, killing them and burying them in the grave they've been digging. Flamineo remarks aside that Vittoria is suggesting to the Duke that he murder her husband and his wife, in a veiled way.The Duke promises to \"protect\" Vittoria from them, and promises that she'll be everything to him. Cornelia steps into view and angrily accuses Vittoria and the Duke of adultery. . Vittoria plays innocent, and the Duke tries to speak, but Cornelia condemns the Duke for setting a terrible example, and curses her daughter--wishing her a short life if she betrays her husband. Vittoria feels cursed and exits. Brachiano, angry with Cornelia, leaves--but tells Flamineo to send Doctor Julio to him. Flamineo complains about how Cornelia interrupted his boss, the Duke--which reflects badly on Flamineo. Cornelia says that just because they're poor doesn't mean they need to be vicious--deceitful and murderous. Flamineo says he's just trying to get rich, to add to the fortune his dead father left him, and doesn't need any of her moral qualms. He's made of tougher stuff. Cornelia wishes she'd never given birth to him, and Flamineo wishes he'd had a prostitute for a mother so he would've had multiple presumed dads to take care of him. He tells her to go tell the cardinal about what's going on if she feels so bad. Cornelia exits. Alone, Flamineo complains that the duchess has come to court. But, he says, they need to continue their mischief--using the twisting manipulations of a snake, they'll eventually get what they want.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II Enter Brachiano, Camillo, Flamineo, Vittoria Brach. Your best of rest. Vit. Unto my lord the duke, The best of welcome. More lights: attend the duke. [Exeunt Camillo and Vittoria. Brach. Flamineo. Flam. My lord. Brach. Quite lost, Flamineo. Flam. Pursue your noble wishes, I am prompt As lightning to your service. O my lord! The fair Vittoria, my happy sister, Shall give you present audience--Gentlemen, [Whisper. Let the caroch go on--and 'tis his pleasure You put out all your torches and depart. Brach. Are we so happy? Flam. Can it be otherwise? Observ'd you not to-night, my honour'd lord, Which way soe'er you went, she threw her eyes? I have dealt already with her chambermaid, Zanche the Moor, and she is wondrous proud To be the agent for so high a spirit. Brach. We are happy above thought, because 'bove merit. Flam. 'Bove merit! we may now talk freely: 'bove merit! what is 't you doubt? her coyness! that 's but the superficies of lust most women have; yet why should ladies blush to hear that named, which they do not fear to handle? Oh, they are politic; they know our desire is increased by the difficulty of enjoying; whereas satiety is a blunt, weary, and drowsy passion. If the buttery-hatch at court stood continually open, there would be nothing so passionate crowding, nor hot suit after the beverage. Brach. Oh, but her jealous husband---- Flam. Hang him; a gilder that hath his brains perished with quicksilver is not more cold in the liver. The great barriers moulted not more feathers, than he hath shed hairs, by the confession of his doctor. An Irish gamester that will play himself naked, and then wage all downward, at hazard, is not more venturous. So unable to please a woman, that, like a Dutch doublet, all his back is shrunk into his breaches. Shroud you within this closet, good my lord; Some trick now must be thought on to divide My brother-in-law from his fair bed-fellow. Brach. Oh, should she fail to come---- Flam. I must not have your lordship thus unwisely amorous. I myself have not loved a lady, and pursued her with a great deal of under-age protestation, whom some three or four gallants that have enjoyed would with all their hearts have been glad to have been rid of. 'Tis just like a summer bird-cage in a garden: the birds that are without despair to get in, and the birds that are within despair and are in a consumption for fear they shall never get out. Away, away, my lord. [Exit Brachiano as Camillo enters. See here he comes. This fellow by his apparel Some men would judge a politician; But call his wit in question, you shall find it Merely an ass in 's foot-cloth. How now, brother? What, travelling to bed with your kind wife? Cam. I assure you, brother, no. My voyage lies More northerly, in a far colder clime. I do not well remember, I protest, When I last lay with her. Flam. Strange you should lose your count. Cam. We never lay together, but ere morning There grew a flaw between us. Flam. 'T had been your part To have made up that flaw. Cam. True, but she loathes I should be seen in 't. Flam. Why, sir, what 's the matter? Cam. The duke your master visits me, I thank him; And I perceive how, like an earnest bowler, He very passionately leans that way he should have his bowl run. Flam. I hope you do not think---- Cam. That nobleman bowl booty? faith, his cheek Hath a most excellent bias: it would fain Jump with my mistress. Flam. Will you be an ass, Despite your Aristotle? or a cuckold, Contrary to your Ephemerides, Which shows you under what a smiling planet You were first swaddled? Cam. Pew wew, sir; tell me not Of planets nor of Ephemerides. A man may be made cuckold in the day-time, When the stars' eyes are out. Flam. Sir, good-bye you; I do commit you to your pitiful pillow Stuffed with horn-shavings. Cam. Brother! Flam. God refuse me. Might I advise you now, your only course Were to lock up your wife. Cam. 'Twere very good. Flam. Bar her the sight of revels. Cam. Excellent. Flam. Let her not go to church, but, like a hound In leon, at your heels. Cam. 'Twere for her honour. Flam. And so you should be certain in one fortnight, Despite her chastity or innocence, To be cuckolded, which yet is in suspense: This is my counsel, and I ask no fee for 't. Cam. Come, you know not where my nightcap wrings me. Flam. Wear it a' th' old fashion; let your large ears come through, it will be more easy--nay, I will be bitter--bar your wife of her entertainment: women are more willingly and more gloriously chaste, when they are least restrained of their liberty. It seems you would be a fine capricious, mathematically jealous coxcomb; take the height of your own horns with a Jacob's staff, afore they are up. These politic enclosures for paltry mutton, makes more rebellion in the flesh, than all the provocative electuaries doctors have uttered since last jubilee. Cam. This doth not physic me---- Flam. It seems you are jealous: I 'll show you the error of it by a familiar example: I have seen a pair of spectacles fashioned with such perspective art, that lay down but one twelve pence a' th' board, 'twill appear as if there were twenty; now should you wear a pair of these spectacles, and see your wife tying her shoe, you would imagine twenty hands were taking up of your wife's clothes, and this would put you into a horrible causeless fury. Cam. The fault there, sir, is not in the eyesight. Flam. True, but they that have the yellow jaundice think all objects they look on to be yellow. Jealousy is worse; her fits present to a man, like so many bubbles in a basin of water, twenty several crabbed faces, many times makes his own shadow his cuckold-maker. [Enter Vittoria Corombona.] See, she comes; what reason have you to be jealous of this creature? what an ignorant ass or flattering knave might be counted, that should write sonnets to her eyes, or call her brow the snow of Ida, or ivory of Corinth; or compare her hair to the blackbird's bill, when 'tis liker the blackbird's feather? This is all. Be wise; I will make you friends, and you shall go to bed together. Marry, look you, it shall not be your seeking. Do you stand upon that, by any means: walk you aloof; I would not have you seen in 't.--Sister [my lord attend you in the banqueting-house,] your husband is wondrous discontented. Vit. I did nothing to displease him; I carved to him at supper-time. Flam. [You need not have carved him, in faith; they say he is a capon already. I must now seemingly fall out with you.] Shall a gentleman so well descended as Camillo [a lousy slave, that within this twenty years rode with the black guard in the duke's carriage, 'mongst spits and dripping-pans!]-- Cam. Now he begins to tickle her. Flam. An excellent scholar [one that hath a head fill'd with calves' brains without any sage in them,] come crouching in the hams to you for a night's lodging? [that hath an itch in 's hams, which like the fire at the glass-house hath not gone out this seven years] Is he not a courtly gentleman? [when he wears white satin, one would take him by his black muzzle to be no other creature than a maggot] You are a goodly foil, I confess, well set out [but cover'd with a false stone-- yon counterfeit diamond]. Cam. He will make her know what is in me. Flam. Come, my lord attends you; thou shalt go to bed to my lord. Cam. Now he comes to 't. Flam. [With a relish as curious as a vintner going to taste new wine.] [To Camillo.] I am opening your case hard. Cam. A virtuous brother, o' my credit! Flam. He will give thee a ring with a philosopher's stone in it. Cam. Indeed, I am studying alchemy. Flam. Thou shalt lie in a bed stuffed with turtle's feathers; swoon in perfumed linen, like the fellow was smothered in roses. So perfect shall be thy happiness, that as men at sea think land, and trees, and ships, go that way they go; so both heaven and earth shall seem to go your voyage. Shalt meet him; 'tis fix'd, with nails of diamonds to inevitable necessity. Vit. How shalt rid him hence? Flam. [I will put brize in 's tail, set him gadding presently.] I have almost wrought her to it; I find her coming: but, might I advise you now, for this night I would not lie with her, I would cross her humour to make her more humble. Cam. Shall I, shall I? Flam. It will show in you a supremacy of judgment. Cam. True, and a mind differing from the tumultuary opinion; for, quae negata, grata. Flam. Right: you are the adamant shall draw her to you, though you keep distance off. Cam. A philosophical reason. Flam. Walk by her a' th' nobleman's fashion, and tell her you will lie with her at the end of the progress. Cam. Vittoria, I cannot be induc'd, or as a man would say, incited---- Vit. To do what, sir? Cam. To lie with you to-night. Your silkworm used to fast every third day, and the next following spins the better. To-morrow at night, I am for you. Vit. You 'll spin a fair thread, trust to 't. Flam. But do you hear, I shall have you steal to her chamber about midnight. Cam. Do you think so? why look you, brother, because you shall not say I 'll gull you, take the key, lock me into the chamber, and say you shall be sure of me. Flam. In troth I will; I 'll be your jailor once. Cam. A pox on 't, as I am a Christian! tell me to-morrow how scurvily she takes my unkind parting. Flam. I will. Cam. Didst thou not mark the jest of the silkworm? Good-night; in faith, I will use this trick often. Flam. Do, do, do. [Exit Camillo. So, now you are safe. Ha, ha, ha, thou entanglest thyself in thine own work like a silkworm. [Enter Brachiano.] Come, sister, darkness hides your blush. Women are like cursed dogs: civility keeps them tied all daytime, but they are let loose at midnight; then they do most good, or most mischief. My lord, my lord! Zanche brings out a carpet, spreads it, and lays on it two fair cushions. Enter Cornelia listening, but unperceived. Brach. Give credit: I could wish time would stand still, And never end this interview, this hour; But all delight doth itself soon'st devour. Let me into your bosom, happy lady, Pour out, instead of eloquence, my vows. Loose me not, madam, for if you forgo me, I am lost eternally. Vit. Sir, in the way of pity, I wish you heart-whole. Brach. You are a sweet physician. Vit. Sure, sir, a loathed cruelty in ladies Is as to doctors many funerals: It takes away their credit. Brach. Excellent creature! We call the cruel fair; what name for you That are so merciful? Zan. See now they close. Flam. Most happy union. Corn. [Aside.] My fears are fall'n upon me: oh, my heart! My son the pander! now I find our house Sinking to ruin. Earthquakes leave behind, Where they have tyranniz'd, iron, or lead, or stone; But woe to ruin, violent lust leaves none. Brach. What value is this jewel? Vit. 'Tis the ornament of a weak fortune. Brach. In sooth, I 'll have it; nay, I will but change My jewel for your jewel. Flam. Excellent; His jewel for her jewel: well put in, duke. Brach. Nay, let me see you wear it. Vit. Here, sir? Brach. Nay, lower, you shall wear my jewel lower. Flam. That 's better: she must wear his jewel lower. Vit. To pass away the time, I 'll tell your grace A dream I had last night. Brach. Most wishedly. Vit. A foolish idle dream: Methought I walked about the mid of night Into a churchyard, where a goodly yew-tree Spread her large root in ground: under that yew, As I sat sadly leaning on a grave, Chequer'd with cross-sticks, there came stealing in Your duchess and my husband; one of them A pickaxe bore, th' other a rusty spade, And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge me About this yew. Brach. That tree? Vit. This harmless yew; They told me my intent was to root up That well-grown yew, and plant i' the stead of it A wither'd blackthorn; and for that they vow'd To bury me alive. My husband straight With pickaxe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchess With shovel, like a fury, voided out The earth and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methought I could not pray. Flam. No; the devil was in your dream. Vit. When to my rescue there arose, methought, A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm From that strong plant; And both were struck dead by that sacred yew, In that base shallow grave that was their due. Flam. Excellent devil! She hath taught him in a dream To make away his duchess and her husband. Brach. Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream. You are lodg'd within his arms who shall protect you From all the fevers of a jealous husband, From the poor envy of our phlegmatic duchess. I 'll seat you above law, and above scandal; Give to your thoughts the invention of delight, And the fruition; nor shall government Divide me from you longer, than a care To keep you great: you shall to me at once Be dukedom, health, wife, children, friends, and all. Corn. [Advancing.] Woe to light hearts, they still forerun our fall! Flam. What fury raised thee up? away, away. [Exit Zanche. Corn. What make you here, my lord, this dead of night? Never dropp'd mildew on a flower here till now. Flam. I pray, will you go to bed then, Lest you be blasted? Corn. O that this fair garden Had with all poison'd herbs of Thessaly At first been planted; made a nursery For witchcraft, rather than a burial plot For both your honours! Vit. Dearest mother, hear me. Corn. O, thou dost make my brow bend to the earth. Sooner than nature! See the curse of children! In life they keep us frequently in tears; And in the cold grave leave us in pale fears. Brach. Come, come, I will not hear you. Vit. Dear my lord. Corn. Where is thy duchess now, adulterous duke? Thou little dream'st this night she 's come to Rome. Flam. How! come to Rome! Vit. The duchess! Brach. She had been better---- Corn. The lives of princes should like dials move, Whose regular example is so strong, They make the times by them go right, or wrong. Flam. So, have you done? Corn. Unfortunate Camillo! Vit. I do protest, if any chaste denial, If anything but blood could have allay'd His long suit to me---- Corn. I will join with thee, To the most woeful end e'er mother kneel'd: If thou dishonour thus thy husband's bed, Be thy life short as are the funeral tears In great men's---- Brach. Fie, fie, the woman's mad. Corn. Be thy act Judas-like; betray in kissing: May'st thou be envied during his short breath, And pitied like a wretch after his death! Vit. O me accurs'd! [Exit. Flam. Are you out of your wits? my lord, I 'll fetch her back again. Brach. No, I 'll to bed: Send Doctor Julio to me presently. Uncharitable woman! thy rash tongue Hath rais'd a fearful and prodigious storm: Be thou the cause of all ensuing harm. [Exit. Flam. Now, you that stand so much upon your honour, Is this a fitting time a' night, think you, To send a duke home without e'er a man? I would fain know where lies the mass of wealth Which you have hoarded for my maintenance, That I may bear my bear out of the level Of my lord's stirrup. Corn. What! because we are poor Shall we be vicious? Flam. Pray, what means have you To keep me from the galleys, or the gallows? My father prov'd himself a gentleman, Sold all 's land, and, like a fortunate fellow, Died ere the money was spent. You brought me up At Padua, I confess, where I protest, For want of means--the University judge me-- I have been fain to heel my tutor's stockings, At least seven years; conspiring with a beard, Made me a graduate; then to this duke's service, I visited the court, whence I return'd More courteous, more lecherous by far, But not a suit the richer. And shall I, Having a path so open, and so free To my preferment, still retain your milk In my pale forehead? No, this face of mine I 'll arm, and fortify with lusty wine, 'Gainst shame and blushing. Corn. O that I ne'er had borne thee! Flam. So would I; I would the common'st courtesan in Rome Had been my mother, rather than thyself. Nature is very pitiful to whores, To give them but few children, yet those children Plurality of fathers; they are sure They shall not want. Go, go, Complain unto my great lord cardinal; It may be he will justify the act. Lycurgus wonder'd much, men would provide Good stallions for their mares, and yet would suffer Their fair wives to be barren. Corn. Misery of miseries! [Exit. Flam. The duchess come to court! I like not that. We are engag'd to mischief, and must on; As rivers to find out the ocean Flow with crook bendings beneath forced banks, Or as we see, to aspire some mountain's top, The way ascends not straight, but imitates The subtle foldings of a winter's snake, So who knows policy and her true aspect, Shall find her ways winding and indirect.

Act 1, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-1-scene-2

The Duke of Brachiano arrives at the residence of Vittoria Corombona and her husband, Camillo. He complains to Vittoria's brother, Flamineo , telling him that he's hopelessly in love with Vittoria. Flamineo assures the Duke that Vittoria's into him too. Flamineo and Vittoria's maid, Zanche, will arrange a meeting for them late at night. He also tells the Duke that women like Vittoria aren't really shy or scared of seduction--they're just acting like it to enflame the desires of their suitors. When Brachiano worries about Vittoria's husband, Flamineo tells him that Camillo is just a wimp who can't please a woman. He also tells him that he shouldn't be overly hot to get with Vittoria--men who are in marriage always want to get out of it, even though others want to get in. Camillo approaches, as Flamineo finishes mocking him . Brachiano exits. Flamineo chats with Camillo about his marriage, and Camillo admits his been preoccupied with voyaging and doesn't remember when he last slept with her. He says he always wakes up with a "flaw" between him and Vittoria whenever they do have sex. Camillo admits that he knows Brachiano is trying to seduce his wife. Flamineo tries to convince him differently, reminding him of his favorable horoscope, but Camillo's not buying it. Flamineo pretends to advise him in favor of locking up his wife. Camillo thinks this is good advice, but Flamineo reveals he was kidding--that's a sure way to get cuckolded, regardless of your wife's chastity. He should let Vittoria remain at liberty. None of Flamineo's jokes about cuckoldry make Camillo less anxious, though. Flamineo tries to tell him that his jealousy is like a pair of glasses that are designed to distort appearances--you see adultery everywhere. Vittoria enters. Flamineo tells her she should be nicer to Camillo and accept his entreaties--while constantly mocking him in asides to the audience. He talks Camillo up, saying that he'll lie with Vittoria in an extremely luxurious bed and give her the philosopher's stone and so on. But, craftily, Flamineo tells Camillo not to sleep with Vittoria tonight--he needs to make her wait, so she'll be more eager. Camillo agrees, and tells Vittoria he needs to wait a night, like a silkworm, to spin a finer thread. He thinks this is a witty remark, and leaves. The maid, Zanche, prepares the cushions for Vittoria's midnight rendezvous with Brachiano. Brachiano arrives and confesses his love to Vittoria--she seems very receptive. But, all the while, Vittoria and Flamineo's mother, Cornelia, is listening in. Vittoria and Brachiano talk about exchanging jewels, in a somewhat sexually charged moment. Then, Vittoria tells Brachiano about a dream she had: in the dream, she's crying under a yew tree in a cemetery. Her husband, Camillo, and the Duke's wife, Isabella, come along and accuse her of trying to uproot the yew tree and replace it with an evil blackthorn. They try to bury her alive, but a whirlwind comes along and knocks over the yew, killing them and burying them in the grave they've been digging. Flamineo remarks aside that Vittoria is suggesting to the Duke that he murder her husband and his wife, in a veiled way.The Duke promises to "protect" Vittoria from them, and promises that she'll be everything to him. Cornelia steps into view and angrily accuses Vittoria and the Duke of adultery. . Vittoria plays innocent, and the Duke tries to speak, but Cornelia condemns the Duke for setting a terrible example, and curses her daughter--wishing her a short life if she betrays her husband. Vittoria feels cursed and exits. Brachiano, angry with Cornelia, leaves--but tells Flamineo to send Doctor Julio to him. Flamineo complains about how Cornelia interrupted his boss, the Duke--which reflects badly on Flamineo. Cornelia says that just because they're poor doesn't mean they need to be vicious--deceitful and murderous. Flamineo says he's just trying to get rich, to add to the fortune his dead father left him, and doesn't need any of her moral qualms. He's made of tougher stuff. Cornelia wishes she'd never given birth to him, and Flamineo wishes he'd had a prostitute for a mother so he would've had multiple presumed dads to take care of him. He tells her to go tell the cardinal about what's going on if she feels so bad. Cornelia exits. Alone, Flamineo complains that the duchess has come to court. But, he says, they need to continue their mischief--using the twisting manipulations of a snake, they'll eventually get what they want.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/23042-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Tempest/section_9_part_0.txt

The Tempest.act 5

epilogue

{"name": "Epilogue", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151049/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-tempest/summary-and-analysis/act-v-epilogue", "summary": "Prospero, who is now alone on stage, requests that the audience free him. He states that he has thrown away his magic and pardoned those who have injured him. Now he requires that the audience release him from the island, which has been his prison so that he might return to Naples. The audience's applause will be the signal that he is freed. Prospero indicates that his forgiveness of his former enemies is what all men crave. With the audience's applause, Prospero leaves the stage.", "analysis": "The Epilogue is often used to tie up loose ends and clarify any issues that remain unresolved. However, this epilogue does not provide the answers that the audience might expect. For instance, the audience never learns what is to become of Caliban or what will happen to Antonio and Sebastian. Few scholars ponder such questions. Instead, there has been a great deal of speculation on whether Prospero's farewell to magic is intended to announce Shakespeare's retirement from the stage. When Prospero asks the audience to free him from his imprisonment, is it instead the voice of Shakespeare asking the audience to free him from his craft? Certainly, there are parallels between Prospero and Shakespeare to consider. Both are manipulators; Prospero manipulates everyone on the island, and Shakespeare manipulates the characters he creates and the plots he devises. Both create entertainment, Prospero the masque and Shakespeare his plays, and both are intent on retiring. It is easy to look at Prospero's words and imagine Shakespeare mouthing them as he retires from the stage. But such parallels do not necessarily reveal how the author was, could be, or wants to be. The words on the page, or now spoken before an audience, do not tell the author's intentions or tone. To attribute Prospero's words to Shakespeare's own life may be a fallacy. After the completion of Prospero's story, Shakespeare did continue to write, composing parts of three more plays. It would be unwise to focus solely on The Tempest as somehow representative of Shakespeare's farewell to the stage and thus overlook the many other important strengths of the play."}

EPILOGUE. SPOKEN BY PROSPERO. Now my charms are all o'erthrown, And what strength I have's mine own, Which is most faint: now, 'tis true, I must be here confined by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not, 5 Since I have my dukedom got, And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell; But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands: 10 Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair, 15 Unless I be relieved by prayer, Which pierces so, that it assaults Mercy itself, and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free. 20 Notes: Epilogue. EPILOGUE ... PROSPERO.] advancing, Capell.] 1: _Now_] _Now, now_ F3 F4. 3: _now_] _and now_ Pope. 13: _Now_] _For now_ Pope. NOTES. NOTE I. I. 1. 15. _What cares these roarers._ This grammatical inaccuracy, which escaped correction in the later folios, probably came from Shakespeare's pen. Similar cases occur frequently, especially when the verb precedes its nominative. For example, _Tempest_, IV. 1. 262, 'Lies at my mercy all mine enemies,' and _Measure for Measure_, II. 1. 22, 'What knows the laws, &c.' We correct it in those passages where the occurrence of a vulgarism would be likely to annoy the reader. In the mouth of a Boatswain it can offend no one. We therefore leave it. NOTE II. I. 1. 57-59. _Mercy on us!--we split, &c._ It may be doubtful whether the printer of the first folio intended these broken speeches to express 'a confused noise within.' Without question such was the author's meaning. Rowe, however, and subsequent editors, printed them as part of Gonzalo's speech. Capell was the first editor who gave the true arrangement. NOTE III. I. 2. 173. _princesses._ See Mr Sidney Walker's _Shakespeare's Versification_, p. 243 sqq. 'The plurals of substantives ending in _s_, in certain instances, in _se_, _ss_, _ce_, and sometimes _ge_, ... are found without the usual addition of _s_ or _es_, in pronunciation at least, although in many instances the plural affix is added in printing, where the metre shows that it is not to be pronounced.' In this and other instances, we have thought it better to trust to the ear of the reader for the rhythm than to introduce an innovation in orthography which might perplex him as to the sense. The form 'princesses,' the use of which in Shakespeare's time was doubted by one of our correspondents, is found in the _History of King Leir_. Rowe's reading 'princes' might be defended on the ground that the sentiment is general, and applicable to royal children of both sexes; or that Sir Philip Sidney, in the first book of the _Arcadia_, calls Pamela and Philoclea 'princes.' NOTE IV. I. 2. 298. The metre of this line, as well as of lines 301, 302, is defective, but as no mode of correction can be regarded as completely satisfactory we have in accordance with our custom left the lines as they are printed in the Folio. The defect, indeed, in the metre of line 298 has not been noticed except by Hanmer, who makes a line thus: 'Do so, and after two days I'll discharge thee.' Possibly it ought to be printed thus: 'Do so; and After two days I will discharge thee.' There is a broken line, also of four syllables, 253 of the same scene, another of seven, 235. There is no reason to doubt that the _words_ are as Shakespeare wrote them, for, although the action of the play terminates in less than four hours (I. 2. 240 and V. 1. 186), yet Ariel's ministry is not to end till the voyage to Naples shall be over. Prospero, too, repeats his promise, and marks his contentment by further shortening the time of servitude, 'within two days,' I. 2. 420. Possibly 'Invisible' (301) should have a line to itself. Words thus occupying a broken line acquire a marked emphasis. But the truth is that in dialogue Shakespeare's language passes so rapidly from verse to prose and from prose to verse, sometimes even hovering, as it were, over the confines, being rhythmical rather than metrical, that all attempts to give regularity to the metre must be made with diffidence and received with doubt. NOTE V. I. 2. 377, 378: _Courtsied when you have and kiss'd_ _The wild waves whist._ This punctuation seems to be supported by what Ferdinand says (391, 392): 'The music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion, &c.' At the end of the stanza we have printed _Hark, hark! ... The watch-dogs bark_ as that part of the burthen which 'sweet sprites bear.' The other part is borne by distant watch-dogs. NOTE VI. I. 2. 443. _I fear you have done yourself some wrong._ See this phrase used in a similar sense, _Measure for Measure_, I. 11. 39. NOTE VII. II. 1. 27. _Which, of he or Adrian._ 'Of' is found in the same construction, _Midsummer Night's Dream_, III. 2. 336, 'Now follow if thou darest to try whose right, Of thine or mine, is most in Helena.' NOTE VIII. II. 1. 157. _Of its own kind._ There is no doubt, as Dr Guest has shewn, that 'it,' which is the reading of the 1st and 2nd folios, was commonly used as a genitive in Shakespeare's time, as it is still in some provincial dialects. 'Its,' however, was coming into use. One instance occurs in this play, I. 11. 95, 'in its contrary.' NOTE IX. II. 1. 241. _she that from whom._ Mr Spedding writes: 'The received emendation is not satisfactory to me. I would rather read, "She that--From whom? All were sea-swallow'd &c., i.e. from whom should she have note? The report from Naples will be that all were drowned. We shall be the only survivors." The break in the construction seems to me characteristic of the speaker. But you must read the whole speech to feel the effect.' NOTE X. II. 1. 249-251. All editors except Mr Staunton have printed in italics (or between inverted commas) only as far as '_Naples?_', but as '_keep_' is printed with a small k in the folios, they seem to sanction the arrangement given in our text. NOTE XI. II. 1. 267. _Ay, sir; where lies that? if 'twere a kibe._ Mr Singer and Mr Dyce have changed ''twere' to 'it were' for the sake of the metre. But then the first part of the line must be read with a wrong emphasis. The proper emphasis clearly falls on the first, third, and fifth syllables, 'AY, sir; WHERE lies THAT?' See Preface. NOTE XII. II. 2. 165. Before 'here; bear my bottle' Capell inserts a stage direction [_To Cal._], but it appears from III. 2. 62, that Trinculo was entrusted with the office of bottle-bearer. NOTE XIII. III. 1. 15. _Most busy lest, when I do it._ As none of the proposed emendations can be regarded as certain, we have left the reading of F1, though it is manifestly corrupt. The spelling 'doe' makes Mr Spedding's conjecture 'idlest' for 'I doe it' more probable. NOTE XIV. III. 3. 17. The stage direction, which we have divided into two parts, is placed all at once in the folios after 'as when they are fresh' [Solemne and strange Musicke; and Prosper on the top (invisible:) Enter ... depart]. Pope transferred it to follow Sebastian's words, 'I say, to night: no more.' NOTE XV. III. 3. 48. _Each putter out of five for one._ See Beaumont and Fletcher, _The Noble Gentleman_, I. 1. (Vol. II. p. 261, ed. Moxon): 'The return will give you five for one.' MARINE is about to travel. NOTE XVI. IV. 1. 146. _You do look, my son, in a moved sort._ Seymour suggests a transposition: 'you do, my son, look in a moved sort.' This line however can scarcely have come from Shakespeare's pen. Perhaps the writer who composed the Masque was allowed to join it, as best he might, to Shakespeare's words, which re-commence at 'Our revels now are ended,' &c. NOTE XVII. IV. 1. 230. _Let's alone._ See Staunton's "Shakespeare," Vol. I. p. 81, note (b). NOTE XVIII. V. 1. 309. _Of these our dear-beloved solemnized._ The Folios have 'belov'd'; a mode of spelling, which in this case is convenient as indicating the probable rhythm of the verse. We have written 'beloved,' in accordance with the general rule mentioned in the Preface. 'Solemnized' occurs in four other verse passages of Shakespeare. It is three times to be accented 'SOlemnized' and once (_Love's Labour's Lost_, II. 1. 41) 'soLEMnized.' * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Sources: The editors' Preface (e-text 23041) discusses the 17th- and 18th-century editions in detail; the newer (19th-century) editions are simply listed by name. The following editions may appear in the Notes. All inset text is quoted from the Preface. Folios: F1 1623; F2 (no date given); F3 1663; F4 1685. "The five plays contained in this volume occur in the first Folio in the same order, and ... were there printed for the first time." Early editions: Rowe 1709 Pope 1715 "Pope was the first to indicate the _place_ of each new scene; as, for instance, _Tempest_, I. 1. 'On a ship at sea.' He also subdivided the scenes as given by the Folios and Rowe, making a fresh scene whenever a new character entered--an arrangement followed by Hanmer, Warburton, and Johnson. For convenience of reference to these editions, we have always recorded the commencement of Pope's scenes." Theobald 1733 Hanmer ("Oxford edition") 1744 Warburton 1747 Johnson 1765 Capell 1768; _also Capell's annotated copy of F2_ Steevens 1773 Malone 1790 Reed 1803 Later editions: Singer, Knight, Cornwall, Collier, Phelps, Halliwell, Dyce, Staunton Dryden: "_The Tempest_ was altered by Dryden and D'Avenant, and published as _The Tempest; or the Enchanted Island_, in 1669. We mark the emendations derived from it: 'Dryden's version.'" Errors and inconsistencies: _Re-enter Boatswain._ [printed BOATSWAIN in small capitals] _Enter _Ariel_._ [printed "Ariel" in lower case] Where my son lies. When did you lose you daughter? [Text unchanged: error for "your"?] [Text-critical notes] I. 2. 135: _to 't_] om. Steevens (Farmer conj.). [Here and elsewhere in the volume, body text has unspaced "to't" while line notes have spaced "to 't".] I. 2. 202: _o' the_] _of_ Pope. [Text unchanged: body text is capitalized "O' the"] II. 1. 88: _Ay._] I. Ff. _Ay?_ Pope. [Text unchanged: apparent error for italic _I._] III. 3. 17: Prospero above] [Text unchanged: stage direction is after l. 19] [Endnotes] I: I. 1. 15. [I. 1. 16] V: 377, 378. [376-377] XVI: IV. 1. 146 [IV. 1. 147]

Epilogue

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151049/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-tempest/summary-and-analysis/act-v-epilogue

Prospero, who is now alone on stage, requests that the audience free him. He states that he has thrown away his magic and pardoned those who have injured him. Now he requires that the audience release him from the island, which has been his prison so that he might return to Naples. The audience's applause will be the signal that he is freed. Prospero indicates that his forgiveness of his former enemies is what all men crave. With the audience's applause, Prospero leaves the stage.

The Epilogue is often used to tie up loose ends and clarify any issues that remain unresolved. However, this epilogue does not provide the answers that the audience might expect. For instance, the audience never learns what is to become of Caliban or what will happen to Antonio and Sebastian. Few scholars ponder such questions. Instead, there has been a great deal of speculation on whether Prospero's farewell to magic is intended to announce Shakespeare's retirement from the stage. When Prospero asks the audience to free him from his imprisonment, is it instead the voice of Shakespeare asking the audience to free him from his craft? Certainly, there are parallels between Prospero and Shakespeare to consider. Both are manipulators; Prospero manipulates everyone on the island, and Shakespeare manipulates the characters he creates and the plots he devises. Both create entertainment, Prospero the masque and Shakespeare his plays, and both are intent on retiring. It is easy to look at Prospero's words and imagine Shakespeare mouthing them as he retires from the stage. But such parallels do not necessarily reveal how the author was, could be, or wants to be. The words on the page, or now spoken before an audience, do not tell the author's intentions or tone. To attribute Prospero's words to Shakespeare's own life may be a fallacy. After the completion of Prospero's story, Shakespeare did continue to write, composing parts of three more plays. It would be unwise to focus solely on The Tempest as somehow representative of Shakespeare's farewell to the stage and thus overlook the many other important strengths of the play.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/42.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_41_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 42

chapter 42

{"name": "Chapter 42", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-42", "summary": "The workhouse had a small rear door three or four feet from the ground. Here, at about three o'clock, a bright wagon containing flowers drew up. Joseph Poorgrass backed the wagon to the door, and a plain coffin was lifted into it. A man wrote on the coffin with chalk, then covered it with a worn black cloth, and someone handed Joseph a certificate. He placed the flowers over the coffin and drove off. A heavy mist was falling, and gray gloom and quiet enveloped the wagon. Passing through Roy-Town, Joseph came to Buck's Head Inn, a mile and a half from his destination. With great relief, he stopped at the inn. There, to his delight, were \"two coppercoloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the most appreciative throats in the neighborhood, within the pale of respectability,\" hailed him as he entered. Joseph explained that his peaked look was caused by the load he was driving. They drank, and drank again. Joseph said he had to be at the churchyard at a quarter to five, but the men went on discussing life, death, and theology. Poorgrass grew less concerned with time. As the clock struck six, Oak arrived. He reproved the men, but, with drunken logic, Coggan explained that all the hurrying in the world couldn't help a dead woman. Joseph was now singing. He denied being drunk but said his malady of a \"multiplying eye\" had caught up with him. Oak drove the wagon back, reflecting on the rumor that Fanny had run away to follow a soldier. Due to Oak's and Boldwood's tact, Troy had not been identified as the man, and Oak hoped the secret would be kept. When Gabriel reached Bathsheba's house, it was too late for the burial, and so Bathsheba ordered the coffin brought into the house, for to leave it in the coach-house seemed unfeeling. Troy had not yet returned. Oak and three other men carried the coffin in, Gabriel lingered on alone, overcome by the irony of it all, and looked again at the writing on the lid. The scrawl said simply, \"Fanny Robin and child.\" He took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the last two words, leaving visible only the inscription \"Fanny Robin.\"", "analysis": "Even in death it seems that there can be no rest for Fanny. In her coffin, she still travels the roads of Wessex. Appropriately, it is Oak who comes to her aid in death, just as he once did in life; and, finally, her body is given lodging within a house. Though their behavior seems rather callous, the men at the inn are merely accepting Fanny's death as the will of Nature. These people, instinctively close to Nature, accept the results of her actions without question."}

JOSEPH AND HIS BURDEN--BUCK'S HEAD A wall bounded the site of Casterbridge Union-house, except along a portion of the end. Here a high gable stood prominent, and it was covered like the front with a mat of ivy. In this gable was no window, chimney, ornament, or protuberance of any kind. The single feature appertaining to it, beyond the expanse of dark green leaves, was a small door. The situation of the door was peculiar. The sill was three or four feet above the ground, and for a moment one was at a loss for an explanation of this exceptional altitude, till ruts immediately beneath suggested that the door was used solely for the passage of articles and persons to and from the level of a vehicle standing on the outside. Upon the whole, the door seemed to advertise itself as a species of Traitor's Gate translated to another sphere. That entry and exit hereby was only at rare intervals became apparent on noting that tufts of grass were allowed to flourish undisturbed in the chinks of the sill. As the clock over the South-street Alms-house pointed to five minutes to three, a blue spring waggon, picked out with red, and containing boughs and flowers, passed the end of the street, and up towards this side of the building. Whilst the chimes were yet stammering out a shattered form of "Malbrook," Joseph Poorgrass rang the bell, and received directions to back his waggon against the high door under the gable. The door then opened, and a plain elm coffin was slowly thrust forth, and laid by two men in fustian along the middle of the vehicle. One of the men then stepped up beside it, took from his pocket a lump of chalk, and wrote upon the cover the name and a few other words in a large scrawling hand. (We believe that they do these things more tenderly now, and provide a plate.) He covered the whole with a black cloth, threadbare, but decent, the tail-board of the waggon was returned to its place, one of the men handed a certificate of registry to Poorgrass, and both entered the door, closing it behind them. Their connection with her, short as it had been, was over for ever. Joseph then placed the flowers as enjoined, and the evergreens around the flowers, till it was difficult to divine what the waggon contained; he smacked his whip, and the rather pleasing funeral car crept down the hill, and along the road to Weatherbury. The afternoon drew on apace, and, looking to the right towards the sea as he walked beside the horse, Poorgrass saw strange clouds and scrolls of mist rolling over the long ridges which girt the landscape in that quarter. They came in yet greater volumes, and indolently crept across the intervening valleys, and around the withered papery flags of the moor and river brinks. Then their dank spongy forms closed in upon the sky. It was a sudden overgrowth of atmospheric fungi which had their roots in the neighbouring sea, and by the time that horse, man, and corpse entered Yalbury Great Wood, these silent workings of an invisible hand had reached them, and they were completely enveloped, this being the first arrival of the autumn fogs, and the first fog of the series. The air was as an eye suddenly struck blind. The waggon and its load rolled no longer on the horizontal division between clearness and opacity, but were imbedded in an elastic body of a monotonous pallor throughout. There was no perceptible motion in the air, not a visible drop of water fell upon a leaf of the beeches, birches, and firs composing the wood on either side. The trees stood in an attitude of intentness, as if they waited longingly for a wind to come and rock them. A startling quiet overhung all surrounding things--so completely, that the crunching of the waggon-wheels was as a great noise, and small rustles, which had never obtained a hearing except by night, were distinctly individualized. Joseph Poorgrass looked round upon his sad burden as it loomed faintly through the flowering laurustinus, then at the unfathomable gloom amid the high trees on each hand, indistinct, shadowless, and spectre-like in their monochrome of grey. He felt anything but cheerful, and wished he had the company even of a child or dog. Stopping the horse, he listened. Not a footstep or wheel was audible anywhere around, and the dead silence was broken only by a heavy particle falling from a tree through the evergreens and alighting with a smart rap upon the coffin of poor Fanny. The fog had by this time saturated the trees, and this was the first dropping of water from the overbrimming leaves. The hollow echo of its fall reminded the waggoner painfully of the grim Leveller. Then hard by came down another drop, then two or three. Presently there was a continual tapping of these heavy drops upon the dead leaves, the road, and the travellers. The nearer boughs were beaded with the mist to the greyness of aged men, and the rusty-red leaves of the beeches were hung with similar drops, like diamonds on auburn hair. At the roadside hamlet called Roy-Town, just beyond this wood, was the old inn Buck's Head. It was about a mile and a half from Weatherbury, and in the meridian times of stage-coach travelling had been the place where many coaches changed and kept their relays of horses. All the old stabling was now pulled down, and little remained besides the habitable inn itself, which, standing a little way back from the road, signified its existence to people far up and down the highway by a sign hanging from the horizontal bough of an elm on the opposite side of the way. Travellers--for the variety _tourist_ had hardly developed into a distinct species at this date--sometimes said in passing, when they cast their eyes up to the sign-bearing tree, that artists were fond of representing the signboard hanging thus, but that they themselves had never before noticed so perfect an instance in actual working order. It was near this tree that the waggon was standing into which Gabriel Oak crept on his first journey to Weatherbury; but, owing to the darkness, the sign and the inn had been unobserved. The manners of the inn were of the old-established type. Indeed, in the minds of its frequenters they existed as unalterable formulae: _e.g._-- Rap with the bottom of your pint for more liquor. For tobacco, shout. In calling for the girl in waiting, say, "Maid!" Ditto for the landlady, "Old Soul!" etc., etc. It was a relief to Joseph's heart when the friendly signboard came in view, and, stopping his horse immediately beneath it, he proceeded to fulfil an intention made a long time before. His spirits were oozing out of him quite. He turned the horse's head to the green bank, and entered the hostel for a mug of ale. Going down into the kitchen of the inn, the floor of which was a step below the passage, which in its turn was a step below the road outside, what should Joseph see to gladden his eyes but two copper-coloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the two most appreciative throats in the neighbourhood, within the pale of respectability, were now sitting face to face over a three-legged circular table, having an iron rim to keep cups and pots from being accidentally elbowed off; they might have been said to resemble the setting sun and the full moon shining _vis-a-vis_ across the globe. "Why, 'tis neighbour Poorgrass!" said Mark Clark. "I'm sure your face don't praise your mistress's table, Joseph." "I've had a very pale companion for the last four miles," said Joseph, indulging in a shudder toned down by resignation. "And to speak the truth, 'twas beginning to tell upon me. I assure ye, I ha'n't seed the colour of victuals or drink since breakfast time this morning, and that was no more than a dew-bit afield." "Then drink, Joseph, and don't restrain yourself!" said Coggan, handing him a hooped mug three-quarters full. Joseph drank for a moderately long time, then for a longer time, saying, as he lowered the jug, "'Tis pretty drinking--very pretty drinking, and is more than cheerful on my melancholy errand, so to speak it." "True, drink is a pleasant delight," said Jan, as one who repeated a truism so familiar to his brain that he hardly noticed its passage over his tongue; and, lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his head gradually backwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soul might not be diverted for one instant from its bliss by irrelevant surroundings. "Well, I must be on again," said Poorgrass. "Not but that I should like another nip with ye; but the parish might lose confidence in me if I was seed here." "Where be ye trading o't to to-day, then, Joseph?" "Back to Weatherbury. I've got poor little Fanny Robin in my waggon outside, and I must be at the churchyard gates at a quarter to five with her." "Ay--I've heard of it. And so she's nailed up in parish boards after all, and nobody to pay the bell shilling and the grave half-crown." "The parish pays the grave half-crown, but not the bell shilling, because the bell's a luxery: but 'a can hardly do without the grave, poor body. However, I expect our mistress will pay all." "A pretty maid as ever I see! But what's yer hurry, Joseph? The pore woman's dead, and you can't bring her to life, and you may as well sit down comfortable, and finish another with us." "I don't mind taking just the least thimbleful ye can dream of more with ye, sonnies. But only a few minutes, because 'tis as 'tis." "Of course, you'll have another drop. A man's twice the man afterwards. You feel so warm and glorious, and you whop and slap at your work without any trouble, and everything goes on like sticks a-breaking. Too much liquor is bad, and leads us to that horned man in the smoky house; but after all, many people haven't the gift of enjoying a wet, and since we be highly favoured with a power that way, we should make the most o't." "True," said Mark Clark. "'Tis a talent the Lord has mercifully bestowed upon us, and we ought not to neglect it. But, what with the parsons and clerks and school-people and serious tea-parties, the merry old ways of good life have gone to the dogs--upon my carcase, they have!" "Well, really, I must be onward again now," said Joseph. "Now, now, Joseph; nonsense! The poor woman is dead, isn't she, and what's your hurry?" "Well, I hope Providence won't be in a way with me for my doings," said Joseph, again sitting down. "I've been troubled with weak moments lately, 'tis true. I've been drinky once this month already, and I did not go to church a-Sunday, and I dropped a curse or two yesterday; so I don't want to go too far for my safety. Your next world is your next world, and not to be squandered offhand." "I believe ye to be a chapelmember, Joseph. That I do." "Oh, no, no! I don't go so far as that." "For my part," said Coggan, "I'm staunch Church of England." "Ay, and faith, so be I," said Mark Clark. "I won't say much for myself; I don't wish to," Coggan continued, with that tendency to talk on principles which is characteristic of the barley-corn. "But I've never changed a single doctrine: I've stuck like a plaster to the old faith I was born in. Yes; there's this to be said for the Church, a man can belong to the Church and bide in his cheerful old inn, and never trouble or worry his mind about doctrines at all. But to be a meetinger, you must go to chapel in all winds and weathers, and make yerself as frantic as a skit. Not but that chapel members be clever chaps enough in their way. They can lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads, all about their families and shipwrecks in the newspaper." "They can--they can," said Mark Clark, with corroborative feeling; "but we Churchmen, you see, must have it all printed aforehand, or, dang it all, we should no more know what to say to a great gaffer like the Lord than babes unborn." "Chapelfolk be more hand-in-glove with them above than we," said Joseph, thoughtfully. "Yes," said Coggan. "We know very well that if anybody do go to heaven, they will. They've worked hard for it, and they deserve to have it, such as 'tis. I bain't such a fool as to pretend that we who stick to the Church have the same chance as they, because we know we have not. But I hate a feller who'll change his old ancient doctrines for the sake of getting to heaven. I'd as soon turn king's-evidence for the few pounds you get. Why, neighbours, when every one of my taties were frosted, our Parson Thirdly were the man who gave me a sack for seed, though he hardly had one for his own use, and no money to buy 'em. If it hadn't been for him, I shouldn't hae had a tatie to put in my garden. D'ye think I'd turn after that? No, I'll stick to my side; and if we be in the wrong, so be it: I'll fall with the fallen!" "Well said--very well said," observed Joseph.--"However, folks, I must be moving now: upon my life I must. Pa'son Thirdly will be waiting at the church gates, and there's the woman a-biding outside in the waggon." "Joseph Poorgrass, don't be so miserable! Pa'son Thirdly won't mind. He's a generous man; he's found me in tracts for years, and I've consumed a good many in the course of a long and shady life; but he's never been the man to cry out at the expense. Sit down." The longer Joseph Poorgrass remained, the less his spirit was troubled by the duties which devolved upon him this afternoon. The minutes glided by uncounted, until the evening shades began perceptibly to deepen, and the eyes of the three were but sparkling points on the surface of darkness. Coggan's repeater struck six from his pocket in the usual still small tones. At that moment hasty steps were heard in the entry, and the door opened to admit the figure of Gabriel Oak, followed by the maid of the inn bearing a candle. He stared sternly at the one lengthy and two round faces of the sitters, which confronted him with the expressions of a fiddle and a couple of warming-pans. Joseph Poorgrass blinked, and shrank several inches into the background. "Upon my soul, I'm ashamed of you; 'tis disgraceful, Joseph, disgraceful!" said Gabriel, indignantly. "Coggan, you call yourself a man, and don't know better than this." Coggan looked up indefinitely at Oak, one or other of his eyes occasionally opening and closing of its own accord, as if it were not a member, but a dozy individual with a distinct personality. "Don't take on so, shepherd!" said Mark Clark, looking reproachfully at the candle, which appeared to possess special features of interest for his eyes. "Nobody can hurt a dead woman," at length said Coggan, with the precision of a machine. "All that could be done for her is done--she's beyond us: and why should a man put himself in a tearing hurry for lifeless clay that can neither feel nor see, and don't know what you do with her at all? If she'd been alive, I would have been the first to help her. If she now wanted victuals and drink, I'd pay for it, money down. But she's dead, and no speed of ours will bring her to life. The woman's past us--time spent upon her is throwed away: why should we hurry to do what's not required? Drink, shepherd, and be friends, for to-morrow we may be like her." "We may," added Mark Clark, emphatically, at once drinking himself, to run no further risk of losing his chance by the event alluded to, Jan meanwhile merging his additional thoughts of to-morrow in a song:-- To-mor-row, to-mor-row! And while peace and plen-ty I find at my board, With a heart free from sick-ness and sor-row, With my friends will I share what to-day may af-ford, And let them spread the ta-ble to-mor-row. To-mor-row', to-mor-- "Do hold thy horning, Jan!" said Oak; and turning upon Poorgrass, "as for you, Joseph, who do your wicked deeds in such confoundedly holy ways, you are as drunk as you can stand." "No, Shepherd Oak, no! Listen to reason, shepherd. All that's the matter with me is the affliction called a multiplying eye, and that's how it is I look double to you--I mean, you look double to me." "A multiplying eye is a very bad thing," said Mark Clark. "It always comes on when I have been in a public-house a little time," said Joseph Poorgrass, meekly. "Yes; I see two of every sort, as if I were some holy man living in the times of King Noah and entering into the ark.... Y-y-y-yes," he added, becoming much affected by the picture of himself as a person thrown away, and shedding tears; "I feel too good for England: I ought to have lived in Genesis by rights, like the other men of sacrifice, and then I shouldn't have b-b-been called a d-d-drunkard in such a way!" "I wish you'd show yourself a man of spirit, and not sit whining there!" "Show myself a man of spirit? ... Ah, well! let me take the name of drunkard humbly--let me be a man of contrite knees--let it be! I know that I always do say 'Please God' afore I do anything, from my getting up to my going down of the same, and I be willing to take as much disgrace as there is in that holy act. Hah, yes! ... But not a man of spirit? Have I ever allowed the toe of pride to be lifted against my hinder parts without groaning manfully that I question the right to do so? I inquire that query boldly?" "We can't say that you have, Hero Poorgrass," admitted Jan. "Never have I allowed such treatment to pass unquestioned! Yet the shepherd says in the face of that rich testimony that I be not a man of spirit! Well, let it pass by, and death is a kind friend!" Gabriel, seeing that neither of the three was in a fit state to take charge of the waggon for the remainder of the journey, made no reply, but, closing the door again upon them, went across to where the vehicle stood, now getting indistinct in the fog and gloom of this mildewy time. He pulled the horse's head from the large patch of turf it had eaten bare, readjusted the boughs over the coffin, and drove along through the unwholesome night. It had gradually become rumoured in the village that the body to be brought and buried that day was all that was left of the unfortunate Fanny Robin who had followed the Eleventh from Casterbridge through Melchester and onwards. But, thanks to Boldwood's reticence and Oak's generosity, the lover she had followed had never been individualized as Troy. Gabriel hoped that the whole truth of the matter might not be published till at any rate the girl had been in her grave for a few days, when the interposing barriers of earth and time, and a sense that the events had been somewhat shut into oblivion, would deaden the sting that revelation and invidious remark would have for Bathsheba just now. By the time that Gabriel reached the old manor-house, her residence, which lay in his way to the church, it was quite dark. A man came from the gate and said through the fog, which hung between them like blown flour-- "Is that Poorgrass with the corpse?" Gabriel recognized the voice as that of the parson. "The corpse is here, sir," said Gabriel. "I have just been to inquire of Mrs. Troy if she could tell me the reason of the delay. I am afraid it is too late now for the funeral to be performed with proper decency. Have you the registrar's certificate?" "No," said Gabriel. "I expect Poorgrass has that; and he's at the Buck's Head. I forgot to ask him for it." "Then that settles the matter. We'll put off the funeral till to-morrow morning. The body may be brought on to the church, or it may be left here at the farm and fetched by the bearers in the morning. They waited more than an hour, and have now gone home." Gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latter a most objectionable plan, notwithstanding that Fanny had been an inmate of the farm-house for several years in the lifetime of Bathsheba's uncle. Visions of several unhappy contingencies which might arise from this delay flitted before him. But his will was not law, and he went indoors to inquire of his mistress what were her wishes on the subject. He found her in an unusual mood: her eyes as she looked up to him were suspicious and perplexed as with some antecedent thought. Troy had not yet returned. At first Bathsheba assented with a mien of indifference to his proposition that they should go on to the church at once with their burden; but immediately afterwards, following Gabriel to the gate, she swerved to the extreme of solicitousness on Fanny's account, and desired that the girl might be brought into the house. Oak argued upon the convenience of leaving her in the waggon, just as she lay now, with her flowers and green leaves about her, merely wheeling the vehicle into the coach-house till the morning, but to no purpose. "It is unkind and unchristian," she said, "to leave the poor thing in a coach-house all night." "Very well, then," said the parson. "And I will arrange that the funeral shall take place early to-morrow. Perhaps Mrs. Troy is right in feeling that we cannot treat a dead fellow-creature too thoughtfully. We must remember that though she may have erred grievously in leaving her home, she is still our sister: and it is to be believed that God's uncovenanted mercies are extended towards her, and that she is a member of the flock of Christ." The parson's words spread into the heavy air with a sad yet unperturbed cadence, and Gabriel shed an honest tear. Bathsheba seemed unmoved. Mr. Thirdly then left them, and Gabriel lighted a lantern. Fetching three other men to assist him, they bore the unconscious truant indoors, placing the coffin on two benches in the middle of a little sitting-room next the hall, as Bathsheba directed. Every one except Gabriel Oak then left the room. He still indecisively lingered beside the body. He was deeply troubled at the wretchedly ironical aspect that circumstances were putting on with regard to Troy's wife, and at his own powerlessness to counteract them. In spite of his careful manoeuvering all this day, the very worst event that could in any way have happened in connection with the burial had happened now. Oak imagined a terrible discovery resulting from this afternoon's work that might cast over Bathsheba's life a shade which the interposition of many lapsing years might but indifferently lighten, and which nothing at all might altogether remove. Suddenly, as in a last attempt to save Bathsheba from, at any rate, immediate anguish, he looked again, as he had looked before, at the chalk writing upon the coffin-lid. The scrawl was this simple one, "FANNY ROBIN AND CHILD." Gabriel took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the two latter words, leaving visible the inscription "FANNY ROBIN" only. He then left the room, and went out quietly by the front door.

Chapter 42

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-42

The workhouse had a small rear door three or four feet from the ground. Here, at about three o'clock, a bright wagon containing flowers drew up. Joseph Poorgrass backed the wagon to the door, and a plain coffin was lifted into it. A man wrote on the coffin with chalk, then covered it with a worn black cloth, and someone handed Joseph a certificate. He placed the flowers over the coffin and drove off. A heavy mist was falling, and gray gloom and quiet enveloped the wagon. Passing through Roy-Town, Joseph came to Buck's Head Inn, a mile and a half from his destination. With great relief, he stopped at the inn. There, to his delight, were "two coppercoloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the most appreciative throats in the neighborhood, within the pale of respectability," hailed him as he entered. Joseph explained that his peaked look was caused by the load he was driving. They drank, and drank again. Joseph said he had to be at the churchyard at a quarter to five, but the men went on discussing life, death, and theology. Poorgrass grew less concerned with time. As the clock struck six, Oak arrived. He reproved the men, but, with drunken logic, Coggan explained that all the hurrying in the world couldn't help a dead woman. Joseph was now singing. He denied being drunk but said his malady of a "multiplying eye" had caught up with him. Oak drove the wagon back, reflecting on the rumor that Fanny had run away to follow a soldier. Due to Oak's and Boldwood's tact, Troy had not been identified as the man, and Oak hoped the secret would be kept. When Gabriel reached Bathsheba's house, it was too late for the burial, and so Bathsheba ordered the coffin brought into the house, for to leave it in the coach-house seemed unfeeling. Troy had not yet returned. Oak and three other men carried the coffin in, Gabriel lingered on alone, overcome by the irony of it all, and looked again at the writing on the lid. The scrawl said simply, "Fanny Robin and child." He took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the last two words, leaving visible only the inscription "Fanny Robin."

Even in death it seems that there can be no rest for Fanny. In her coffin, she still travels the roads of Wessex. Appropriately, it is Oak who comes to her aid in death, just as he once did in life; and, finally, her body is given lodging within a house. Though their behavior seems rather callous, the men at the inn are merely accepting Fanny's death as the will of Nature. These people, instinctively close to Nature, accept the results of her actions without question.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/05.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_0_part_5.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 5

chapter 5

{"name": "Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-1-chapters-1-11", "summary": "Distress looms in the distance because of the death of the horse. Joan Durbeyfield tells Tess about Mrs. d'Urberville living on the outskirts of The Chase, and tells Tess that she must go and claim kinship and ask for help. Tess is deferential, but she cannot understand why her mother should find such satisfaction in contemplating this enterprise. She suggesting getting work, but finally agrees to go. Tess leaves for The Chase, where she finds the home of the Stoke-d'Urbervilles, as they are now called. A young man with an almost swarthy complexion answers the door, and claims to be Alec d'Urberville. He does not allow Tess to see his mother, for she is an invalid, but she tells him that she is a poor relation. Alec shows her the estate, and he promises that his mother will find a berth for her. He tells her not to bother with the Durbeyfield name, but she says she wishes for no better. Alec prepares to kiss her, but lets her go. Tess perceives nothing, but if she had she might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and coveted that day by the wrong man.", "analysis": "The death of the Durbeyfield's horse is the event that motivates Tess to visit the d'Urbervilles and beg them for financial assistance. By going to claim kinship with the d'Urbervilles, Tess is in fact sent to find a husband; behind her mother's request is the assumption that Tess will marry a gentleman who will provide for the Durbeyfields. It is this aspect of the visit to the d'Urbervilles that disturbs Tess most, highlighting her particular sexual innocence. This introduces the theme of sexuality and innocence that will continue throughout the novel; at this point in the novel Tess represents a particular sexual innocence. She is unaware of her own sexuality and thus cannot perceive the danger that Alec d'Urberville presents to her. From his introduction in the novel, Alec d'Urberville represents a sexuality that contrasts with Tess Durbeyfield's innocence. However, as important as his sexuality is the danger inherent in his sensuality. His early attempt to seduce Tess only serves to foreshadow later, more serious attempts to infringe on his cousin's innocence. Hardy even explicitly notes the danger that Alec d'Urberville poses to Tess. The narrative thrust of the novel will concern Tess's reaction to the dangers that Alec poses for her"}

The haggling business, which had mainly depended on the horse, became disorganized forthwith. Distress, if not penury, loomed in the distance. Durbeyfield was what was locally called a slack-twisted fellow; he had good strength to work at times; but the times could not be relied on to coincide with the hours of requirement; and, having been unaccustomed to the regular toil of the day-labourer, he was not particularly persistent when they did so coincide. Tess, meanwhile, as the one who had dragged her parents into this quagmire, was silently wondering what she could do to help them out of it; and then her mother broached her scheme. "We must take the ups wi' the downs, Tess," said she; "and never could your high blood have been found out at a more called-for moment. You must try your friends. Do ye know that there is a very rich Mrs d'Urberville living on the outskirts o' The Chase, who must be our relation? You must go to her and claim kin, and ask for some help in our trouble." "I shouldn't care to do that," says Tess. "If there is such a lady, 'twould be enough for us if she were friendly--not to expect her to give us help." "You could win her round to do anything, my dear. Besides, perhaps there's more in it than you know of. I've heard what I've heard, good-now." The oppressive sense of the harm she had done led Tess to be more deferential than she might otherwise have been to the maternal wish; but she could not understand why her mother should find such satisfaction in contemplating an enterprise of, to her, such doubtful profit. Her mother might have made inquiries, and have discovered that this Mrs d'Urberville was a lady of unequalled virtues and charity. But Tess's pride made the part of poor relation one of particular distaste to her. "I'd rather try to get work," she murmured. "Durbeyfield, you can settle it," said his wife, turning to where he sat in the background. "If you say she ought to go, she will go." "I don't like my children going and making themselves beholden to strange kin," murmured he. "I'm the head of the noblest branch o' the family, and I ought to live up to it." His reasons for staying away were worse to Tess than her own objections to going. "Well, as I killed the horse, mother," she said mournfully, "I suppose I ought to do something. I don't mind going and seeing her, but you must leave it to me about asking for help. And don't go thinking about her making a match for me--it is silly." "Very well said, Tess!" observed her father sententiously. "Who said I had such a thought?" asked Joan. "I fancy it is in your mind, mother. But I'll go." Rising early next day she walked to the hill-town called Shaston, and there took advantage of a van which twice in the week ran from Shaston eastward to Chaseborough, passing near Trantridge, the parish in which the vague and mysterious Mrs d'Urberville had her residence. Tess Durbeyfield's route on this memorable morning lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the Vale in which she had been born, and in which her life had unfolded. The Vale of Blackmoor was to her the world, and its inhabitants the races thereof. From the gates and stiles of Marlott she had looked down its length in the wondering days of infancy, and what had been mystery to her then was not much less than mystery to her now. She had seen daily from her chamber-window towers, villages, faint white mansions; above all, the town of Shaston standing majestically on its height; its windows shining like lamps in the evening sun. She had hardly ever visited the place, only a small tract even of the Vale and its environs being known to her by close inspection. Much less had she been far outside the valley. Every contour of the surrounding hills was as personal to her as that of her relatives' faces; but for what lay beyond, her judgment was dependent on the teaching of the village school, where she had held a leading place at the time of her leaving, a year or two before this date. In those early days she had been much loved by others of her own sex and age, and had used to be seen about the village as one of three--all nearly of the same year--walking home from school side by side; Tess the middle one--in a pink print pinafore, of a finely reticulated pattern, worn over a stuff frock that had lost its original colour for a nondescript tertiary--marching on upon long stalky legs, in tight stockings which had little ladder-like holes at the knees, torn by kneeling in the roads and banks in search of vegetable and mineral treasures; her then earth-coloured hair hanging like pot-hooks; the arms of the two outside girls resting round the waist of Tess; her arms on the shoulders of the two supporters. As Tess grew older, and began to see how matters stood, she felt quite a Malthusian towards her mother for thoughtlessly giving her so many little sisters and brothers, when it was such a trouble to nurse and provide for them. Her mother's intelligence was that of a happy child: Joan Durbeyfield was simply an additional one, and that not the eldest, to her own long family of waiters on Providence. However, Tess became humanely beneficent towards the small ones, and to help them as much as possible she used, as soon as she left school, to lend a hand at haymaking or harvesting on neighbouring farms; or, by preference, at milking or butter-making processes, which she had learnt when her father had owned cows; and being deft-fingered it was a kind of work in which she excelled. Every day seemed to throw upon her young shoulders more of the family burdens, and that Tess should be the representative of the Durbeyfields at the d'Urberville mansion came as a thing of course. In this instance it must be admitted that the Durbeyfields were putting their fairest side outward. She alighted from the van at Trantridge Cross, and ascended on foot a hill in the direction of the district known as The Chase, on the borders of which, as she had been informed, Mrs d'Urberville's seat, The Slopes, would be found. It was not a manorial home in the ordinary sense, with fields, and pastures, and a grumbling farmer, out of whom the owner had to squeeze an income for himself and his family by hook or by crook. It was more, far more; a country-house built for enjoyment pure and simple, with not an acre of troublesome land attached to it beyond what was required for residential purposes, and for a little fancy farm kept in hand by the owner, and tended by a bailiff. The crimson brick lodge came first in sight, up to its eaves in dense evergreens. Tess thought this was the mansion itself till, passing through the side wicket with some trepidation, and onward to a point at which the drive took a turn, the house proper stood in full view. It was of recent erection--indeed almost new--and of the same rich red colour that formed such a contrast with the evergreens of the lodge. Far behind the corner of the house--which rose like a geranium bloom against the subdued colours around--stretched the soft azure landscape of The Chase--a truly venerable tract of forest land, one of the few remaining woodlands in England of undoubted primaeval date, wherein Druidical mistletoe was still found on aged oaks, and where enormous yew-trees, not planted by the hand of man grew as they had grown when they were pollarded for bows. All this sylvan antiquity, however, though visible from The Slopes, was outside the immediate boundaries of the estate. Everything on this snug property was bright, thriving, and well kept; acres of glass-houses stretched down the inclines to the copses at their feet. Everything looked like money--like the last coin issued from the Mint. The stables, partly screened by Austrian pines and evergreen oaks, and fitted with every late appliance, were as dignified as Chapels-of-Ease. On the extensive lawn stood an ornamental tent, its door being towards her. Simple Tess Durbeyfield stood at gaze, in a half-alarmed attitude, on the edge of the gravel sweep. Her feet had brought her onward to this point before she had quite realized where she was; and now all was contrary to her expectation. "I thought we were an old family; but this is all new!" she said, in her artlessness. She wished that she had not fallen in so readily with her mother's plans for "claiming kin," and had endeavoured to gain assistance nearer home. The d'Urbervilles--or Stoke-d'Urbervilles, as they at first called themselves--who owned all this, were a somewhat unusual family to find in such an old-fashioned part of the country. Parson Tringham had spoken truly when he said that our shambling John Durbeyfield was the only really lineal representative of the old d'Urberville family existing in the county, or near it; he might have added, what he knew very well, that the Stoke-d'Urbervilles were no more d'Urbervilles of the true tree then he was himself. Yet it must be admitted that this family formed a very good stock whereon to regraft a name which sadly wanted such renovation. When old Mr Simon Stoke, latterly deceased, had made his fortune as an honest merchant (some said money-lender) in the North, he decided to settle as a county man in the South of England, out of hail of his business district; and in doing this he felt the necessity of recommencing with a name that would not too readily identify him with the smart tradesman of the past, and that would be less commonplace than the original bald, stark words. Conning for an hour in the British Museum the pages of works devoted to extinct, half-extinct, obscured, and ruined families appertaining to the quarter of England in which he proposed to settle, he considered that _d'Urberville_ looked and sounded as well as any of them: and d'Urberville accordingly was annexed to his own name for himself and his heirs eternally. Yet he was not an extravagant-minded man in this, and in constructing his family tree on the new basis was duly reasonable in framing his inter-marriages and aristocratic links, never inserting a single title above a rank of strict moderation. Of this work of imagination poor Tess and her parents were naturally in ignorance--much to their discomfiture; indeed, the very possibility of such annexations was unknown to them; who supposed that, though to be well-favoured might be the gift of fortune, a family name came by nature. Tess still stood hesitating like a bather about to make his plunge, hardly knowing whether to retreat or to persevere, when a figure came forth from the dark triangular door of the tent. It was that of a tall young man, smoking. He had an almost swarthy complexion, with full lips, badly moulded, though red and smooth, above which was a well-groomed black moustache with curled points, though his age could not be more than three- or four-and-twenty. Despite the touches of barbarism in his contours, there was a singular force in the gentleman's face, and in his bold rolling eye. "Well, my Beauty, what can I do for you?" said he, coming forward. And perceiving that she stood quite confounded: "Never mind me. I am Mr d'Urberville. Have you come to see me or my mother?" This embodiment of a d'Urberville and a namesake differed even more from what Tess had expected than the house and grounds had differed. She had dreamed of an aged and dignified face, the sublimation of all the d'Urberville lineaments, furrowed with incarnate memories representing in hieroglyphic the centuries of her family's and England's history. But she screwed herself up to the work in hand, since she could not get out of it, and answered-- "I came to see your mother, sir." "I am afraid you cannot see her--she is an invalid," replied the present representative of the spurious house; for this was Mr Alec, the only son of the lately deceased gentleman. "Cannot I answer your purpose? What is the business you wish to see her about?" "It isn't business--it is--I can hardly say what!" "Pleasure?" "Oh no. Why, sir, if I tell you, it will seem--" Tess's sense of a certain ludicrousness in her errand was now so strong that, notwithstanding her awe of him, and her general discomfort at being here, her rosy lips curved towards a smile, much to the attraction of the swarthy Alexander. "It is so very foolish," she stammered; "I fear can't tell you!" "Never mind; I like foolish things. Try again, my dear," said he kindly. "Mother asked me to come," Tess continued; "and, indeed, I was in the mind to do so myself likewise. But I did not think it would be like this. I came, sir, to tell you that we are of the same family as you." "Ho! Poor relations?" "Yes." "Stokes?" "No; d'Urbervilles." "Ay, ay; I mean d'Urbervilles." "Our names are worn away to Durbeyfield; but we have several proofs that we are d'Urbervilles. Antiquarians hold we are,--and--and we have an old seal, marked with a ramping lion on a shield, and a castle over him. And we have a very old silver spoon, round in the bowl like a little ladle, and marked with the same castle. But it is so worn that mother uses it to stir the pea-soup." "A castle argent is certainly my crest," said he blandly. "And my arms a lion rampant." "And so mother said we ought to make ourselves beknown to you--as we've lost our horse by a bad accident, and are the oldest branch o' the family." "Very kind of your mother, I'm sure. And I, for one, don't regret her step." Alec looked at Tess as he spoke, in a way that made her blush a little. "And so, my pretty girl, you've come on a friendly visit to us, as relations?" "I suppose I have," faltered Tess, looking uncomfortable again. "Well--there's no harm in it. Where do you live? What are you?" She gave him brief particulars; and responding to further inquiries told him that she was intending to go back by the same carrier who had brought her. "It is a long while before he returns past Trantridge Cross. Supposing we walk round the grounds to pass the time, my pretty Coz?" Tess wished to abridge her visit as much as possible; but the young man was pressing, and she consented to accompany him. He conducted her about the lawns, and flower-beds, and conservatories; and thence to the fruit-garden and greenhouses, where he asked her if she liked strawberries. "Yes," said Tess, "when they come." "They are already here." D'Urberville began gathering specimens of the fruit for her, handing them back to her as he stooped; and, presently, selecting a specially fine product of the "British Queen" variety, he stood up and held it by the stem to her mouth. "No--no!" she said quickly, putting her fingers between his hand and her lips. "I would rather take it in my own hand." "Nonsense!" he insisted; and in a slight distress she parted her lips and took it in. They had spent some time wandering desultorily thus, Tess eating in a half-pleased, half-reluctant state whatever d'Urberville offered her. When she could consume no more of the strawberries he filled her little basket with them; and then the two passed round to the rose-trees, whence he gathered blossoms and gave her to put in her bosom. She obeyed like one in a dream, and when she could affix no more he himself tucked a bud or two into her hat, and heaped her basket with others in the prodigality of his bounty. At last, looking at his watch, he said, "Now, by the time you have had something to eat, it will be time for you to leave, if you want to catch the carrier to Shaston. Come here, and I'll see what grub I can find." Stoke d'Urberville took her back to the lawn and into the tent, where he left her, soon reappearing with a basket of light luncheon, which he put before her himself. It was evidently the gentleman's wish not to be disturbed in this pleasant _tete-a-tete_ by the servantry. "Do you mind my smoking?" he asked. "Oh, not at all, sir." He watched her pretty and unconscious munching through the skeins of smoke that pervaded the tent, and Tess Durbeyfield did not divine, as she innocently looked down at the roses in her bosom, that there behind the blue narcotic haze was potentially the "tragic mischief" of her drama--one who stood fair to be the blood-red ray in the spectrum of her young life. She had an attribute which amounted to a disadvantage just now; and it was this that caused Alec d'Urberville's eyes to rivet themselves upon her. It was a luxuriance of aspect, a fulness of growth, which made her appear more of a woman than she really was. She had inherited the feature from her mother without the quality it denoted. It had troubled her mind occasionally, till her companions had said that it was a fault which time would cure. She soon had finished her lunch. "Now I am going home, sir," she said, rising. "And what do they call you?" he asked, as he accompanied her along the drive till they were out of sight of the house. "Tess Durbeyfield, down at Marlott." "And you say your people have lost their horse?" "I--killed him!" she answered, her eyes filling with tears as she gave particulars of Prince's death. "And I don't know what to do for father on account of it!" "I must think if I cannot do something. My mother must find a berth for you. But, Tess, no nonsense about 'd'Urberville';--'Durbeyfield' only, you know--quite another name." "I wish for no better, sir," said she with something of dignity. For a moment--only for a moment--when they were in the turning of the drive, between the tall rhododendrons and conifers, before the lodge became visible, he inclined his face towards her as if--but, no: he thought better of it, and let her go. Thus the thing began. Had she perceived this meeting's import she might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and coveted that day by the wrong man, and not by some other man, the right and desired one in all respects--as nearly as humanity can supply the right and desired; yet to him who amongst her acquaintance might have approximated to this kind, she was but a transient impression, half forgotten. In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things the call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with the hour for loving. Nature does not often say "See!" to her poor creature at a time when seeing can lead to happy doing; or reply "Here!" to a body's cry of "Where?" till the hide-and-seek has become an irksome, outworn game. We may wonder whether at the acme and summit of the human progress these anachronisms will be corrected by a finer intuition, a closer interaction of the social machinery than that which now jolts us round and along; but such completeness is not to be prophesied, or even conceived as possible. Enough that in the present case, as in millions, it was not the two halves of a perfect whole that confronted each other at the perfect moment; a missing counterpart wandered independently about the earth waiting in crass obtuseness till the late time came. Out of which maladroit delay sprang anxieties, disappointments, shocks, catastrophes, and passing-strange destinies. When d'Urberville got back to the tent he sat down astride on a chair, reflecting, with a pleased gleam in his face. Then he broke into a loud laugh. "Well, I'm damned! What a funny thing! Ha-ha-ha! And what a crumby girl!"

Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-1-chapters-1-11

Distress looms in the distance because of the death of the horse. Joan Durbeyfield tells Tess about Mrs. d'Urberville living on the outskirts of The Chase, and tells Tess that she must go and claim kinship and ask for help. Tess is deferential, but she cannot understand why her mother should find such satisfaction in contemplating this enterprise. She suggesting getting work, but finally agrees to go. Tess leaves for The Chase, where she finds the home of the Stoke-d'Urbervilles, as they are now called. A young man with an almost swarthy complexion answers the door, and claims to be Alec d'Urberville. He does not allow Tess to see his mother, for she is an invalid, but she tells him that she is a poor relation. Alec shows her the estate, and he promises that his mother will find a berth for her. He tells her not to bother with the Durbeyfield name, but she says she wishes for no better. Alec prepares to kiss her, but lets her go. Tess perceives nothing, but if she had she might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and coveted that day by the wrong man.

The death of the Durbeyfield's horse is the event that motivates Tess to visit the d'Urbervilles and beg them for financial assistance. By going to claim kinship with the d'Urbervilles, Tess is in fact sent to find a husband; behind her mother's request is the assumption that Tess will marry a gentleman who will provide for the Durbeyfields. It is this aspect of the visit to the d'Urbervilles that disturbs Tess most, highlighting her particular sexual innocence. This introduces the theme of sexuality and innocence that will continue throughout the novel; at this point in the novel Tess represents a particular sexual innocence. She is unaware of her own sexuality and thus cannot perceive the danger that Alec d'Urberville presents to her. From his introduction in the novel, Alec d'Urberville represents a sexuality that contrasts with Tess Durbeyfield's innocence. However, as important as his sexuality is the danger inherent in his sensuality. His early attempt to seduce Tess only serves to foreshadow later, more serious attempts to infringe on his cousin's innocence. Hardy even explicitly notes the danger that Alec d'Urberville poses to Tess. The narrative thrust of the novel will concern Tess's reaction to the dangers that Alec poses for her

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/23046-chapters/4.txt

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

The Comedy of Errors.act ii.scene ii

act ii, scene ii

{"name": "Act II, Scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-ii-scene-ii", "summary": "Back at the marketplace of Ephesus, S. Antipholus is confused. He found out that the gold he sent with S. Dromio did indeed make it to the Centaur. After getting a room at the inn, S. Dromio apparently left the place in search of S. Antipholus. S. Antipholus doesn't think it makes sense that S. Antipholus has already seen S. Dromio, given the timing of the whole thing. When S. Antipholus does see S. Dromio , he begins to question him about his earlier requests and the whole having-a-wife-and-being-late-for-dinner business. S. Dromio is rightfully confused, and says he definitely didn't ask S. Antipholus about a wife and dinner and all that jazz. S. Dromio assures his master that this is the first time he's seen S. Antipholus since heading off to the Centaur. Still, S. Dromio says it's nice to see his master in such a merry, joking mood. However, S. Antipholus is upset and beats S. Dromio. S. Antipholus says it's fine for them to be familiar friends when S. Antipholus is in a good mood, but otherwise S. Dromio should know his place. In other words, S. Antipholus doesn't want to be teased when he's in a serious mood. S. Dromio and S. Antipholus now joke about S. Dromio's beating and the passage of time. Just as they're about to be pals again, S. Antipholus notices people approaching. Adriana and Luciana rush in all hot and bothered. Adriana asserts her husband is being strange; he must be divided from himself, since he is divided from her, and she's a part of him. She says separating her from him would be like separating a drop of water from a gulf--so basically, they're stuck together. Adriana also points out that because of their connection, if he cheats, then she's cheating, too, which he would undoubtedly be unhappy about. Basically, while his gender may seem to absolve him of the crime of disloyalty, his adultery would leave her stained, which would in turn dishonor him. This has been a fine strain of logic, but poor S. Antipholus, as he's actually not her husband, is like, \"What in the world?\" He points out that unless he married Adriana in the last two hours since he arrived at Ephesus, he's not actually married to her at all. Adriana insists she sent E. Dromio to bring her husband home to dinner not a few hours ago. Of course, S. Dromio says he's never seen her in his life . S. Antipholus is just as confused about how this strange woman even knows their names . Adriana continues to insist on standing by her man , and demands that he stand by her. S. Antipholus, being unable to change the woman's mind, decides he must've married her in a dream--or he's currently in a dream--so the best thing to do is ride the high until he figures out what's actually going on. S. Dromio declares Ephesus is a fairyland full of bewitching things, and he too decides to roll with the confusion. Adriana, not to be beaten, demands that the confused S. Antipholus come with her to dinner. She charges S. Dromio to guard the gate and let nobody in. S. Antipholus follows along, given that these ladies seem to know him better than he does.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II. A public place._ _Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse_._ _Ant. S._ The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave Is wander'd forth, in care to seek me out By computation and mine host's report. I could not speak with Dromio since at first 5 I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes. _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._ How now, sir! is your merry humour alter'd? As you love strokes, so jest with me again. You know no Centaur? you receiv'd no gold? Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner? 10 My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad, That thus so madly thou didst answer me? _Dro. S._ What answer, sir? when spake I such a word? _Ant. S._ Even now, even here, not half an hour since. _Dro. S._ I did not see you since you sent me hence, 15 Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me. _Ant. S._ Villain, thou didst deny the gold's receipt, And told'st me of a mistress and a dinner; For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeased. _Dro. S._ I am glad to see you in this merry vein: 20 What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me. _Ant. S._ Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth? Think'st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that. [_Beating him._ _Dro. S._ Hold, sir, for God's sake! now your jest is earnest: Upon what bargain do you give it me? 25 _Ant. S._ Because that I familiarly sometimes Do use you for my fool, and chat with you, Your sauciness will jest upon my love, And make a common of my serious hours. When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, 30 But creep in crannies when he hides his beams. If you will jest with me, know my aspect, And fashion your demeanour to my looks, Or I will beat this method in your sconce. _Dro. S._ Sconce call you it? so you would leave battering, 35 I had rather have it a head: an you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head, and insconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But, I pray, sir, why am I beaten? _Ant. S._ Dost thou not know? 40 _Dro. S._ Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten. _Ant. S._ Shall I tell you why? _Dro. S._ Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say every why hath a wherefore. _Ant. S._ Why, first,--for flouting me; and then, wherefore,-- 45 For urging it the second time to me. _Dro. S._ Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season, When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason? Well, sir, I thank you. _Ant. S._ Thank me, sir! for what? 50 _Dro. S._ Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing. _Ant. S._ I'll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time? _Dro. S._ No, sir: I think the meat wants that I have. 55 _Ant. S._ In good time, sir; what's that? _Dro. S._ Basting. _Ant. S._ Well, sir, then 'twill be dry. _Dro. S._ If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of it. _Ant. S._ Your reason? 60 _Dro. S._ Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me another dry basting. _Ant. S._ Well, sir, learn to jest in good time: there's a time for all things. _Dro. S._ I durst have denied that, before you were so 65 choleric. _Ant. S._ By what rule, sir? _Dro. S._ Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of father Time himself. _Ant. S._ Let's hear it. 70 _Dro. S._ There's no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature. _Ant. S._ May he not do it by fine and recovery? _Dro. S._ Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig, and recover the lost hair of another man. 75 _Ant. S._ Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement? _Dro. S._ Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts: and what he hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit. 80 _Ant. S._ Why, but there's many a man hath more hair than wit. _Dro. S._ Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair. _Ant. S._ Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain 85 dealers without wit. _Dro. S._ The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity. _Ant. S._ For what reason? _Dro. S._ For two; and sound ones too. 90 _Ant. S._ Nay, not sound, I pray you. _Dro. S._ Sure ones, then. _Ant. S._ Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing. _Dro. S._ Certain ones, then. _Ant. S._ Name them. 95 _Dro. S._ The one, to save the money that he spends in trimming; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in his porridge. _Ant. S._ You would all this time have proved there is no time for all things. 100 _Dro. S._ Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover hair lost by nature. _Ant. S._ But your reason was not substantial, why there is no time to recover. _Dro. S._ Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and 105 therefore to the world's end will have bald followers. _Ant. S._ I knew 'twould be a bald conclusion: But, soft! who wafts us yonder? _Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA._ _Adr._ Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown: Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects; 110 I am not Adriana nor thy wife. The time was once when thou unurged wouldst vow That never words were music to thine ear, That never object pleasing in thine eye, That never touch well welcome to thy hand, 115 That never meat sweet-savour'd in thy taste, Unless I spake, or look'd, or touch'd, or carved to thee. How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it, That thou art then estranged from thyself? Thyself I call it, being strange to me, 120 That, undividable, incorporate, Am better than thy dear self's better part. Ah, do not tear away thyself from me! For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall A drop of water in the breaking gulf, 125 And take unmingled thence that drop again, Without addition or diminishing, As take from me thyself, and not me too. How dearly would it touch thee to the quick, Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious, 130 And that this body, consecrate to thee, By ruffian lust should be contaminate! Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me, And hurl the name of husband in my face, And tear the stain'd skin off my harlot-brow, 135 And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring, And break it with a deep-divorcing vow? I know thou canst; and therefore see thou do it. I am possess'd with an adulterate blot; My blood is mingled with the crime of lust: 140 For if we two be one, and thou play false, I do digest the poison of thy flesh, Being strumpeted by thy contagion. Keep, then, fair league and truce with thy true bed; I live distain'd, thou undishonoured. 145 _Ant. S._ Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not: In Ephesus I am but two hours old, As strange unto your town as to your talk; Who, every word by all my wit being scann'd, Wants wit in all one word to understand. 150 _Luc._ Fie, brother! how the world is changed with you! When were you wont to use my sister thus? She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner. _Ant. S._ By Dromio? _Dro. S._ By me? 155 _Adr._ By thee; and this thou didst return from him, That he did buffet thee, and, in his blows, Denied my house for his, me for his wife. _Ant. S._ Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman? What is the course and drift of your compact? 160 _Dro. S._ I, sir? I never saw her till this time. _Ant. S._ Villain, thou liest; for even her very words Didst thou deliver to me on the mart. _Dro. S._ I never spake with her in all my life. _Ant. S._ How can she thus, then, call us by our names, 165 Unless it be by inspiration. _Adr._ How ill agrees it with your gravity To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave, Abetting him to thwart me in my mood! Be it my wrong you are from me exempt, 170 But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt. Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine: Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state, Makes me with thy strength to communicate: 175 If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss; Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion. _Ant. S._ To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme: 180 What, was I married to her in my dream? Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this? What error drives our eyes and ears amiss? Until I know this sure uncertainty, I'll entertain the offer'd fallacy. 185 _Luc._ Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner. _Dro. S._ O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner. This is the fairy land;--O spite of spites! We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites: If we obey them not, this will ensue, 190 They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue. _Luc._ Why pratest thou to thyself, and answer'st not? Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot! _Dro. S._ I am transformed, master, am I not? _Ant. S._ I think thou art in mind, and so am I. 195 _Dro. S._ Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape. _Ant. S._ Thou hast thine own form. _Dro. S._ No, I am an ape. _Luc._ If thou art chang'd to aught, 'tis to an ass. _Dro. S._ 'Tis true; she rides me, and I long for grass. 'Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be 200 But I should know her as well as she knows me. _Adr._ Come, come, no longer will I be a fool, To put the finger in the eye and weep, Whilst man and master laughs my woes to scorn. Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate. 205 Husband, I'll dine above with you to-day, And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. Sirrah, if any ask you for your master, Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter. Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well. 210 _Ant. S._ Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell? Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advised? Known unto these, and to myself disguised! I'll say as they say, and persever so, And in this mist at all adventures go. 215 _Dro. S._ Master, shall I be porter at the gate? _Adr._ Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate. _Luc._ Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: II, 2. SCENE II.] Capell. SCENE IV. Pope. A public place.] Capell. A street. Pope. 3, 4, 5: _out By ... report. I_] F1 F2 F3. _out By ... report, I_ F4. _out. By ... report, I_ Rowe. 12: _didst_] _did didst_ F1. 23: Beating him] Beats Dro. Ff. 28: _jest_] _jet_ Dyce. 29: _common_] _comedy_ Hanmer. 35-107: Pope marks as spurious. 38: _else_] om. Capell. 45: _Why, first_] _First, why_ Capell. 53: _next, to_] _next time,_ Capell conj. _to_] _and_ Collier MS. 59: _none_] F1. _not_ F2 F3 F4. 76: _hair_] _hair to men_ Capell. 79: _men_] Pope, ed. 2 (Theobald). _them_ Ff. 91: _sound_] F1. _sound ones_ F2 F3 F4. 93: _falsing_] _falling_ Heath conj. 97: _trimming_] Rowe. _trying_ Ff. _tyring_ Pope. _'tiring_ Collier. 101: _no time_] F2 F3 F4. _in no time_ F1. _e'en no time_ Collier (Malone conj.). 110: _thy_] F1. _some_ F2 F3 F4. 111: _not ... nor_] _but ... and_ Capell conj. 112: _unurged_] _unurg'dst_ Pope. 117: _or look'd, or_] _look'd,_ Steevens. _to thee_] om. Pope. _thee_ S. Walker conj. 119: _then_] _thus_ Rowe. 130: _but_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 135: _off_] Hanmer. _of_ Ff. 138: _canst_] _wouldst_ Hanmer. 140: _crime_] _grime_ Warburton. 142: _thy_] F1. _my_ F2 F3 F4. 143: _contagion_] _catagion_ F4. 145: _distain'd_] _unstain'd_ Hanmer (Theobald conj.). _dis-stain'd_ Theobald. _distained_ Heath conj. _undishonoured_] _dishonoured_ Heath conj. 149, 150: Marked as spurious by Pope. _Who, ... Wants_] _Whose every ..., Want_ Becket conj. 150: _Wants_] Ff. _Want_ Johnson. 155: _By me?_] Pope. _By me._ Ff. 156: _this_] F1, Capell. _thus_ F2 F3 F4. 167: _your_] _you_ F2. 174: _stronger_] F4. _stranger_ F1 F2 F3. 180-185: Marked 'aside' by Capell. 180: _moves_] _means_ Collier MS. 183: _drives_] _draws_ Collier MS. 184: _sure uncertainty_] _sure: uncertainly_ Becket conj. 185: _offer'd_] Capell. _free'd_ Ff. _favour'd_ Pope. _proffered_ Collier MS. 187-201: Marked as spurious by Pope. 189: _talk_] _walk and talk_ Anon. conj. _goblins_] _ghosts and goblins_ Lettsom conj. _owls_] _ouphs_ Theobald. _sprites_] F1. _elves sprites_ F2 F3 F4. _elvish sprites_ Rowe (ed. 2). _elves and sprites_ Collier MS. 191: _or_] _and_ Theobald. 192: _and answer'st not?_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 193: _Dromio, thou drone, thou snail_] Theobald. _Dromio, thou Dromio, thou snaile_ F1. _Dromio, thou Dromio, snaile_ F2 F3 F4. 194: _am I not?_] Ff. _am not I?_ Theobald. 203: _the eye_] _thy eye_ F2 F3. 204: _laughs_] Ff. _laugh_ Pope. 211-215: Marked as 'aside' by Capell.

Act II, Scene ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-ii-scene-ii

Back at the marketplace of Ephesus, S. Antipholus is confused. He found out that the gold he sent with S. Dromio did indeed make it to the Centaur. After getting a room at the inn, S. Dromio apparently left the place in search of S. Antipholus. S. Antipholus doesn't think it makes sense that S. Antipholus has already seen S. Dromio, given the timing of the whole thing. When S. Antipholus does see S. Dromio , he begins to question him about his earlier requests and the whole having-a-wife-and-being-late-for-dinner business. S. Dromio is rightfully confused, and says he definitely didn't ask S. Antipholus about a wife and dinner and all that jazz. S. Dromio assures his master that this is the first time he's seen S. Antipholus since heading off to the Centaur. Still, S. Dromio says it's nice to see his master in such a merry, joking mood. However, S. Antipholus is upset and beats S. Dromio. S. Antipholus says it's fine for them to be familiar friends when S. Antipholus is in a good mood, but otherwise S. Dromio should know his place. In other words, S. Antipholus doesn't want to be teased when he's in a serious mood. S. Dromio and S. Antipholus now joke about S. Dromio's beating and the passage of time. Just as they're about to be pals again, S. Antipholus notices people approaching. Adriana and Luciana rush in all hot and bothered. Adriana asserts her husband is being strange; he must be divided from himself, since he is divided from her, and she's a part of him. She says separating her from him would be like separating a drop of water from a gulf--so basically, they're stuck together. Adriana also points out that because of their connection, if he cheats, then she's cheating, too, which he would undoubtedly be unhappy about. Basically, while his gender may seem to absolve him of the crime of disloyalty, his adultery would leave her stained, which would in turn dishonor him. This has been a fine strain of logic, but poor S. Antipholus, as he's actually not her husband, is like, "What in the world?" He points out that unless he married Adriana in the last two hours since he arrived at Ephesus, he's not actually married to her at all. Adriana insists she sent E. Dromio to bring her husband home to dinner not a few hours ago. Of course, S. Dromio says he's never seen her in his life . S. Antipholus is just as confused about how this strange woman even knows their names . Adriana continues to insist on standing by her man , and demands that he stand by her. S. Antipholus, being unable to change the woman's mind, decides he must've married her in a dream--or he's currently in a dream--so the best thing to do is ride the high until he figures out what's actually going on. S. Dromio declares Ephesus is a fairyland full of bewitching things, and he too decides to roll with the confusion. Adriana, not to be beaten, demands that the confused S. Antipholus come with her to dinner. She charges S. Dromio to guard the gate and let nobody in. S. Antipholus follows along, given that these ladies seem to know him better than he does.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_16_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 17

chapter 17

{"name": "Chapter 17", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim25.asp", "summary": "Because of the storm, Jim stays at Marlow's awhile. Marlow tries to encourage him, saying he has faith in his goodness and abilities. He also tells him that he has written a letter of recommendation for him and sent it to a man who is willing to give him a second chance. As the storm subsides, Jim leaps up with animation. Marlow's offer and words of encouragement have brightened the young sailor. He claims that Marlow has given him \"a clean slate.\" Jim then turns and walks out, leaving Marlow sitting alone in the candlelit room.", "analysis": "Notes This chapter is in strong contrast to the last one. In spite of his guilt and humiliation, Jim is still filled with pride. He refuses any offer of money; he will not take his past pay from the Patna and he will not accept monetary help from Marlow. When Marlow tells him that he has recommended him for a job, Jim becomes animated. He moves from somberness to gratitude, from desperation to confidence. With Marlow's help, Jim feels he may be able to face the future. Although the chapter ends on a note of hope for the young sailor, Marlow, who is wiser and older, is not as hopeful as Jim. Conrad uses vivid images throughout the chapter to make the scene come alive. The \"shadows huddled together in corners,\" the water- pipe was \"shedding tears,\" and the flame of the candle was \"flaring upright in the shape of a dagger.\" The inanimate object in the room seems to take on the pain that Jim is feeling."}

'He came in at last; but I believe it was mostly the rain that did it; it was falling just then with a devastating violence which quieted down gradually while we talked. His manner was very sober and set; his bearing was that of a naturally taciturn man possessed by an idea. My talk was of the material aspect of his position; it had the sole aim of saving him from the degradation, ruin, and despair that out there close so swiftly upon a friendless, homeless man; I pleaded with him to accept my help; I argued reasonably: and every time I looked up at that absorbed smooth face, so grave and youthful, I had a disturbing sense of being no help but rather an obstacle to some mysterious, inexplicable, impalpable striving of his wounded spirit. '"I suppose you intend to eat and drink and to sleep under shelter in the usual way," I remember saying with irritation. "You say you won't touch the money that is due to you." . . . He came as near as his sort can to making a gesture of horror. (There were three weeks and five days' pay owing him as mate of the Patna.) "Well, that's too little to matter anyhow; but what will you do to-morrow? Where will you turn? You must live . . ." "That isn't the thing," was the comment that escaped him under his breath. I ignored it, and went on combating what I assumed to be the scruples of an exaggerated delicacy. "On every conceivable ground," I concluded, "you must let me help you." "You can't," he said very simply and gently, and holding fast to some deep idea which I could detect shimmering like a pool of water in the dark, but which I despaired of ever approaching near enough to fathom. I surveyed his well-proportioned bulk. "At any rate," I said, "I am able to help what I can see of you. I don't pretend to do more." He shook his head sceptically without looking at me. I got very warm. "But I can," I insisted. "I can do even more. I _am_ doing more. I am trusting you . . ." "The money . . ." he began. "Upon my word you deserve being told to go to the devil," I cried, forcing the note of indignation. He was startled, smiled, and I pressed my attack home. "It isn't a question of money at all. You are too superficial," I said (and at the same time I was thinking to myself: Well, here goes! And perhaps he is, after all). "Look at the letter I want you to take. I am writing to a man of whom I've never asked a favour, and I am writing about you in terms that one only ventures to use when speaking of an intimate friend. I make myself unreservedly responsible for you. That's what I am doing. And really if you will only reflect a little what that means . . ." 'He lifted his head. The rain had passed away; only the water-pipe went on shedding tears with an absurd drip, drip outside the window. It was very quiet in the room, whose shadows huddled together in corners, away from the still flame of the candle flaring upright in the shape of a dagger; his face after a while seemed suffused by a reflection of a soft light as if the dawn had broken already. '"Jove!" he gasped out. "It is noble of you!" 'Had he suddenly put out his tongue at me in derision, I could not have felt more humiliated. I thought to myself--Serve me right for a sneaking humbug. . . . His eyes shone straight into my face, but I perceived it was not a mocking brightness. All at once he sprang into jerky agitation, like one of those flat wooden figures that are worked by a string. His arms went up, then came down with a slap. He became another man altogether. "And I had never seen," he shouted; then suddenly bit his lip and frowned. "What a bally ass I've been," he said very slow in an awed tone. . . . "You are a brick!" he cried next in a muffled voice. He snatched my hand as though he had just then seen it for the first time, and dropped it at once. "Why! this is what I--you--I . . ." he stammered, and then with a return of his old stolid, I may say mulish, manner he began heavily, "I would be a brute now if I . . ." and then his voice seemed to break. "That's all right," I said. I was almost alarmed by this display of feeling, through which pierced a strange elation. I had pulled the string accidentally, as it were; I did not fully understand the working of the toy. "I must go now," he said. "Jove! You _have_ helped me. Can't sit still. The very thing . . ." He looked at me with puzzled admiration. "The very thing . . ." 'Of course it was the thing. It was ten to one that I had saved him from starvation--of that peculiar sort that is almost invariably associated with drink. This was all. I had not a single illusion on that score, but looking at him, I allowed myself to wonder at the nature of the one he had, within the last three minutes, so evidently taken into his bosom. I had forced into his hand the means to carry on decently the serious business of life, to get food, drink, and shelter of the customary kind while his wounded spirit, like a bird with a broken wing, might hop and flutter into some hole to die quietly of inanition there. This is what I had thrust upon him: a definitely small thing; and--behold!--by the manner of its reception it loomed in the dim light of the candle like a big, indistinct, perhaps a dangerous shadow. "You don't mind me not saying anything appropriate," he burst out. "There isn't anything one could say. Last night already you had done me no end of good. Listening to me--you know. I give you my word I've thought more than once the top of my head would fly off. . ." He darted--positively darted--here and there, rammed his hands into his pockets, jerked them out again, flung his cap on his head. I had no idea it was in him to be so airily brisk. I thought of a dry leaf imprisoned in an eddy of wind, while a mysterious apprehension, a load of indefinite doubt, weighed me down in my chair. He stood stock-still, as if struck motionless by a discovery. "You have given me confidence," he declared, soberly. "Oh! for God's sake, my dear fellow--don't!" I entreated, as though he had hurt me. "All right. I'll shut up now and henceforth. Can't prevent me thinking though. . . . Never mind! . . . I'll show yet . . ." He went to the door in a hurry, paused with his head down, and came back, stepping deliberately. "I always thought that if a fellow could begin with a clean slate . . . And now you . . . in a measure . . . yes . . . clean slate." I waved my hand, and he marched out without looking back; the sound of his footfalls died out gradually behind the closed door--the unhesitating tread of a man walking in broad daylight. 'But as to me, left alone with the solitary candle, I remained strangely unenlightened. I was no longer young enough to behold at every turn the magnificence that besets our insignificant footsteps in good and in evil. I smiled to think that, after all, it was yet he, of us two, who had the light. And I felt sad. A clean slate, did he say? As if the initial word of each our destiny were not graven in imperishable characters upon the face of a rock.'

Chapter 17

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim25.asp

Because of the storm, Jim stays at Marlow's awhile. Marlow tries to encourage him, saying he has faith in his goodness and abilities. He also tells him that he has written a letter of recommendation for him and sent it to a man who is willing to give him a second chance. As the storm subsides, Jim leaps up with animation. Marlow's offer and words of encouragement have brightened the young sailor. He claims that Marlow has given him "a clean slate." Jim then turns and walks out, leaving Marlow sitting alone in the candlelit room.

Notes This chapter is in strong contrast to the last one. In spite of his guilt and humiliation, Jim is still filled with pride. He refuses any offer of money; he will not take his past pay from the Patna and he will not accept monetary help from Marlow. When Marlow tells him that he has recommended him for a job, Jim becomes animated. He moves from somberness to gratitude, from desperation to confidence. With Marlow's help, Jim feels he may be able to face the future. Although the chapter ends on a note of hope for the young sailor, Marlow, who is wiser and older, is not as hopeful as Jim. Conrad uses vivid images throughout the chapter to make the scene come alive. The "shadows huddled together in corners," the water- pipe was "shedding tears," and the flame of the candle was "flaring upright in the shape of a dagger." The inanimate object in the room seems to take on the pain that Jim is feeling.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_3_part_9.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 3.chapter 9

book 3, chapter 9

{"name": "book 3, Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section4/", "summary": "The Sensualists Dmitri runs through the rooms trying to find Grushenka, and when Fyodor Pavlovich accuses him of stealing money, Dmitri throws his father to the ground, threatens to kill him, and runs out of the house. Alyosha and Ivan tend to Fyodor Pavlovich's wounds and put him to bed", "analysis": ""}

Chapter IX. The Sensualists Grigory and Smerdyakov ran into the room after Dmitri. They had been struggling with him in the passage, refusing to admit him, acting on instructions given them by Fyodor Pavlovitch some days before. Taking advantage of the fact that Dmitri stopped a moment on entering the room to look about him, Grigory ran round the table, closed the double doors on the opposite side of the room leading to the inner apartments, and stood before the closed doors, stretching wide his arms, prepared to defend the entrance, so to speak, with the last drop of his blood. Seeing this, Dmitri uttered a scream rather than a shout and rushed at Grigory. "Then she's there! She's hidden there! Out of the way, scoundrel!" He tried to pull Grigory away, but the old servant pushed him back. Beside himself with fury, Dmitri struck out, and hit Grigory with all his might. The old man fell like a log, and Dmitri, leaping over him, broke in the door. Smerdyakov remained pale and trembling at the other end of the room, huddling close to Fyodor Pavlovitch. "She's here!" shouted Dmitri. "I saw her turn towards the house just now, but I couldn't catch her. Where is she? Where is she?" That shout, "She's here!" produced an indescribable effect on Fyodor Pavlovitch. All his terror left him. "Hold him! Hold him!" he cried, and dashed after Dmitri. Meanwhile Grigory had got up from the floor, but still seemed stunned. Ivan and Alyosha ran after their father. In the third room something was heard to fall on the floor with a ringing crash: it was a large glass vase--not an expensive one--on a marble pedestal which Dmitri had upset as he ran past it. "At him!" shouted the old man. "Help!" Ivan and Alyosha caught the old man and were forcibly bringing him back. "Why do you run after him? He'll murder you outright," Ivan cried wrathfully at his father. "Ivan! Alyosha! She must be here. Grushenka's here. He said he saw her himself, running." He was choking. He was not expecting Grushenka at the time, and the sudden news that she was here made him beside himself. He was trembling all over. He seemed frantic. "But you've seen for yourself that she hasn't come," cried Ivan. "But she may have come by that other entrance." "You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key." Dmitri suddenly reappeared in the drawing-room. He had, of course, found the other entrance locked, and the key actually was in Fyodor Pavlovitch's pocket. The windows of all the rooms were also closed, so Grushenka could not have come in anywhere nor have run out anywhere. "Hold him!" shrieked Fyodor Pavlovitch, as soon as he saw him again. "He's been stealing money in my bedroom." And tearing himself from Ivan he rushed again at Dmitri. But Dmitri threw up both hands and suddenly clutched the old man by the two tufts of hair that remained on his temples, tugged at them, and flung him with a crash on the floor. He kicked him two or three times with his heel in the face. The old man moaned shrilly. Ivan, though not so strong as Dmitri, threw his arms round him, and with all his might pulled him away. Alyosha helped him with his slender strength, holding Dmitri in front. "Madman! You've killed him!" cried Ivan. "Serve him right!" shouted Dmitri breathlessly. "If I haven't killed him, I'll come again and kill him. You can't protect him!" "Dmitri! Go away at once!" cried Alyosha commandingly. "Alexey! You tell me. It's only you I can believe; was she here just now, or not? I saw her myself creeping this way by the fence from the lane. I shouted, she ran away." "I swear she's not been here, and no one expected her." "But I saw her.... So she must ... I'll find out at once where she is.... Good-by, Alexey! Not a word to AEsop about the money now. But go to Katerina Ivanovna at once and be sure to say, 'He sends his compliments to you!' Compliments, his compliments! Just compliments and farewell! Describe the scene to her." Meanwhile Ivan and Grigory had raised the old man and seated him in an arm-chair. His face was covered with blood, but he was conscious and listened greedily to Dmitri's cries. He was still fancying that Grushenka really was somewhere in the house. Dmitri looked at him with hatred as he went out. "I don't repent shedding your blood!" he cried. "Beware, old man, beware of your dream, for I have my dream, too. I curse you, and disown you altogether." He ran out of the room. "She's here. She must be here. Smerdyakov! Smerdyakov!" the old man wheezed, scarcely audibly, beckoning to him with his finger. "No, she's not here, you old lunatic!" Ivan shouted at him angrily. "Here, he's fainting! Water! A towel! Make haste, Smerdyakov!" Smerdyakov ran for water. At last they got the old man undressed, and put him to bed. They wrapped a wet towel round his head. Exhausted by the brandy, by his violent emotion, and the blows he had received, he shut his eyes and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Ivan and Alyosha went back to the drawing-room. Smerdyakov removed the fragments of the broken vase, while Grigory stood by the table looking gloomily at the floor. "Shouldn't you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed, too?" Alyosha said to him. "We'll look after him. My brother gave you a terrible blow--on the head." "He's insulted me!" Grigory articulated gloomily and distinctly. "He's 'insulted' his father, not only you," observed Ivan with a forced smile. "I used to wash him in his tub. He's insulted me," repeated Grigory. "Damn it all, if I hadn't pulled him away perhaps he'd have murdered him. It wouldn't take much to do for AEsop, would it?" whispered Ivan to Alyosha. "God forbid!" cried Alyosha. "Why should He forbid?" Ivan went on in the same whisper, with a malignant grimace. "One reptile will devour the other. And serve them both right, too." Alyosha shuddered. "Of course I won't let him be murdered as I didn't just now. Stay here, Alyosha, I'll go for a turn in the yard. My head's begun to ache." Alyosha went to his father's bedroom and sat by his bedside behind the screen for about an hour. The old man suddenly opened his eyes and gazed for a long while at Alyosha, evidently remembering and meditating. All at once his face betrayed extraordinary excitement. "Alyosha," he whispered apprehensively, "where's Ivan?" "In the yard. He's got a headache. He's on the watch." "Give me that looking-glass. It stands over there. Give it me." Alyosha gave him a little round folding looking-glass which stood on the chest of drawers. The old man looked at himself in it; his nose was considerably swollen, and on the left side of his forehead there was a rather large crimson bruise. "What does Ivan say? Alyosha, my dear, my only son, I'm afraid of Ivan. I'm more afraid of Ivan than the other. You're the only one I'm not afraid of...." "Don't be afraid of Ivan either. He is angry, but he'll defend you." "Alyosha, and what of the other? He's run to Grushenka. My angel, tell me the truth, was she here just now or not?" "No one has seen her. It was a mistake. She has not been here." "You know Mitya wants to marry her, to marry her." "She won't marry him." "She won't. She won't. She won't. She won't on any account!" The old man fairly fluttered with joy, as though nothing more comforting could have been said to him. In his delight he seized Alyosha's hand and pressed it warmly to his heart. Tears positively glittered in his eyes. "That image of the Mother of God of which I was telling you just now," he said. "Take it home and keep it for yourself. And I'll let you go back to the monastery.... I was joking this morning, don't be angry with me. My head aches, Alyosha.... Alyosha, comfort my heart. Be an angel and tell me the truth!" "You're still asking whether she has been here or not?" Alyosha said sorrowfully. "No, no, no. I believe you. I'll tell you what it is: you go to Grushenka yourself, or see her somehow; make haste and ask her; see for yourself, which she means to choose, him or me. Eh? What? Can you?" "If I see her I'll ask her," Alyosha muttered, embarrassed. "No, she won't tell you," the old man interrupted, "she's a rogue. She'll begin kissing you and say that it's you she wants. She's a deceitful, shameless hussy. You mustn't go to her, you mustn't!" "No, father, and it wouldn't be suitable, it wouldn't be right at all." "Where was he sending you just now? He shouted 'Go' as he ran away." "To Katerina Ivanovna." "For money? To ask her for money?" "No. Not for money." "He's no money; not a farthing. I'll settle down for the night, and think things over, and you can go. Perhaps you'll meet her.... Only be sure to come to me to-morrow in the morning. Be sure to. I have a word to say to you to-morrow. Will you come?" "Yes." "When you come, pretend you've come of your own accord to ask after me. Don't tell any one I told you to. Don't say a word to Ivan." "Very well." "Good-by, my angel. You stood up for me, just now. I shall never forget it. I've a word to say to you to-morrow--but I must think about it." "And how do you feel now?" "I shall get up to-morrow and go out, perfectly well, perfectly well!" Crossing the yard Alyosha found Ivan sitting on the bench at the gateway. He was sitting writing something in pencil in his note-book. Alyosha told Ivan that their father had waked up, was conscious, and had let him go back to sleep at the monastery. "Alyosha, I should be very glad to meet you to-morrow morning," said Ivan cordially, standing up. His cordiality was a complete surprise to Alyosha. "I shall be at the Hohlakovs' to-morrow," answered Alyosha, "I may be at Katerina Ivanovna's, too, if I don't find her now." "But you're going to her now, anyway? For that 'compliments and farewell,' " said Ivan smiling. Alyosha was disconcerted. "I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what went before. Dmitri has asked you to go to her and say that he--well, in fact--takes his leave of her?" "Brother, how will all this horror end between father and Dmitri?" exclaimed Alyosha. "One can't tell for certain. Perhaps in nothing: it may all fizzle out. That woman is a beast. In any case we must keep the old man indoors and not let Dmitri in the house." "Brother, let me ask one thing more: has any man a right to look at other men and decide which is worthy to live?" "Why bring in the question of worth? The matter is most often decided in men's hearts on other grounds much more natural. And as for rights--who has not the right to wish?" "Not for another man's death?" "What even if for another man's death? Why lie to oneself since all men live so and perhaps cannot help living so. Are you referring to what I said just now--that one reptile will devour the other? In that case let me ask you, do you think me like Dmitri capable of shedding AEsop's blood, murdering him, eh?" "What are you saying, Ivan? Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don't think Dmitri is capable of it, either." "Thanks, if only for that," smiled Ivan. "Be sure, I should always defend him. But in my wishes I reserve myself full latitude in this case. Good-by till to-morrow. Don't condemn me, and don't look on me as a villain," he added with a smile. They shook hands warmly as they had never done before. Alyosha felt that his brother had taken the first step towards him, and that he had certainly done this with some definite motive.

book 3, Chapter 9

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

The Sensualists Dmitri runs through the rooms trying to find Grushenka, and when Fyodor Pavlovich accuses him of stealing money, Dmitri throws his father to the ground, threatens to kill him, and runs out of the house. Alyosha and Ivan tend to Fyodor Pavlovich's wounds and put him to bed

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_5.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 15

chapter 15

{"name": "Chapter 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-11-20", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, and Margaret go to call on Lady Middleton, while Marianne remains behind; although Willoughby has promised all of them he will visit later that day, he also told Marianne that he would visit her while the rest of her family was gone. When they return from Barton Park, Willoughby's carriage is outside; but they find Marianne crying, and Willoughby saying that he must immediately go to London, and will not be back in Devonshire for some time. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor are completely unsettled by this hasty departure, and Elinor fears that they might have quarreled, or had some kind of falling-out. Mrs. Dashwood decides that Mrs. Smith, Willoughby's aunt, must have disapproved of Marianne and told Willoughby not to marry her. She suspects that Elinor must think worse of Willoughby, because Elinor is more judgmental than she. But Elinor's notions are founded on Willoughby's tendency to be open with them, and if it were merely a matter of his aunt disapproving of Marianne, she doubts that such an alteration in his character would have taken place. She also doubts that they were ever engaged, although she is sure of their affection. Marianne is torn up by Willoughby's departure, and Elinor is left to hope that Willoughby's intentions are still honorable, and that his relationship with Marianne may continue.", "analysis": "The theme of expectations comes into play, as Willoughby's affections lead the family to believe that Willoughby and Marianne will soon be married, if not already; but, the theme of disappointments counters this, and dashes expectations just as quickly as they are made. Elinor is right to trust her instincts that something is wrong; Willoughby behaves nothing like himself, and once again, his secrecy indicates that he has likely done something terribly wrong. This mishap brings other themes to the fore; it reasserts the importance of social and economic standing with regard to marriage, and introduces the themes of secrecy and doubt. Secrecy, when it appears in this novel, indicates a deeper level of guilt and perhaps wrongdoing as well; it is always a negative sign, and leads to revelations that have a damaging effect. Doubt also indicates something more than is readily apparent; in this case, Elinor's doubt is good warning that there is something more to Willoughby's behavior than is clear to her"}

Mrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home. On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs. Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the emotion which over-powered Marianne. "Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she entered--"is she ill?" "I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!" "Disappointment?" "Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you." "To London!--and are you going this morning?" "Almost this moment." "This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;--and her business will not detain you from us long I hope." He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth." "And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can you wait for an invitation here?" His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied, "You are too good." Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke. "I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately, because you only can judge how far THAT might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubt your inclination." "My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are of such a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself"-- He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy." He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight. Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned. Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;--the distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible. But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty. In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful. "Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said she, as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?" "It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice--Gone too without intending to return!--Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. YOU must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?"-- "It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see THAT. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you." "Can you, indeed!" "Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;--but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy YOU, I know; but you shall not talk ME out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager to get him away;--and that the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware that she DOES disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?" "Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer." "Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?" "I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him." "Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted." "Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith--and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us." "Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness." "I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their engagement I do." "I am perfectly satisfied of both." "Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them." "I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection;--that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?" "I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except ONE is in favour of their engagement; but that ONE is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other." "How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her?" "No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure." "But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him." "You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed." "A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?" "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning;--he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent." "You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though WE have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable." They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all. They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room. This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him.

Chapter 15

https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-11-20

Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, and Margaret go to call on Lady Middleton, while Marianne remains behind; although Willoughby has promised all of them he will visit later that day, he also told Marianne that he would visit her while the rest of her family was gone. When they return from Barton Park, Willoughby's carriage is outside; but they find Marianne crying, and Willoughby saying that he must immediately go to London, and will not be back in Devonshire for some time. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor are completely unsettled by this hasty departure, and Elinor fears that they might have quarreled, or had some kind of falling-out. Mrs. Dashwood decides that Mrs. Smith, Willoughby's aunt, must have disapproved of Marianne and told Willoughby not to marry her. She suspects that Elinor must think worse of Willoughby, because Elinor is more judgmental than she. But Elinor's notions are founded on Willoughby's tendency to be open with them, and if it were merely a matter of his aunt disapproving of Marianne, she doubts that such an alteration in his character would have taken place. She also doubts that they were ever engaged, although she is sure of their affection. Marianne is torn up by Willoughby's departure, and Elinor is left to hope that Willoughby's intentions are still honorable, and that his relationship with Marianne may continue.

The theme of expectations comes into play, as Willoughby's affections lead the family to believe that Willoughby and Marianne will soon be married, if not already; but, the theme of disappointments counters this, and dashes expectations just as quickly as they are made. Elinor is right to trust her instincts that something is wrong; Willoughby behaves nothing like himself, and once again, his secrecy indicates that he has likely done something terribly wrong. This mishap brings other themes to the fore; it reasserts the importance of social and economic standing with regard to marriage, and introduces the themes of secrecy and doubt. Secrecy, when it appears in this novel, indicates a deeper level of guilt and perhaps wrongdoing as well; it is always a negative sign, and leads to revelations that have a damaging effect. Doubt also indicates something more than is readily apparent; in this case, Elinor's doubt is good warning that there is something more to Willoughby's behavior than is clear to her

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/50.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_49_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 50

chapter 50

{"name": "Chapter 50", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-50", "summary": "Greenhill, the summit of a hill with an ancient rampart, was an ideal fair site. There were permanent buildings and also tents. Shepherds who had traveled with their flocks for days thronged in. The colors identifying the owners of the sheep formed a pleasing pattern. A pony wagon for first-aid to the sheep wove in and out. The sheep of Gabriel's two employers were admired for their breeding, beauty, and grooming. As the day wore on and the sheep were sold, the shepherds turned their attention to a huge tent that would house the Royal Hippodrome's performances. Bands were playing and the crowds were tremendous, with folks like Poorgrass and Coggan adding to the shoving. Two performers' dressing rooms were at the rear of the tent. In one was a young man -- Sergeant Troy. Troy had signed on with the ship that had rescued him and \"ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a precarious living . . . as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give him a distaste for this kind of life. . . . There was ever present, too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but choose to return to England.\" He often wondered whether Bathsheba thought him dead. Back in England now, he was reluctant to return to her; he expected her to be vengeful. He fell in with a traveling circus and became a daring rider. Billed as \"Mr. Francis, The Great Cosmopolitan Equestrian and Roughrider,\" he found himself at Greenhill. Here he played the highwayman in an old love story. Boldwood asked Bathsheba whether her sheep had done well. All were sold. Save for an appointment with a dealer, she was ready to leave. She inquired whether Boldwood had seen the play \"Turpin's Ride to York\" and whether the story was authentic. He assured her that it was and politely offered to get her a seat for the performance. This \"reserved seat\" proved to be on a raised bench covered with red cloth in a conspicuous section of the tent, and Bathsheba was the only person sitting there. She sat selfconsciously enthroned, her black skirts draped about her. Peeping from the dressing room, Troy saw her. Troy explained to the show's manager that he could not go on because a creditor of his was in the audience. The manager, afraid to offend his leading man at this point, made a suggestion. \"Go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you can by a judicious wink now and then. . . . They'll never find out the speeches are omitted.\" Thus the \"creditor\" did not recognize him by his voice, and makeup and a beard disguised his appearance. However, at the next performance Troy suspected that he had been recognized by his wife's former bailiff, Pennyways. Troy resolved to find the man and speak to him. When it was almost dark, he donned a thick beard and wandered about the grounds. Then he spied Bathsheba sitting in the refreshment tent. He found a point outside the tent where he could hear her, and he cut a small hole through the canvas so that he could see her. He saw Pennyways approach Bathsheba, who refused to listen to him. Pennyways then wrote her a note that said that her husband was alive. Impulsively, Troy reached under the edge of the canvas and snatched the note from Bathsheba's hand. Then he ran away. In the confusion, Troy found Pennyways, whispered with him, \"and with a mutual glance of concurrence, the two men went into the night together.\"", "analysis": "Hardy terms Greenhill the \"Nijni Novgorod\" of South Wessex; this refers to a town in Russia once famous for its annual fair. Hardy's avowed purpose was to preserve all the culture and traditions of his countryside, and he put loving care into the planning of this elaborate chapter. One could argue that it contains too many coincidences, but it must be acknowledged that there are, as well, many colorful and realistic passages. Troy is still impulsive and shrewd, but he lacks some of his former cockiness. He does not want Bathsheba to see him in his present circumstances. Although surprised at how attractive she still is to him, he wants to discover what he can about her financial situation before deciding whether or not to reveal that he is alive."}

THE SHEEP FAIR--TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE'S HAND Greenhill was the Nijni Novgorod of South Wessex; and the busiest, merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number was the day of the sheep fair. This yearly gathering was upon the summit of a hill which retained in good preservation the remains of an ancient earthwork, consisting of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval form encircling the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down here and there. To each of the two chief openings on opposite sides a winding road ascended, and the level green space of ten or fifteen acres enclosed by the bank was the site of the fair. A few permanent erections dotted the spot, but the majority of visitors patronized canvas alone for resting and feeding under during the time of their sojourn here. Shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances started from home two or three days, or even a week, before the fair, driving their charges a few miles each day--not more than ten or twelve--and resting them at night in hired fields by the wayside at previously chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning. The shepherd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit for the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook, which he used as the staff of his pilgrimage. Several of the sheep would get worn and lame, and occasionally a lambing occurred on the road. To meet these contingencies, there was frequently provided, to accompany the flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into which the weakly ones were taken for the remainder of the journey. The Weatherbury Farms, however, were no such long distance from the hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their case. But the large united flocks of Bathsheba and Farmer Boldwood formed a valuable and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and on this account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwood's shepherd and Cain Ball, accompanied them along the way, through the decayed old town of Kingsbere, and upward to the plateau,--old George the dog of course behind them. When the autumn sun slanted over Greenhill this morning and lighted the dewy flat upon its crest, nebulous clouds of dust were to be seen floating between the pairs of hedges which streaked the wide prospect around in all directions. These gradually converged upon the base of the hill, and the flocks became individually visible, climbing the serpentine ways which led to the top. Thus, in a slow procession, they entered the opening to which the roads tended, multitude after multitude, horned and hornless--blue flocks and red flocks, buff flocks and brown flocks, even green and salmon-tinted flocks, according to the fancy of the colourist and custom of the farm. Men were shouting, dogs were barking, with greatest animation, but the thronging travellers in so long a journey had grown nearly indifferent to such terrors, though they still bleated piteously at the unwontedness of their experiences, a tall shepherd rising here and there in the midst of them, like a gigantic idol amid a crowd of prostrate devotees. The great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of South Downs and the old Wessex horned breeds; to the latter class Bathsheba's and Farmer Boldwood's mainly belonged. These filed in about nine o'clock, their vermiculated horns lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear nestling under each horn. Before and behind came other varieties, perfect leopards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only lacking the spots. There were also a few of the Oxfordshire breed, whose wool was beginning to curl like a child's flaxen hair, though surpassed in this respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which were in turn less curly than the Cotswolds. But the most picturesque by far was a small flock of Exmoors, which chanced to be there this year. Their pied faces and legs, dark and heavy horns, tresses of wool hanging round their swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the monotony of the flocks in that quarter. All these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered and were penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog belonging to each flock being tied to the corner of the pen containing it. Alleys for pedestrians intersected the pens, which soon became crowded with buyers and sellers from far and near. In another part of the hill an altogether different scene began to force itself upon the eye towards midday. A circular tent, of exceptional newness and size, was in course of erection here. As the day drew on, the flocks began to change hands, lightening the shepherd's responsibilities; and they turned their attention to this tent and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed concentrated on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was going on. "The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turpin's Ride to York and the Death of Black Bess," replied the man promptly, without turning his eyes or leaving off tying. As soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly stimulating harmonies, and the announcement was publicly made, Black Bess standing in a conspicuous position on the outside, as a living proof, if proof were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances from the stage over which the people were to enter. These were so convinced by such genuine appeals to heart and understanding both that they soon began to crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being visible Jan Coggan and Joseph Poorgrass, who were holiday keeping here to-day. "That's the great ruffen pushing me!" screamed a woman in front of Jan over her shoulder at him when the rush was at its fiercest. "How can I help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?" said Coggan, in a deprecating tone, turning his head towards the aforesaid folk as far as he could without turning his body, which was jammed as in a vice. There was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent forth their echoing notes. The crowd was again ecstasied, and gave another lurch in which Coggan and Poorgrass were again thrust by those behind upon the women in front. "Oh that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of such ruffens!" exclaimed one of these ladies again, as she swayed like a reed shaken by the wind. "Now," said Coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the public at large as it stood clustered about his shoulder-blades, "did ye ever hear such onreasonable woman as that? Upon my carcase, neighbours, if I could only get out of this cheese-wring, the damn women might eat the show for me!" "Don't ye lose yer temper, Jan!" implored Joseph Poorgrass, in a whisper. "They might get their men to murder us, for I think by the shine of their eyes that they be a sinful form of womankind." Jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be pacified to please a friend, and they gradually reached the foot of the ladder, Poorgrass being flattened like a jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for admission, which he had got ready half-an-hour earlier, having become so reeking hot in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the woman in spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with chalked face and shoulders, who took the money of him, hastily dropped it again from a fear that some trick had been played to burn her fingers. So they all entered, and the cloth of the tent, to the eyes of an observer on the outside, became bulged into innumerable pimples such as we observe on a sack of potatoes, caused by the various human heads, backs, and elbows at high pressure within. At the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-tents. One of these, alloted to the male performers, was partitioned into halves by a cloth; and in one of the divisions there was sitting on the grass, pulling on a pair of jack-boots, a young man whom we instantly recognise as Sergeant Troy. Troy's appearance in this position may be briefly accounted for. The brig aboard which he was taken in Budmouth Roads was about to start on a voyage, though somewhat short of hands. Troy read the articles and joined, but before they sailed a boat was despatched across the bay to Lulwind cove; as he had half expected, his clothes were gone. He ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a precarious living in various towns as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give him a distaste for this kind of life. There was a certain animal form of refinement in his nature; and however pleasant a strange condition might be whilst privations were easily warded off, it was disadvantageously coarse when money was short. There was ever present, too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but chose to return to England and Weatherbury Farm. Whether Bathsheba thought him dead was a frequent subject of curious conjecture. To England he did return at last; but the fact of drawing nearer to Weatherbury abstracted its fascinations, and his intention to enter his old groove at the place became modified. It was with gloom he considered on landing at Liverpool that if he were to go home his reception would be of a kind very unpleasant to contemplate; for what Troy had in the way of emotion was an occasional fitful sentiment which sometimes caused him as much inconvenience as emotion of a strong and healthy kind. Bathsheba was not a woman to be made a fool of, or a woman to suffer in silence; and how could he endure existence with a spirited wife to whom at first entering he would be beholden for food and lodging? Moreover, it was not at all unlikely that his wife would fail at her farming, if she had not already done so; and he would then become liable for her maintenance: and what a life such a future of poverty with her would be, the spectre of Fanny constantly between them, harrowing his temper and embittering her words! Thus, for reasons touching on distaste, regret, and shame commingled, he put off his return from day to day, and would have decided to put it off altogether if he could have found anywhere else the ready-made establishment which existed for him there. At this time--the July preceding the September in which we find at Greenhill Fair--he fell in with a travelling circus which was performing in the outskirts of a northern town. Troy introduced himself to the manager by taming a restive horse of the troupe, hitting a suspended apple with a pistol-bullet fired from the animal's back when in full gallop, and other feats. For his merits in these--all more or less based upon his experiences as a dragoon-guardsman--Troy was taken into the company, and the play of Turpin was prepared with a view to his personation of the chief character. Troy was not greatly elated by the appreciative spirit in which he was undoubtedly treated, but he thought the engagement might afford him a few weeks for consideration. It was thus carelessly, and without having formed any definite plan for the future, that Troy found himself at Greenhill Fair with the rest of the company on this day. And now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the pavilion the following incident had taken place. Bathsheba--who was driven to the fair that day by her odd man Poorgrass--had, like every one else, read or heard the announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great Cosmopolitan Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of Turpin, and she was not yet too old and careworn to be without a little curiosity to see him. This particular show was by far the largest and grandest in the fair, a horde of little shows grouping themselves under its shade like chickens around a hen. The crowd had passed in, and Boldwood, who had been watching all the day for an opportunity of speaking to her, seeing her comparatively isolated, came up to her side. "I hope the sheep have done well to-day, Mrs. Troy?" he said, nervously. "Oh yes, thank you," said Bathsheba, colour springing up in the centre of her cheeks. "I was fortunate enough to sell them all just as we got upon the hill, so we hadn't to pen at all." "And now you are entirely at leisure?" "Yes, except that I have to see one more dealer in two hours' time: otherwise I should be going home. He was looking at this large tent and the announcement. Have you ever seen the play of 'Turpin's Ride to York'? Turpin was a real man, was he not?" "Oh yes, perfectly true--all of it. Indeed, I think I've heard Jan Coggan say that a relation of his knew Tom King, Turpin's friend, quite well." "Coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with his relations, we must remember. I hope they can all be believed." "Yes, yes; we know Coggan. But Turpin is true enough. You have never seen it played, I suppose?" "Never. I was not allowed to go into these places when I was young. Hark! What's that prancing? How they shout!" "Black Bess just started off, I suppose. Am I right in supposing you would like to see the performance, Mrs. Troy? Please excuse my mistake, if it is one; but if you would like to, I'll get a seat for you with pleasure." Perceiving that she hesitated, he added, "I myself shall not stay to see it: I've seen it before." Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had only withheld her feet from the ladder because she feared to go in alone. She had been hoping that Oak might appear, whose assistance in such cases was always accepted as an inalienable right, but Oak was nowhere to be seen; and hence it was that she said, "Then if you will just look in first, to see if there's room, I think I will go in for a minute or two." And so a short time after this Bathsheba appeared in the tent with Boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a "reserved" seat, again withdrew. This feature consisted of one raised bench in a very conspicuous part of the circle, covered with red cloth, and floored with a piece of carpet, and Bathsheba immediately found, to her confusion, that she was the single reserved individual in the tent, the rest of the crowded spectators, one and all, standing on their legs on the borders of the arena, where they got twice as good a view of the performance for half the money. Hence as many eyes were turned upon her, enthroned alone in this place of honour, against a scarlet background, as upon the ponies and clown who were engaged in preliminary exploits in the centre, Turpin not having yet appeared. Once there, Bathsheba was forced to make the best of it and remain: she sat down, spreading her skirts with some dignity over the unoccupied space on each side of her, and giving a new and feminine aspect to the pavilion. In a few minutes she noticed the fat red nape of Coggan's neck among those standing just below her, and Joseph Poorgrass's saintly profile a little further on. The interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade. The strange luminous semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through holes and divisions in the canvas, and spirted like jets of gold-dust across the dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until they alighted on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like little lamps suspended there. Troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high before him as described, sitting as queen of the tournament. He started back in utter confusion, for although his disguise effectually concealed his personality, he instantly felt that she would be sure to recognize his voice. He had several times during the day thought of the possibility of some Weatherbury person or other appearing and recognizing him; but he had taken the risk carelessly. If they see me, let them, he had said. But here was Bathsheba in her own person; and the reality of the scene was so much intenser than any of his prefigurings that he felt he had not half enough considered the point. She looked so charming and fair that his cool mood about Weatherbury people was changed. He had not expected her to exercise this power over him in the twinkling of an eye. Should he go on, and care nothing? He could not bring himself to do that. Beyond a politic wish to remain unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense of shame at the possibility that his attractive young wife, who already despised him, should despise him more by discovering him in so mean a condition after so long a time. He actually blushed at the thought, and was vexed beyond measure that his sentiments of dislike towards Weatherbury should have led him to dally about the country in this way. But Troy was never more clever than when absolutely at his wit's end. He hastily thrust aside the curtain dividing his own little dressing space from that of the manager and proprietor, who now appeared as the individual called Tom King as far down as his waist, and as the aforesaid respectable manager thence to his toes. "Here's the devil to pay!" said Troy. "How's that?" "Why, there's a blackguard creditor in the tent I don't want to see, who'll discover me and nab me as sure as Satan if I open my mouth. What's to be done?" "You must appear now, I think." "I can't." "But the play must proceed." "Do you give out that Turpin has got a bad cold, and can't speak his part, but that he'll perform it just the same without speaking." The proprietor shook his head. "Anyhow, play or no play, I won't open my mouth," said Troy, firmly. "Very well, then let me see. I tell you how we'll manage," said the other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely awkward to offend his leading man just at this time. "I won't tell 'em anything about your keeping silence; go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable nods in the heroic places, you know. They'll never find out that the speeches are omitted." This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin's speeches were not many or long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in the action; and accordingly the play began, and at the appointed time Black Bess leapt into the grassy circle amid the plaudits of the spectators. At the turnpike scene, where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at midnight by the officers, and the half-awake gatekeeper in his tasselled nightcap denies that any horseman has passed, Coggan uttered a broad-chested "Well done!" which could be heard all over the fair above the bleating, and Poorgrass smiled delightedly with a nice sense of dramatic contrast between our hero, who coolly leaps the gate, and halting justice in the form of his enemies, who must needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be let through. At the death of Tom King, he could not refrain from seizing Coggan by the hand, and whispering, with tears in his eyes, "Of course he's not really shot, Jan--only seemingly!" And when the last sad scene came on, and the body of the gallant and faithful Bess had to be carried out on a shutter by twelve volunteers from among the spectators, nothing could restrain Poorgrass from lending a hand, exclaiming, as he asked Jan to join him, "Twill be something to tell of at Warren's in future years, Jan, and hand down to our children." For many a year in Weatherbury, Joseph told, with the air of a man who had had experiences in his time, that he touched with his own hand the hoof of Bess as she lay upon the board upon his shoulder. If, as some thinkers hold, immortality consists in being enshrined in others' memories, then did Black Bess become immortal that day if she never had done so before. Meanwhile Troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-up for the character, the more effectually to disguise himself, and though he had felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis effected by judiciously "lining" his face with a wire rendered him safe from the eyes of Bathsheba and her men. Nevertheless, he was relieved when it was got through. There was a second performance in the evening, and the tent was lighted up. Troy had taken his part very quietly this time, venturing to introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was just concluding it when, whilst standing at the edge of the circle contiguous to the first row of spectators, he observed within a yard of him the eye of a man darted keenly into his side features. Troy hastily shifted his position, after having recognized in the scrutineer the knavish bailiff Pennyways, his wife's sworn enemy, who still hung about the outskirts of Weatherbury. At first Troy resolved to take no notice and abide by circumstances. That he had been recognized by this man was highly probable; yet there was room for a doubt. Then the great objection he had felt to allowing news of his proximity to precede him to Weatherbury in the event of his return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present occupation would discredit him still further in his wife's eyes, returned in full force. Moreover, should he resolve not to return at all, a tale of his being alive and being in the neighbourhood would be awkward; and he was anxious to acquire a knowledge of his wife's temporal affairs before deciding which to do. In this dilemma Troy at once went out to reconnoitre. It occurred to him that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible, would be a very wise act. He had put on a thick beard borrowed from the establishment, and in this he wandered about the fair-field. It was now almost dark, and respectable people were getting their carts and gigs ready to go home. The largest refreshment booth in the fair was provided by an innkeeper from a neighbouring town. This was considered an unexceptionable place for obtaining the necessary food and rest: Host Trencher (as he was jauntily called by the local newspaper) being a substantial man of high repute for catering through all the country round. The tent was divided into first and second-class compartments, and at the end of the first-class division was a yet further enclosure for the most exclusive, fenced off from the body of the tent by a luncheon-bar, behind which the host himself stood bustling about in white apron and shirt-sleeves, and looking as if he had never lived anywhere but under canvas all his life. In these penetralia were chairs and a table, which, on candles being lighted, made quite a cozy and luxurious show, with an urn, plated tea and coffee pots, china teacups, and plum cakes. Troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman was frying pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling them at a penny a-piece, and looked over the heads of the people within. He could see nothing of Pennyways, but he soon discerned Bathsheba through an opening into the reserved space at the further end. Troy thereupon retreated, went round the tent into the darkness, and listened. He could hear Bathsheba's voice immediately inside the canvas; she was conversing with a man. A warmth overspread his face: surely she was not so unprincipled as to flirt in a fair! He wondered if, then, she reckoned upon his death as an absolute certainty. To get at the root of the matter, Troy took a penknife from his pocket and softly made two little cuts crosswise in the cloth, which, by folding back the corners left a hole the size of a wafer. Close to this he placed his face, withdrawing it again in a movement of surprise; for his eye had been within twelve inches of the top of Bathsheba's head. It was too near to be convenient. He made another hole a little to one side and lower down, in a shaded place beside her chair, from which it was easy and safe to survey her by looking horizontally. Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning back, sipping a cup of tea that she held in her hand, and the owner of the male voice was Boldwood, who had apparently just brought the cup to her, Bathsheba, being in a negligent mood, leant so idly against the canvas that it was pressed to the shape of her shoulder, and she was, in fact, as good as in Troy's arms; and he was obliged to keep his breast carefully backward that she might not feel its warmth through the cloth as he gazed in. Troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again within him as they had been stirred earlier in the day. She was handsome as ever, and she was his. It was some minutes before he could counteract his sudden wish to go in, and claim her. Then he thought how the proud girl who had always looked down upon him even whilst it was to love him, would hate him on discovering him to be a strolling player. Were he to make himself known, that chapter of his life must at all risks be kept for ever from her and from the Weatherbury people, or his name would be a byword throughout the parish. He would be nicknamed "Turpin" as long as he lived. Assuredly before he could claim her these few past months of his existence must be entirely blotted out. "Shall I get you another cup before you start, ma'am?" said Farmer Boldwood. "Thank you," said Bathsheba. "But I must be going at once. It was great neglect in that man to keep me waiting here till so late. I should have gone two hours ago, if it had not been for him. I had no idea of coming in here; but there's nothing so refreshing as a cup of tea, though I should never have got one if you hadn't helped me." Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and watched each varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuosities of her little ear. She took out her purse and was insisting to Boldwood on paying for her tea for herself, when at this moment Pennyways entered the tent. Troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability endangered at once. He was about to leave his hole of espial, attempt to follow Pennyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had recognized him, when he was arrested by the conversation, and found he was too late. "Excuse me, ma'am," said Pennyways; "I've some private information for your ear alone." "I cannot hear it now," she said, coldly. That Bathsheba could not endure this man was evident; in fact, he was continually coming to her with some tale or other, by which he might creep into favour at the expense of persons maligned. "I'll write it down," said Pennyways, confidently. He stooped over the table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-book, and wrote upon the paper, in a round hand-- "YOUR HUSBAND IS HERE. I'VE SEEN HIM. WHO'S THE FOOL NOW?" This he folded small, and handed towards her. Bathsheba would not read it; she would not even put out her hand to take it. Pennyways, then, with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, and, turning away, left her. From the words and action of Pennyways, Troy, though he had not been able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a moment's doubt that the note referred to him. Nothing that he could think of could be done to check the exposure. "Curse my luck!" he whispered, and added imprecations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind. Meanwhile Boldwood said, taking up the note from her lap-- "Don't you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy? If not, I'll destroy it." "Oh, well," said Bathsheba, carelessly, "perhaps it is unjust not to read it; but I can guess what it is about. He wants me to recommend him, or it is to tell me of some little scandal or another connected with my work-people. He's always doing that." Bathsheba held the note in her right hand. Boldwood handed towards her a plate of cut bread-and-butter; when, in order to take a slice, she put the note into her left hand, where she was still holding the purse, and then allowed her hand to drop beside her close to the canvas. The moment had come for saving his game, and Troy impulsively felt that he would play the card. For yet another time he looked at the fair hand, and saw the pink finger-tips, and the blue veins of the wrist, encircled by a bracelet of coral chippings which she wore: how familiar it all was to him! Then, with the lightning action in which he was such an adept, he noiselessly slipped his hand under the bottom of the tent-cloth, which was far from being pinned tightly down, lifted it a little way, keeping his eye to the hole, snatched the note from her fingers, dropped the canvas, and ran away in the gloom towards the bank and ditch, smiling at the scream of astonishment which burst from her. Troy then slid down on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in the bottom of the entrenchment to a distance of a hundred yards, ascended again, and crossed boldly in a slow walk towards the front entrance of the tent. His object was now to get to Pennyways, and prevent a repetition of the announcement until such time as he should choose. Troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups there gathered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently not wishing to make himself prominent by inquiring for him. One or two men were speaking of a daring attempt that had just been made to rob a young lady by lifting the canvas of the tent beside her. It was supposed that the rogue had imagined a slip of paper which she held in her hand to be a bank note, for he had seized it, and made off with it, leaving her purse behind. His chagrin and disappointment at discovering its worthlessness would be a good joke, it was said. However, the occurrence seemed to have become known to few, for it had not interrupted a fiddler, who had lately begun playing by the door of the tent, nor the four bowed old men with grim countenances and walking-sticks in hand, who were dancing "Major Malley's Reel" to the tune. Behind these stood Pennyways. Troy glided up to him, beckoned, and whispered a few words; and with a mutual glance of concurrence the two men went into the night together.

Chapter 50

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-50

Greenhill, the summit of a hill with an ancient rampart, was an ideal fair site. There were permanent buildings and also tents. Shepherds who had traveled with their flocks for days thronged in. The colors identifying the owners of the sheep formed a pleasing pattern. A pony wagon for first-aid to the sheep wove in and out. The sheep of Gabriel's two employers were admired for their breeding, beauty, and grooming. As the day wore on and the sheep were sold, the shepherds turned their attention to a huge tent that would house the Royal Hippodrome's performances. Bands were playing and the crowds were tremendous, with folks like Poorgrass and Coggan adding to the shoving. Two performers' dressing rooms were at the rear of the tent. In one was a young man -- Sergeant Troy. Troy had signed on with the ship that had rescued him and "ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a precarious living . . . as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give him a distaste for this kind of life. . . . There was ever present, too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but choose to return to England." He often wondered whether Bathsheba thought him dead. Back in England now, he was reluctant to return to her; he expected her to be vengeful. He fell in with a traveling circus and became a daring rider. Billed as "Mr. Francis, The Great Cosmopolitan Equestrian and Roughrider," he found himself at Greenhill. Here he played the highwayman in an old love story. Boldwood asked Bathsheba whether her sheep had done well. All were sold. Save for an appointment with a dealer, she was ready to leave. She inquired whether Boldwood had seen the play "Turpin's Ride to York" and whether the story was authentic. He assured her that it was and politely offered to get her a seat for the performance. This "reserved seat" proved to be on a raised bench covered with red cloth in a conspicuous section of the tent, and Bathsheba was the only person sitting there. She sat selfconsciously enthroned, her black skirts draped about her. Peeping from the dressing room, Troy saw her. Troy explained to the show's manager that he could not go on because a creditor of his was in the audience. The manager, afraid to offend his leading man at this point, made a suggestion. "Go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you can by a judicious wink now and then. . . . They'll never find out the speeches are omitted." Thus the "creditor" did not recognize him by his voice, and makeup and a beard disguised his appearance. However, at the next performance Troy suspected that he had been recognized by his wife's former bailiff, Pennyways. Troy resolved to find the man and speak to him. When it was almost dark, he donned a thick beard and wandered about the grounds. Then he spied Bathsheba sitting in the refreshment tent. He found a point outside the tent where he could hear her, and he cut a small hole through the canvas so that he could see her. He saw Pennyways approach Bathsheba, who refused to listen to him. Pennyways then wrote her a note that said that her husband was alive. Impulsively, Troy reached under the edge of the canvas and snatched the note from Bathsheba's hand. Then he ran away. In the confusion, Troy found Pennyways, whispered with him, "and with a mutual glance of concurrence, the two men went into the night together."

Hardy terms Greenhill the "Nijni Novgorod" of South Wessex; this refers to a town in Russia once famous for its annual fair. Hardy's avowed purpose was to preserve all the culture and traditions of his countryside, and he put loving care into the planning of this elaborate chapter. One could argue that it contains too many coincidences, but it must be acknowledged that there are, as well, many colorful and realistic passages. Troy is still impulsive and shrewd, but he lacks some of his former cockiness. He does not want Bathsheba to see him in his present circumstances. Although surprised at how attractive she still is to him, he wants to discover what he can about her financial situation before deciding whether or not to reveal that he is alive.

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all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_3_part_3.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xviii

chapter xviii

{"name": "Chapter XVIII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase3-chapter16-24", "summary": "Twenty-six-year-old Mr. Angel Clare, the handsome and well-educated son of a prominent Wessex clergyman, fails to heed his father's wishes to join the church like his two older brothers, chooses instead to become a gentleman farmer and hopes to farm in America: \"he quite the gentleman born\". He is at the Dairy to learn. He plays a harp. Tess shies away from him, believing that she is impure and not good enough for him", "analysis": ""}

Angel Clare rises out of the past not altogether as a distinct figure, but as an appreciative voice, a long regard of fixed, abstracted eyes, and a mobility of mouth somewhat too small and delicately lined for a man's, though with an unexpectedly firm close of the lower lip now and then; enough to do away with any inference of indecision. Nevertheless, something nebulous, preoccupied, vague, in his bearing and regard, marked him as one who probably had no very definite aim or concern about his material future. Yet as a lad people had said of him that he was one who might do anything if he tried. He was the youngest son of his father, a poor parson at the other end of the county, and had arrived at Talbothays Dairy as a six months' pupil, after going the round of some other farms, his object being to acquire a practical skill in the various processes of farming, with a view either to the Colonies or the tenure of a home-farm, as circumstances might decide. His entry into the ranks of the agriculturists and breeders was a step in the young man's career which had been anticipated neither by himself nor by others. Mr Clare the elder, whose first wife had died and left him a daughter, married a second late in life. This lady had somewhat unexpectedly brought him three sons, so that between Angel, the youngest, and his father the Vicar there seemed to be almost a missing generation. Of these boys the aforesaid Angel, the child of his old age, was the only son who had not taken a University degree, though he was the single one of them whose early promise might have done full justice to an academical training. Some two or three years before Angel's appearance at the Marlott dance, on a day when he had left school and was pursuing his studies at home, a parcel came to the Vicarage from the local bookseller's, directed to the Reverend James Clare. The Vicar having opened it and found it to contain a book, read a few pages; whereupon he jumped up from his seat and went straight to the shop with the book under his arm. "Why has this been sent to my house?" he asked peremptorily, holding up the volume. "It was ordered, sir." "Not by me, or any one belonging to me, I am happy to say." The shopkeeper looked into his order-book. "Oh, it has been misdirected, sir," he said. "It was ordered by Mr Angel Clare, and should have been sent to him." Mr Clare winced as if he had been struck. He went home pale and dejected, and called Angel into his study. "Look into this book, my boy," he said. "What do you know about it?" "I ordered it," said Angel simply. "What for?" "To read." "How can you think of reading it?" "How can I? Why--it is a system of philosophy. There is no more moral, or even religious, work published." "Yes--moral enough; I don't deny that. But religious!--and for YOU, who intend to be a minister of the Gospel!" "Since you have alluded to the matter, father," said the son, with anxious thought upon his face, "I should like to say, once for all, that I should prefer not to take Orders. I fear I could not conscientiously do so. I love the Church as one loves a parent. I shall always have the warmest affection for her. There is no institution for whose history I have a deeper admiration; but I cannot honestly be ordained her minister, as my brothers are, while she refuses to liberate her mind from an untenable redemptive theolatry." It had never occurred to the straightforward and simple-minded Vicar that one of his own flesh and blood could come to this! He was stultified, shocked, paralysed. And if Angel were not going to enter the Church, what was the use of sending him to Cambridge? The University as a step to anything but ordination seemed, to this man of fixed ideas, a preface without a volume. He was a man not merely religious, but devout; a firm believer--not as the phrase is now elusively construed by theological thimble-riggers in the Church and out of it, but in the old and ardent sense of the Evangelical school: one who could Indeed opine That the Eternal and Divine Did, eighteen centuries ago In very truth... Angel's father tried argument, persuasion, entreaty. "No, father; I cannot underwrite Article Four (leave alone the rest), taking it 'in the literal and grammatical sense' as required by the Declaration; and, therefore, I can't be a parson in the present state of affairs," said Angel. "My whole instinct in matters of religion is towards reconstruction; to quote your favorite Epistle to the Hebrews, 'the removing of those things that are shaken, as of things that are made, that those things which cannot be shaken may remain.'" His father grieved so deeply that it made Angel quite ill to see him. "What is the good of your mother and me economizing and stinting ourselves to give you a University education, if it is not to be used for the honour and glory of God?" his father repeated. "Why, that it may be used for the honour and glory of man, father." Perhaps if Angel had persevered he might have gone to Cambridge like his brothers. But the Vicar's view of that seat of learning as a stepping-stone to Orders alone was quite a family tradition; and so rooted was the idea in his mind that perseverance began to appear to the sensitive son akin to an intent to misappropriate a trust, and wrong the pious heads of the household, who had been and were, as his father had hinted, compelled to exercise much thrift to carry out this uniform plan of education for the three young men. "I will do without Cambridge," said Angel at last. "I feel that I have no right to go there in the circumstances." The effects of this decisive debate were not long in showing themselves. He spent years and years in desultory studies, undertakings, and meditations; he began to evince considerable indifference to social forms and observances. The material distinctions of rank and wealth he increasingly despised. Even the "good old family" (to use a favourite phrase of a late local worthy) had no aroma for him unless there were good new resolutions in its representatives. As a balance to these austerities, when he went to live in London to see what the world was like, and with a view to practising a profession or business there, he was carried off his head, and nearly entrapped by a woman much older than himself, though luckily he escaped not greatly the worse for the experience. Early association with country solitudes had bred in him an unconquerable, and almost unreasonable, aversion to modern town life, and shut him out from such success as he might have aspired to by following a mundane calling in the impracticability of the spiritual one. But something had to be done; he had wasted many valuable years; and having an acquaintance who was starting on a thriving life as a Colonial farmer, it occurred to Angel that this might be a lead in the right direction. Farming, either in the Colonies, America, or at home--farming, at any rate, after becoming well qualified for the business by a careful apprenticeship--that was a vocation which would probably afford an independence without the sacrifice of what he valued even more than a competency--intellectual liberty. So we find Angel Clare at six-and-twenty here at Talbothays as a student of kine, and, as there were no houses near at hand in which he could get a comfortable lodging, a boarder at the dairyman's. His room was an immense attic which ran the whole length of the dairy-house. It could only be reached by a ladder from the cheese-loft, and had been closed up for a long time till he arrived and selected it as his retreat. Here Clare had plenty of space, and could often be heard by the dairy-folk pacing up and down when the household had gone to rest. A portion was divided off at one end by a curtain, behind which was his bed, the outer part being furnished as a homely sitting-room. At first he lived up above entirely, reading a good deal, and strumming upon an old harp which he had bought at a sale, saying when in a bitter humour that he might have to get his living by it in the streets some day. But he soon preferred to read human nature by taking his meals downstairs in the general dining-kitchen, with the dairyman and his wife, and the maids and men, who all together formed a lively assembly; for though but few milking hands slept in the house, several joined the family at meals. The longer Clare resided here the less objection had he to his company, and the more did he like to share quarters with them in common. Much to his surprise he took, indeed, a real delight in their companionship. The conventional farm-folk of his imagination-- personified in the newspaper-press by the pitiable dummy known as Hodge--were obliterated after a few days' residence. At close quarters no Hodge was to be seen. At first, it is true, when Clare's intelligence was fresh from a contrasting society, these friends with whom he now hobnobbed seemed a little strange. Sitting down as a level member of the dairyman's household seemed at the outset an undignified proceeding. The ideas, the modes, the surroundings, appeared retrogressive and unmeaning. But with living on there, day after day, the acute sojourner became conscious of a new aspect in the spectacle. Without any objective change whatever, variety had taken the place of monotonousness. His host and his host's household, his men and his maids, as they became intimately known to Clare, began to differentiate themselves as in a chemical process. The thought of Pascal's was brought home to him: "_A mesure qu'on a plus d'esprit, on trouve qu'il y a plus d'hommes originaux. Les gens du commun ne trouvent pas de difference entre les hommes._" The typical and unvarying Hodge ceased to exist. He had been disintegrated into a number of varied fellow-creatures--beings of many minds, beings infinite in difference; some happy, many serene, a few depressed, one here and there bright even to genius, some stupid, others wanton, others austere; some mutely Miltonic, some potentially Cromwellian--into men who had private views of each other, as he had of his friends; who could applaud or condemn each other, amuse or sadden themselves by the contemplation of each other's foibles or vices; men every one of whom walked in his own individual way the road to dusty death. Unexpectedly he began to like the outdoor life for its own sake, and for what it brought, apart from its bearing on his own proposed career. Considering his position he became wonderfully free from the chronic melancholy which is taking hold of the civilized races with the decline of belief in a beneficent Power. For the first time of late years he could read as his musings inclined him, without any eye to cramming for a profession, since the few farming handbooks which he deemed it desirable to master occupied him but little time. He grew away from old associations, and saw something new in life and humanity. Secondarily, he made close acquaintance with phenomena which he had before known but darkly--the seasons in their moods, morning and evening, night and noon, winds in their different tempers, trees, waters and mists, shades and silences, and the voices of inanimate things. The early mornings were still sufficiently cool to render a fire acceptable in the large room wherein they breakfasted; and, by Mrs Crick's orders, who held that he was too genteel to mess at their table, it was Angel Clare's custom to sit in the yawning chimney-corner during the meal, his cup-and-saucer and plate being placed on a hinged flap at his elbow. The light from the long, wide, mullioned window opposite shone in upon his nook, and, assisted by a secondary light of cold blue quality which shone down the chimney, enabled him to read there easily whenever disposed to do so. Between Clare and the window was the table at which his companions sat, their munching profiles rising sharp against the panes; while to the side was the milk-house door, through which were visible the rectangular leads in rows, full to the brim with the morning's milk. At the further end the great churn could be seen revolving, and its slip-slopping heard--the moving power being discernible through the window in the form of a spiritless horse walking in a circle and driven by a boy. For several days after Tess's arrival Clare, sitting abstractedly reading from some book, periodical, or piece of music just come by post, hardly noticed that she was present at table. She talked so little, and the other maids talked so much, that the babble did not strike him as possessing a new note, and he was ever in the habit of neglecting the particulars of an outward scene for the general impression. One day, however, when he had been conning one of his music-scores, and by force of imagination was hearing the tune in his head, he lapsed into listlessness, and the music-sheet rolled to the hearth. He looked at the fire of logs, with its one flame pirouetting on the top in a dying dance after the breakfast-cooking and boiling, and it seemed to jig to his inward tune; also at the two chimney crooks dangling down from the cotterel, or cross-bar, plumed with soot, which quivered to the same melody; also at the half-empty kettle whining an accompaniment. The conversation at the table mixed in with his phantasmal orchestra till he thought: "What a fluty voice one of those milkmaids has! I suppose it is the new one." Clare looked round upon her, seated with the others. She was not looking towards him. Indeed, owing to his long silence, his presence in the room was almost forgotten. "I don't know about ghosts," she was saying; "but I do know that our souls can be made to go outside our bodies when we are alive." The dairyman turned to her with his mouth full, his eyes charged with serious inquiry, and his great knife and fork (breakfasts were breakfasts here) planted erect on the table, like the beginning of a gallows. "What--really now? And is it so, maidy?" he said. "A very easy way to feel 'em go," continued Tess, "is to lie on the grass at night and look straight up at some big bright star; and, by fixing your mind upon it, you will soon find that you are hundreds and hundreds o' miles away from your body, which you don't seem to want at all." The dairyman removed his hard gaze from Tess, and fixed it on his wife. "Now that's a rum thing, Christianer--hey? To think o' the miles I've vamped o' starlight nights these last thirty year, courting, or trading, or for doctor, or for nurse, and yet never had the least notion o' that till now, or feeled my soul rise so much as an inch above my shirt-collar." The general attention being drawn to her, including that of the dairyman's pupil, Tess flushed, and remarking evasively that it was only a fancy, resumed her breakfast. Clare continued to observe her. She soon finished her eating, and having a consciousness that Clare was regarding her, began to trace imaginary patterns on the tablecloth with her forefinger with the constraint of a domestic animal that perceives itself to be watched. "What a fresh and virginal daughter of Nature that milkmaid is!" he said to himself. And then he seemed to discern in her something that was familiar, something which carried him back into a joyous and unforeseeing past, before the necessity of taking thought had made the heavens gray. He concluded that he had beheld her before; where he could not tell. A casual encounter during some country ramble it certainly had been, and he was not greatly curious about it. But the circumstance was sufficient to lead him to select Tess in preference to the other pretty milkmaids when he wished to contemplate contiguous womankind.

Chapter XVIII

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase3-chapter16-24

Twenty-six-year-old Mr. Angel Clare, the handsome and well-educated son of a prominent Wessex clergyman, fails to heed his father's wishes to join the church like his two older brothers, chooses instead to become a gentleman farmer and hopes to farm in America: "he quite the gentleman born". He is at the Dairy to learn. He plays a harp. Tess shies away from him, believing that she is impure and not good enough for him

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/65.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_64_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 35

part 2, chapter 35

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-35", "summary": "Julien gets ready to leave Father Pirard's one day when Pirard gives him a huge wad of money from the marquis. The man doesn't want anything about Julien's life to reveal his lower class status. Julien gets along swimmingly when he first joins the army in his new post. Everyone likes and respects him. Out of nowhere, he gets a note from Mathilde telling him to come to her immediately in Paris. It's an emergency. When Julien gets to Paris, Mathilde tells him that her father has run a background check on Julien and found out about his affair with Madame de Renal back in the day. Madame herself wrote a letter to the marquis talking about how Julien seduced her. It doesn't look good. In fact, it sounds like exactly what he did with Mathilde. Julien runs away in shame. He heads all the way back to his hometown of Verrieres. The first place he goes is the local gun shop, where he buys a pair of pistols. He goes to the Verrieres church, where mass is happening. He walks into the pew directly behind Madame de Renal's and shoots her twice in cold blood for ratting him out. Things just got real.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER LXV A STORM My God, give me mediocrity.--_Mirabeau_. His mind was engrossed; he only half answered the eager tenderness that she showed to him. He remained gloomy and taciturn. He had never seemed so great and so adorable in Mathilde's eyes. She was apprehensive of some subtle twist of his pride which would spoil the whole situation. She saw the abbe Pirard come to the hotel nearly every morning. Might not Julien have divined something of her father's intentions through him? Might not the marquis himself have written to him in a momentary caprice. What was the explanation of Julien's stern manner following on so great a happiness? She did not dare to question. She did not _dare_--she--Mathilde! From that moment her feelings for Julien contained a certain vague and unexpected element which was almost panic. This arid soul experienced all the passion possible in an individual who has been brought up amid that excessive civilisation which Paris so much admires. Early on the following day Julien was at the house of the abbe Pirard. Some post-horses were arriving in the courtyard with a dilapidated chaise which had been hired at a neighbouring station. "A vehicle like that is out of fashion," said the stern abbe to him morosely. "Here are twenty thousand francs which M. de la Mole makes you a gift of. He insists on your spending them within a year, but at the same time wants you to try to look as little ridiculous as possible." (The priest regarded flinging away so substantial a sum on a young man as simply an opportunity for sin). "The marquis adds this: 'M. Julien de la Vernaye will have received this money from his father, whom it is needless to call by any other name. M. de la Vernaye will perhaps think it proper to give a present to M. Sorel, a carpenter of Verrieres, who cared for him in his childhood....' I can undertake that commission," added the abbe. "I have at last prevailed upon M. de la Mole to come to a settlement with that Jesuit, the abbe de Frilair. His influence is unquestionably too much for us. The complete recognition of your high birth on the part of this man, who is in fact the governor of B---- will be one of the unwritten terms of the arrangement." Julien could no longer control his ecstasy. He embraced the abbe. He saw himself recognised. "For shame," said M. Pirard, pushing him away. "What is the meaning of this worldly vanity? As for Sorel and his sons, I will offer them in my own name a yearly allowance of five hundred francs, which will be paid to each of them as long as I am satisfied with them." Julien was already cold and haughty. He expressed his thanks, but in the vaguest terms which bound him to nothing. "Could it be possible," he said to himself, "that I am the natural son of some great nobleman who was exiled to our mountains by the terrible Napoleon?" This idea seemed less and less improbable every minute.... "My hatred of my father would be a proof of this.... In that case, I should not be an unnatural monster after all." A few days after this soliloquy the Fifteenth Regiment of Hussars, which was one of the most brilliant in the army, was being reviewed on the parade ground of Strasbourg. M. the chevalier de La Vernaye sat the finest horse in Alsace, which had cost him six thousand francs. He was received as a lieutenant, though he had never been sub-lieutenant except on the rolls of a regiment of which he had never heard. His impassive manner, his stern and almost malicious eyes, his pallor, and his invariable self-possession, founded his reputation from the very first day. Shortly afterwards his perfect and calculated politeness, and his skill at shooting and fencing, of which, though without any undue ostentation, he made his comrades aware, did away with all idea of making fun of him openly. After hesitating for five or six days, the public opinion of the regiment declared itself in his favour. "This young man has everything," said the facetious old officers, "except youth." Julien wrote from Strasbourg to the old cure of Verrieres, M. Chelan, who was now verging on extreme old age. "You will have learnt, with a joy of which I have no doubt, of the events which have induced my family to enrich me. Here are five hundred francs which I request you to distribute quietly, and without any mention of my name, among those unfortunate ones who are now poor as I myself was once, and whom you will doubtless help as you once helped me." Julien was intoxicated with ambition, and not with vanity. He nevertheless devoted a great part of his time to attending to his external appearance. His horses, his uniform, his orderlies' liveries, were all kept with a correctness which would have done credit to the punctiliousness of a great English nobleman. He had scarcely been made a lieutenant as a matter of favour (and that only two days ago) than he began to calculate that if he was to become commander-in-chief at thirty, like all the great generals, then he must be more than a lieutenant at twenty-three at the latest. He thought about nothing except fame and his son. It was in the midst of the ecstasies of the most reinless ambition that he was surprised by the arrival of a young valet from the Hotel de la Mole, who had come with a letter. "All is lost," wrote Mathilde to him: "Rush here as quickly as possible, sacrifice everything, desert if necessary. As soon as you have arrived, wait for me in a fiacre near the little garden door, near No. ---- of the street ---- I will come and speak to you: I shall perhaps be able to introduce you into the garden. All is lost, and I am afraid there is no way out; count on me; you will find me staunch and firm in adversity. I love you." A few minutes afterwards, Julien obtained a furlough from the colonel, and left Strasbourg at full gallop. But the awful anxiety which devoured him did not allow him to continue this method of travel beyond Metz. He flung himself into a post-chaise, and arrived with an almost incredible rapidity at the indicated spot, near the little garden door of the Hotel de la Mole. The door opened, and Mathilde, oblivious of all human conventions, rushed into his arms. Fortunately, it was only five o'clock in the morning, and the street was still deserted. "All is lost. My father, fearing my tears, left Thursday night. Nobody knows where for? But here is his letter: read it." She climbed into the fiacre with Julien. "I could forgive everything except the plan of seducing you because you are rich. That, unhappy girl, is the awful truth. I give you my word of honour that I will never consent to a marriage with that man. I will guarantee him an income of 10,000 francs if he will live far away beyond the French frontiers, or better still, in America. Read the letter which I have just received in answer to the enquiries which I have made. The impudent scoundrel had himself requested me to write to madame de Renal. I will never read a single line you write concerning that man. I feel a horror for both Paris and yourself. I urge you to cover what is bound to happen with the utmost secrecy. Be frank, have nothing more to do with the vile man, and you will find again the father you have lost." "Where is Madame de Renal's letter?" said Julien coldly. "Here it is. I did not want to shew it to you before you were prepared for it." LETTER "My duties to the sacred cause of religion and morality, oblige me, monsieur, to take the painful course which I have just done with regard to yourself: an infallible principle orders me to do harm to my neighbour at the present moment, but only in order to avoid an even greater scandal. My sentiment of duty must overcome the pain which I experience. It is only too true, monsieur, that the conduct of the person about whom you ask me to tell you the whole truth may seem incredible or even honest. It may possibly be considered proper to hide or to disguise part of the truth: that would be in accordance with both prudence and religion. But the conduct about which you desire information has been in fact reprehensible to the last degree, and more than I can say. Poor and greedy as the man is, it is only by the aid of the most consummate hypocrisy, and by seducing a weak and unhappy woman, that he has endeavoured to make a career for himself and become someone in the world. It is part of my painful duty to add that I am obliged to believe that M. Julien has no religious principles. I am driven conscientiously to think that one of his methods of obtaining success in any household is to try to seduce the woman who commands the principal influence. His one great object, in spite of his show of disinterestedness, and his stock-in-trade of phrases out of novels, is to succeed in doing what he likes with the master of the household and his fortune. He leaves behind him unhappiness and eternal remorse, etc., etc., etc." This extremely long letter, which was almost blotted out by tears, was certainly in madame de Renal's handwriting; it was even written with more than ordinary care. "I cannot blame M. de la Mole," said Julien, "after he had finished it. He is just and prudent. What father would give his beloved daughter to such a man? Adieu!" Julien jumped out of the fiacre and rushed to his post-chaise, which had stopped at the end of the street. Mathilde, whom he had apparently forgotten, took a few steps as though to follow him, but the looks she received from the tradesmen, who were coming out on the thresholds of their shops, and who knew who she was, forced her to return precipitately to the garden. Julien had left for Verrieres. During that rapid journey he was unable to write to Mathilde as he had intended. His hand could only form illegible characters on the paper. He arrived at Verrieres on a Sunday morning. He entered the shop of the local gunsmith, who overwhelmed him with congratulations on his recent good fortune. It constituted the news of the locality. Julien had much difficulty in making him understand that he wanted a pair of pistols. At his request the gunsmith loaded the pistols. The three peals sounded; it is a well-known signal in the villages of France, and after the various ringings in the morning announces the immediate commencement of Mass. Julien entered the new church of Verrieres. All the lofty windows of the building were veiled with crimson curtains. Julien found himself some spaces behind the pew of madame de Renal. It seemed to him that she was praying fervently The sight of the woman whom he had loved so much made Julien's arm tremble so violently that he was at first unable to execute his project. "I cannot," he said to himself. "It is a physical impossibility." At that moment the young priest, who was officiating at the Mass, rang the bell for the elevation of the host. Madame de Renal lowered her head, which, for a moment became entirely hidden by the folds of her shawl. Julien did not see her features so distinctly: he aimed a pistol shot at her, and missed her: he aimed a second shot, she fell.

Part 2, Chapter 35

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-35

Julien gets ready to leave Father Pirard's one day when Pirard gives him a huge wad of money from the marquis. The man doesn't want anything about Julien's life to reveal his lower class status. Julien gets along swimmingly when he first joins the army in his new post. Everyone likes and respects him. Out of nowhere, he gets a note from Mathilde telling him to come to her immediately in Paris. It's an emergency. When Julien gets to Paris, Mathilde tells him that her father has run a background check on Julien and found out about his affair with Madame de Renal back in the day. Madame herself wrote a letter to the marquis talking about how Julien seduced her. It doesn't look good. In fact, it sounds like exactly what he did with Mathilde. Julien runs away in shame. He heads all the way back to his hometown of Verrieres. The first place he goes is the local gun shop, where he buys a pair of pistols. He goes to the Verrieres church, where mass is happening. He walks into the pew directly behind Madame de Renal's and shoots her twice in cold blood for ratting him out. Things just got real.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/50.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_49_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 8.chapter 5

book 8, chapter 5

{"name": "Book 8, Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-8-chapter-5", "summary": "Dmitri dashes into see Fenya to get the scoop on Grushenka. He frightens Fenya and her grandmother because of his bloodied appearance. She confirms that Grushenka is off to Mokroye. Dmitri then heads back to his friend Pyotr Ilyich Perkhotin, the young official he'd pawned his pistols to. He pays back the loan and gets his pistols back. Perkhotin is startled by how much money Dmitri seems to be flashing around all of a sudden. They send Perkhotin's servant out to the local store for some change, but Dmitri asks Perkhotin's servant to order lots of treats, as Dmitri is planning on wooing Grushenka again in Mokroye. Perkhotin helps Dmitri wash off the blood, all the while trying to get the story out of him, but Dmitri incoherently mumbles about gold mines and Madame Khokhlakov and punishment and theft. Still confused, Perkhotin accompanies Dmitri to Plotnikov's store, where Dmitri loads up a cart with goodies and sets off for Mokroye. Perkhotin is highly suspicious of Dmitri. He goes to the tavern to take his mind off things, but when he tells everyone about Dmitri's sudden wealth, they wonder if Dmitri's finally gotten around to killing his father. This concerns Perkhotin, so he decides to investigate and heads to Grushenka's house to get the story from her servant Fenya.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter V. A Sudden Resolution She was sitting in the kitchen with her grandmother; they were both just going to bed. Relying on Nazar Ivanovitch, they had not locked themselves in. Mitya ran in, pounced on Fenya and seized her by the throat. "Speak at once! Where is she? With whom is she now, at Mokroe?" he roared furiously. Both the women squealed. "Aie! I'll tell you. Aie! Dmitri Fyodorovitch, darling, I'll tell you everything directly, I won't hide anything," gabbled Fenya, frightened to death; "she's gone to Mokroe, to her officer." "What officer?" roared Mitya. "To her officer, the same one she used to know, the one who threw her over five years ago," cackled Fenya, as fast as she could speak. Mitya withdrew the hands with which he was squeezing her throat. He stood facing her, pale as death, unable to utter a word, but his eyes showed that he realized it all, all, from the first word, and guessed the whole position. Poor Fenya was not in a condition at that moment to observe whether he understood or not. She remained sitting on the trunk as she had been when he ran into the room, trembling all over, holding her hands out before her as though trying to defend herself. She seemed to have grown rigid in that position. Her wide-opened, scared eyes were fixed immovably upon him. And to make matters worse, both his hands were smeared with blood. On the way, as he ran, he must have touched his forehead with them, wiping off the perspiration, so that on his forehead and his right cheek were blood-stained patches. Fenya was on the verge of hysterics. The old cook had jumped up and was staring at him like a mad woman, almost unconscious with terror. Mitya stood for a moment, then mechanically sank on to a chair next to Fenya. He sat, not reflecting but, as it were, terror-stricken, benumbed. Yet everything was clear as day: that officer, he knew about him, he knew everything perfectly, he had known it from Grushenka herself, had known that a letter had come from him a month before. So that for a month, for a whole month, this had been going on, a secret from him, till the very arrival of this new man, and he had never thought of him! But how could he, how could he not have thought of him? Why was it he had forgotten this officer, like that, forgotten him as soon as he heard of him? That was the question that faced him like some monstrous thing. And he looked at this monstrous thing with horror, growing cold with horror. But suddenly, as gently and mildly as a gentle and affectionate child, he began speaking to Fenya as though he had utterly forgotten how he had scared and hurt her just now. He fell to questioning Fenya with an extreme preciseness, astonishing in his position, and though the girl looked wildly at his blood-stained hands, she, too, with wonderful readiness and rapidity, answered every question as though eager to put the whole truth and nothing but the truth before him. Little by little, even with a sort of enjoyment, she began explaining every detail, not wanting to torment him, but, as it were, eager to be of the utmost service to him. She described the whole of that day, in great detail, the visit of Rakitin and Alyosha, how she, Fenya, had stood on the watch, how the mistress had set off, and how she had called out of the window to Alyosha to give him, Mitya, her greetings, and to tell him "to remember for ever how she had loved him for an hour." Hearing of the message, Mitya suddenly smiled, and there was a flush of color on his pale cheeks. At the same moment Fenya said to him, not a bit afraid now to be inquisitive: "Look at your hands, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. They're all over blood!" "Yes," answered Mitya mechanically. He looked carelessly at his hands and at once forgot them and Fenya's question. He sank into silence again. Twenty minutes had passed since he had run in. His first horror was over, but evidently some new fixed determination had taken possession of him. He suddenly stood up, smiling dreamily. "What has happened to you, sir?" said Fenya, pointing to his hands again. She spoke compassionately, as though she felt very near to him now in his grief. Mitya looked at his hands again. "That's blood, Fenya," he said, looking at her with a strange expression. "That's human blood, and my God! why was it shed? But ... Fenya ... there's a fence here" (he looked at her as though setting her a riddle), "a high fence, and terrible to look at. But at dawn to-morrow, when the sun rises, Mitya will leap over that fence.... You don't understand what fence, Fenya, and, never mind.... You'll hear to-morrow and understand ... and now, good-by. I won't stand in her way. I'll step aside, I know how to step aside. Live, my joy.... You loved me for an hour, remember Mityenka Karamazov so for ever.... She always used to call me Mityenka, do you remember?" And with those words he went suddenly out of the kitchen. Fenya was almost more frightened at this sudden departure than she had been when he ran in and attacked her. Just ten minutes later Dmitri went in to Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, the young official with whom he had pawned his pistols. It was by now half-past eight, and Pyotr Ilyitch had finished his evening tea, and had just put his coat on again to go to the "Metropolis" to play billiards. Mitya caught him coming out. Seeing him with his face all smeared with blood, the young man uttered a cry of surprise. "Good heavens! What is the matter?" "I've come for my pistols," said Mitya, "and brought you the money. And thanks very much. I'm in a hurry, Pyotr Ilyitch, please make haste." Pyotr Ilyitch grew more and more surprised; he suddenly caught sight of a bundle of bank-notes in Mitya's hand, and what was more, he had walked in holding the notes as no one walks in and no one carries money: he had them in his right hand, and held them outstretched as if to show them. Perhotin's servant-boy, who met Mitya in the passage, said afterwards that he walked into the passage in the same way, with the money outstretched in his hand, so he must have been carrying them like that even in the streets. They were all rainbow-colored hundred-rouble notes, and the fingers holding them were covered with blood. When Pyotr Ilyitch was questioned later on as to the sum of money, he said that it was difficult to judge at a glance, but that it might have been two thousand, or perhaps three, but it was a big, "fat" bundle. "Dmitri Fyodorovitch," so he testified afterwards, "seemed unlike himself, too; not drunk, but, as it were, exalted, lost to everything, but at the same time, as it were, absorbed, as though pondering and searching for something and unable to come to a decision. He was in great haste, answered abruptly and very strangely, and at moments seemed not at all dejected but quite cheerful." "But what _is_ the matter with you? What's wrong?" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, looking wildly at his guest. "How is it that you're all covered with blood? Have you had a fall? Look at yourself!" He took him by the elbow and led him to the glass. Seeing his blood-stained face, Mitya started and scowled wrathfully. "Damnation! That's the last straw," he muttered angrily, hurriedly changing the notes from his right hand to the left, and impulsively jerked the handkerchief out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned out to be soaked with blood, too (it was the handkerchief he had used to wipe Grigory's face). There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it had not merely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a crumpled ball and could not be pulled apart. Mitya threw it angrily on the floor. "Oh, damn it!" he said. "Haven't you a rag of some sort ... to wipe my face?" "So you're only stained, not wounded? You'd better wash," said Pyotr Ilyitch. "Here's a wash-stand. I'll pour you out some water." "A wash-stand? That's all right ... but where am I to put this?" With the strangest perplexity he indicated his bundle of hundred-rouble notes, looking inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch as though it were for him to decide what he, Mitya, was to do with his own money. "In your pocket, or on the table here. They won't be lost." "In my pocket? Yes, in my pocket. All right.... But, I say, that's all nonsense," he cried, as though suddenly coming out of his absorption. "Look here, let's first settle that business of the pistols. Give them back to me. Here's your money ... because I am in great need of them ... and I haven't a minute, a minute to spare." And taking the topmost note from the bundle he held it out to Pyotr Ilyitch. "But I shan't have change enough. Haven't you less?" "No," said Mitya, looking again at the bundle, and as though not trusting his own words he turned over two or three of the topmost ones. "No, they're all alike," he added, and again he looked inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch. "How have you grown so rich?" the latter asked. "Wait, I'll send my boy to Plotnikov's, they close late--to see if they won't change it. Here, Misha!" he called into the passage. "To Plotnikov's shop--first-rate!" cried Mitya, as though struck by an idea. "Misha," he turned to the boy as he came in, "look here, run to Plotnikov's and tell them that Dmitri Fyodorovitch sends his greetings, and will be there directly.... But listen, listen, tell them to have champagne, three dozen bottles, ready before I come, and packed as it was to take to Mokroe. I took four dozen with me then," he added (suddenly addressing Pyotr Ilyitch); "they know all about it, don't you trouble, Misha," he turned again to the boy. "Stay, listen; tell them to put in cheese, Strasburg pies, smoked fish, ham, caviare, and everything, everything they've got, up to a hundred roubles, or a hundred and twenty as before.... But wait: don't let them forget dessert, sweets, pears, water-melons, two or three or four--no, one melon's enough, and chocolate, candy, toffee, fondants; in fact, everything I took to Mokroe before, three hundred roubles' worth with the champagne ... let it be just the same again. And remember, Misha, if you are called Misha--His name is Misha, isn't it?" He turned to Pyotr Ilyitch again. "Wait a minute," Protr Ilyitch intervened, listening and watching him uneasily, "you'd better go yourself and tell them. He'll muddle it." "He will, I see he will! Eh, Misha! Why, I was going to kiss you for the commission.... If you don't make a mistake, there's ten roubles for you, run along, make haste.... Champagne's the chief thing, let them bring up champagne. And brandy, too, and red and white wine, and all I had then.... They know what I had then." "But listen!" Pyotr Ilyitch interrupted with some impatience. "I say, let him simply run and change the money and tell them not to close, and you go and tell them.... Give him your note. Be off, Misha! Put your best leg forward!" Pyotr Ilyitch seemed to hurry Misha off on purpose, because the boy remained standing with his mouth and eyes wide open, apparently understanding little of Mitya's orders, gazing up with amazement and terror at his blood-stained face and the trembling bloodstained fingers that held the notes. "Well, now come and wash," said Pyotr Ilyitch sternly. "Put the money on the table or else in your pocket.... That's right, come along. But take off your coat." And beginning to help him off with his coat, he cried out again: "Look, your coat's covered with blood, too!" "That ... it's not the coat. It's only a little here on the sleeve.... And that's only here where the handkerchief lay. It must have soaked through. I must have sat on the handkerchief at Fenya's, and the blood's come through," Mitya explained at once with a childlike unconsciousness that was astounding. Pyotr Ilyitch listened, frowning. "Well, you must have been up to something; you must have been fighting with some one," he muttered. They began to wash. Pyotr Ilyitch held the jug and poured out the water. Mitya, in desperate haste, scarcely soaped his hands (they were trembling, and Pyotr Ilyitch remembered it afterwards). But the young official insisted on his soaping them thoroughly and rubbing them more. He seemed to exercise more and more sway over Mitya, as time went on. It may be noted in passing that he was a young man of sturdy character. "Look, you haven't got your nails clean. Now rub your face; here, on your temples, by your ear.... Will you go in that shirt? Where are you going? Look, all the cuff of your right sleeve is covered with blood." "Yes, it's all bloody," observed Mitya, looking at the cuff of his shirt. "Then change your shirt." "I haven't time. You see I'll ..." Mitya went on with the same confiding ingenuousness, drying his face and hands on the towel, and putting on his coat. "I'll turn it up at the wrist. It won't be seen under the coat.... You see!" "Tell me now, what game have you been up to? Have you been fighting with some one? In the tavern again, as before? Have you been beating that captain again?" Pyotr Ilyitch asked him reproachfully. "Whom have you been beating now ... or killing, perhaps?" "Nonsense!" said Mitya. "Why 'nonsense'?" "Don't worry," said Mitya, and he suddenly laughed. "I smashed an old woman in the market-place just now." "Smashed? An old woman?" "An old man!" cried Mitya, looking Pyotr Ilyitch straight in the face, laughing, and shouting at him as though he were deaf. "Confound it! An old woman, an old man.... Have you killed some one?" "We made it up. We had a row--and made it up. In a place I know of. We parted friends. A fool.... He's forgiven me.... He's sure to have forgiven me by now ... if he had got up, he wouldn't have forgiven me"--Mitya suddenly winked--"only damn him, you know, I say, Pyotr Ilyitch, damn him! Don't worry about him! I don't want to just now!" Mitya snapped out, resolutely. "Whatever do you want to go picking quarrels with every one for? ... Just as you did with that captain over some nonsense.... You've been fighting and now you're rushing off on the spree--that's you all over! Three dozen champagne--what do you want all that for?" "Bravo! Now give me the pistols. Upon my honor I've no time now. I should like to have a chat with you, my dear boy, but I haven't the time. And there's no need, it's too late for talking. Where's my money? Where have I put it?" he cried, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "You put it on the table ... yourself.... Here it is. Had you forgotten? Money's like dirt or water to you, it seems. Here are your pistols. It's an odd thing, at six o'clock you pledged them for ten roubles, and now you've got thousands. Two or three I should say." "Three, you bet," laughed Mitya, stuffing the notes into the side-pocket of his trousers. "You'll lose it like that. Have you found a gold-mine?" "The mines? The gold-mines?" Mitya shouted at the top of his voice and went off into a roar of laughter. "Would you like to go to the mines, Perhotin? There's a lady here who'll stump up three thousand for you, if only you'll go. She did it for me, she's so awfully fond of gold-mines. Do you know Madame Hohlakov?" "I don't know her, but I've heard of her and seen her. Did she really give you three thousand? Did she really?" said Pyotr Ilyitch, eyeing him dubiously. "As soon as the sun rises to-morrow, as soon as Phoebus, ever young, flies upwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Hohlakov, and ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and find out." "I don't know on what terms you are ... since you say it so positively, I suppose she did give it to you. You've got the money in your hand, but instead of going to Siberia you're spending it all.... Where are you really off to now, eh?" "To Mokroe." "To Mokroe? But it's night!" "Once the lad had all, now the lad has naught," cried Mitya suddenly. "How 'naught'? You say that with all those thousands!" "I'm not talking about thousands. Damn thousands! I'm talking of the female character. Fickle is the heart of woman Treacherous and full of vice; I agree with Ulysses. That's what he says." "I don't understand you!" "Am I drunk?" "Not drunk, but worse." "I'm drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyitch, drunk in spirit! But that's enough!" "What are you doing, loading the pistol?" "I'm loading the pistol." Unfastening the pistol-case, Mitya actually opened the powder horn, and carefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took the bullet and, before inserting it, held it in two fingers in front of the candle. "Why are you looking at the bullet?" asked Pyotr Ilyitch, watching him with uneasy curiosity. "Oh, a fancy. Why, if you meant to put that bullet in your brain, would you look at it or not?" "Why look at it?" "It's going into my brain, so it's interesting to look and see what it's like. But that's foolishness, a moment's foolishness. Now that's done," he added, putting in the bullet and driving it home with the ramrod. "Pyotr Ilyitch, my dear fellow, that's nonsense, all nonsense, and if only you knew what nonsense! Give me a little piece of paper now." "Here's some paper." "No, a clean new piece, writing-paper. That's right." And taking a pen from the table, Mitya rapidly wrote two lines, folded the paper in four, and thrust it in his waistcoat pocket. He put the pistols in the case, locked it up, and kept it in his hand. Then he looked at Pyotr Ilyitch with a slow, thoughtful smile. "Now, let's go." "Where are we going? No, wait a minute.... Are you thinking of putting that bullet in your brain, perhaps?" Pyotr Ilyitch asked uneasily. "I was fooling about the bullet! I want to live. I love life! You may be sure of that. I love golden-haired Phoebus and his warm light.... Dear Pyotr Ilyitch, do you know how to step aside?" "What do you mean by 'stepping aside'?" "Making way. Making way for a dear creature, and for one I hate. And to let the one I hate become dear--that's what making way means! And to say to them: God bless you, go your way, pass on, while I--" "While you--?" "That's enough, let's go." "Upon my word. I'll tell some one to prevent your going there," said Pyotr Ilyitch, looking at him. "What are you going to Mokroe for, now?" "There's a woman there, a woman. That's enough for you. You shut up." "Listen, though you're such a savage I've always liked you.... I feel anxious." "Thanks, old fellow. I'm a savage you say. Savages, savages! That's what I am always saying. Savages! Why, here's Misha! I was forgetting him." Misha ran in, post-haste, with a handful of notes in change, and reported that every one was in a bustle at the Plotnikovs'; "They're carrying down the bottles, and the fish, and the tea; it will all be ready directly." Mitya seized ten roubles and handed it to Pyotr Ilyitch, then tossed another ten-rouble note to Misha. "Don't dare to do such a thing!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch. "I won't have it in my house, it's a bad, demoralizing habit. Put your money away. Here, put it here, why waste it? It would come in handy to-morrow, and I dare say you'll be coming to me to borrow ten roubles again. Why do you keep putting the notes in your side-pocket? Ah, you'll lose them!" "I say, my dear fellow, let's go to Mokroe together." "What should I go for?" "I say, let's open a bottle at once, and drink to life! I want to drink, and especially to drink with you. I've never drunk with you, have I?" "Very well, we can go to the 'Metropolis.' I was just going there." "I haven't time for that. Let's drink at the Plotnikovs', in the back room. Shall I ask you a riddle?" "Ask away." Mitya took the piece of paper out of his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it and showed it. In a large, distinct hand was written: "I punish myself for my whole life, my whole life I punish!" "I will certainly speak to some one, I'll go at once," said Pyotr Ilyitch, after reading the paper. "You won't have time, dear boy, come and have a drink. March!" Plotnikov's shop was at the corner of the street, next door but one to Pyotr Ilyitch's. It was the largest grocery shop in our town, and by no means a bad one, belonging to some rich merchants. They kept everything that could be got in a Petersburg shop, grocery of all sort, wines "bottled by the brothers Eliseyev," fruits, cigars, tea, coffee, sugar, and so on. There were three shop-assistants and two errand boys always employed. Though our part of the country had grown poorer, the landowners had gone away, and trade had got worse, yet the grocery stores flourished as before, every year with increasing prosperity; there were plenty of purchasers for their goods. They were awaiting Mitya with impatience in the shop. They had vivid recollections of how he had bought, three or four weeks ago, wine and goods of all sorts to the value of several hundred roubles, paid for in cash (they would never have let him have anything on credit, of course). They remembered that then, as now, he had had a bundle of hundred-rouble notes in his hand, and had scattered them at random, without bargaining, without reflecting, or caring to reflect what use so much wine and provisions would be to him. The story was told all over the town that, driving off then with Grushenka to Mokroe, he had "spent three thousand in one night and the following day, and had come back from the spree without a penny." He had picked up a whole troop of gypsies (encamped in our neighborhood at the time), who for two days got money without stint out of him while he was drunk, and drank expensive wine without stint. People used to tell, laughing at Mitya, how he had given champagne to grimy- handed peasants, and feasted the village women and girls on sweets and Strasburg pies. Though to laugh at Mitya to his face was rather a risky proceeding, there was much laughter behind his back, especially in the tavern, at his own ingenuous public avowal that all he had got out of Grushenka by this "escapade" was "permission to kiss her foot, and that was the utmost she had allowed him." By the time Mitya and Pyotr Ilyitch reached the shop, they found a cart with three horses harnessed abreast with bells, and with Andrey, the driver, ready waiting for Mitya at the entrance. In the shop they had almost entirely finished packing one box of provisions, and were only waiting for Mitya's arrival to nail it down and put it in the cart. Pyotr Ilyitch was astounded. "Where did this cart come from in such a hurry?" he asked Mitya. "I met Andrey as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here to the shop. There's no time to lose. Last time I drove with Timofey, but Timofey now has gone on before me with the witch. Shall we be very late, Andrey?" "They'll only get there an hour at most before us, not even that maybe. I got Timofey ready to start. I know how he'll go. Their pace won't be ours, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. How could it be? They won't get there an hour earlier!" Andrey, a lanky, red-haired, middle-aged driver, wearing a full- skirted coat, and with a kaftan on his arm, replied warmly. "Fifty roubles for vodka if we're only an hour behind them." "I warrant the time, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Ech, they won't be half an hour before us, let alone an hour." Though Mitya bustled about seeing after things, he gave his orders strangely, as it were disconnectedly, and inconsecutively. He began a sentence and forgot the end of it. Pyotr Ilyitch found himself obliged to come to the rescue. "Four hundred roubles' worth, not less than four hundred roubles' worth, just as it was then," commanded Mitya. "Four dozen champagne, not a bottle less." "What do you want with so much? What's it for? Stay!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch. "What's this box? What's in it? Surely there isn't four hundred roubles' worth here?" The officious shopmen began explaining with oily politeness that the first box contained only half a dozen bottles of champagne, and only "the most indispensable articles," such as savories, sweets, toffee, etc. But the main part of the goods ordered would be packed and sent off, as on the previous occasion, in a special cart also with three horses traveling at full speed, so that it would arrive not more than an hour later than Dmitri Fyodorovitch himself. "Not more than an hour! Not more than an hour! And put in more toffee and fondants. The girls there are so fond of it," Mitya insisted hotly. "The fondants are all right. But what do you want with four dozen of champagne? One would be enough," said Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angry. He began bargaining, asking for a bill of the goods, and refused to be satisfied. But he only succeeded in saving a hundred roubles. In the end it was agreed that only three hundred roubles' worth should be sent. "Well, you may go to the devil!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, on second thoughts. "What's it to do with me? Throw away your money, since it's cost you nothing." "This way, my economist, this way, don't be angry." Mitya drew him into a room at the back of the shop. "They'll give us a bottle here directly. We'll taste it. Ech, Pyotr Ilyitch, come along with me, for you're a nice fellow, the sort I like." Mitya sat down on a wicker chair, before a little table, covered with a dirty dinner-napkin. Pyotr Ilyitch sat down opposite, and the champagne soon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the gentlemen. "First-class oysters, the last lot in." "Hang the oysters. I don't eat them. And we don't need anything," cried Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angrily. "There's no time for oysters," said Mitya. "And I'm not hungry. Do you know, friend," he said suddenly, with feeling, "I never have liked all this disorder." "Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon my word, that's enough to make any one angry!" "That's not what I mean. I'm talking of a higher order. There's no order in me, no higher order. But ... that's all over. There's no need to grieve about it. It's too late, damn it! My whole life has been disorder, and one must set it in order. Is that a pun, eh?" "You're raving, not making puns!" "Glory be to God in Heaven, Glory be to God in me.... "That verse came from my heart once, it's not a verse, but a tear.... I made it myself ... not while I was pulling the captain's beard, though...." "Why do you bring him in all of a sudden?" "Why do I bring him in? Foolery! All things come to an end; all things are made equal. That's the long and short of it." "You know, I keep thinking of your pistols." "That's all foolery, too! Drink, and don't be fanciful. I love life. I've loved life too much, shamefully much. Enough! Let's drink to life, dear boy, I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with myself? I'm a scoundrel, but I'm satisfied with myself. And yet I'm tortured by the thought that I'm a scoundrel, but satisfied with myself. I bless the creation. I'm ready to bless God and His creation directly, but ... I must kill one noxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others.... Let us drink to life, dear brother. What can be more precious than life? Nothing! To life, and to one queen of queens!" "Let's drink to life and to your queen, too, if you like." They drank a glass each. Although Mitya was excited and expansive, yet he was melancholy, too. It was as though some heavy, overwhelming anxiety were weighing upon him. "Misha ... here's your Misha come! Misha, come here, my boy, drink this glass to Phoebus, the golden-haired, of to-morrow morn...." "What are you giving it him for?" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, irritably. "Yes, yes, yes, let me! I want to!" "E--ech!" Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out. "He'll remember it afterwards," Mitya remarked. "Woman, I love woman! What is woman? The queen of creation! My heart is sad, my heart is sad, Pyotr Ilyitch. Do you remember Hamlet? 'I am very sorry, good Horatio! Alas, poor Yorick!' Perhaps that's me, Yorick? Yes, I'm Yorick now, and a skull afterwards." Pyotr Ilyitch listened in silence. Mitya, too, was silent for a while. "What dog's that you've got here?" he asked the shopman, casually, noticing a pretty little lap-dog with dark eyes, sitting in the corner. "It belongs to Varvara Alexyevna, the mistress," answered the clerk. "She brought it and forgot it here. It must be taken back to her." "I saw one like it ... in the regiment ..." murmured Mitya dreamily, "only that one had its hind leg broken.... By the way, Pyotr Ilyitch, I wanted to ask you: have you ever stolen anything in your life?" "What a question!" "Oh, I didn't mean anything. From somebody's pocket, you know. I don't mean government money, every one steals that, and no doubt you do, too...." "You go to the devil." "I'm talking of other people's money. Stealing straight out of a pocket? Out of a purse, eh?" "I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old. I took it off the table on the sly, and held it tight in my hand." "Well, and what happened?" "Oh, nothing. I kept it three days, then I felt ashamed, confessed, and gave it back." "And what then?" "Naturally I was whipped. But why do you ask? Have you stolen something?" "I have," said Mitya, winking slyly. "What have you stolen?" inquired Pyotr Ilyitch curiously. "I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old, and gave it back three days after." As he said this, Mitya suddenly got up. "Dmitri Fyodorovitch, won't you come now?" called Andrey from the door of the shop. "Are you ready? We'll come!" Mitya started. "A few more last words and--Andrey, a glass of vodka at starting. Give him some brandy as well! That box" (the one with the pistols) "put under my seat. Good-by, Pyotr Ilyitch, don't remember evil against me." "But you're coming back to-morrow?" "Of course." "Will you settle the little bill now?" cried the clerk, springing forward. "Oh, yes, the bill. Of course." He pulled the bundle of notes out of his pocket again, picked out three hundred roubles, threw them on the counter, and ran hurriedly out of the shop. Every one followed him out, bowing and wishing him good luck. Andrey, coughing from the brandy he had just swallowed, jumped up on the box. But Mitya was only just taking his seat when suddenly to his surprise he saw Fenya before him. She ran up panting, clasped her hands before him with a cry, and plumped down at his feet. "Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear good Dmitri Fyodorovitch, don't harm my mistress. And it was I told you all about it.... And don't murder him, he came first, he's hers! He'll marry Agrafena Alexandrovna now. That's why he's come back from Siberia. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear, don't take a fellow creature's life!" "Tut--tut--tut! That's it, is it? So you're off there to make trouble!" muttered Pyotr Ilyitch. "Now, it's all clear, as clear as daylight. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, give me your pistols at once if you mean to behave like a man," he shouted aloud to Mitya. "Do you hear, Dmitri?" "The pistols? Wait a bit, brother, I'll throw them into the pool on the road," answered Mitya. "Fenya, get up, don't kneel to me. Mitya won't hurt any one, the silly fool won't hurt any one again. But I say, Fenya," he shouted, after having taken his seat. "I hurt you just now, so forgive me and have pity on me, forgive a scoundrel.... But it doesn't matter if you don't. It's all the same now. Now then, Andrey, look alive, fly along full speed!" Andrey whipped up the horses, and the bells began ringing. "Good-by, Pyotr Ilyitch! My last tear is for you!..." "He's not drunk, but he keeps babbling like a lunatic," Pyotr Ilyitch thought as he watched him go. He had half a mind to stay and see the cart packed with the remaining wines and provisions, knowing that they would deceive and defraud Mitya. But, suddenly feeling vexed with himself, he turned away with a curse and went to the tavern to play billiards. "He's a fool, though he's a good fellow," he muttered as he went. "I've heard of that officer, Grushenka's former flame. Well, if he has turned up.... Ech, those pistols! Damn it all! I'm not his nurse! Let them do what they like! Besides, it'll all come to nothing. They're a set of brawlers, that's all. They'll drink and fight, fight and make friends again. They are not men who do anything real. What does he mean by 'I'm stepping aside, I'm punishing myself?' It'll come to nothing! He's shouted such phrases a thousand times, drunk, in the taverns. But now he's not drunk. 'Drunk in spirit'--they're fond of fine phrases, the villains. Am I his nurse? He must have been fighting, his face was all over blood. With whom? I shall find out at the 'Metropolis.' And his handkerchief was soaked in blood.... It's still lying on my floor.... Hang it!" He reached the tavern in a bad humor and at once made up a game. The game cheered him. He played a second game, and suddenly began telling one of his partners that Dmitri Karamazov had come in for some cash again--something like three thousand roubles, and had gone to Mokroe again to spend it with Grushenka.... This news roused singular interest in his listeners. They all spoke of it, not laughing, but with a strange gravity. They left off playing. "Three thousand? But where can he have got three thousand?" Questions were asked. The story of Madame Hohlakov's present was received with skepticism. "Hasn't he robbed his old father?--that's the question." "Three thousand! There's something odd about it." "He boasted aloud that he would kill his father; we all heard him, here. And it was three thousand he talked about ..." Pyotr Ilyitch listened. All at once he became short and dry in his answers. He said not a word about the blood on Mitya's face and hands, though he had meant to speak of it at first. They began a third game, and by degrees the talk about Mitya died away. But by the end of the third game, Pyotr Ilyitch felt no more desire for billiards; he laid down the cue, and without having supper as he had intended, he walked out of the tavern. When he reached the market-place he stood still in perplexity, wondering at himself. He realized that what he wanted was to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch's and find out if anything had happened there. "On account of some stupid nonsense--as it's sure to turn out--am I going to wake up the household and make a scandal? Fooh! damn it, is it my business to look after them?" In a very bad humor he went straight home, and suddenly remembered Fenya. "Damn it all! I ought to have questioned her just now," he thought with vexation, "I should have heard everything." And the desire to speak to her, and so find out, became so pressing and importunate that when he was half-way home he turned abruptly and went towards the house where Grushenka lodged. Going up to the gate he knocked. The sound of the knock in the silence of the night sobered him and made him feel annoyed. And no one answered him; every one in the house was asleep. "And I shall be making a fuss!" he thought, with a feeling of positive discomfort. But instead of going away altogether, he fell to knocking again with all his might, filling the street with clamor. "Not coming? Well, I will knock them up, I will!" he muttered at each knock, fuming at himself, but at the same time he redoubled his knocks on the gate.

Book 8, Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-8-chapter-5

Dmitri dashes into see Fenya to get the scoop on Grushenka. He frightens Fenya and her grandmother because of his bloodied appearance. She confirms that Grushenka is off to Mokroye. Dmitri then heads back to his friend Pyotr Ilyich Perkhotin, the young official he'd pawned his pistols to. He pays back the loan and gets his pistols back. Perkhotin is startled by how much money Dmitri seems to be flashing around all of a sudden. They send Perkhotin's servant out to the local store for some change, but Dmitri asks Perkhotin's servant to order lots of treats, as Dmitri is planning on wooing Grushenka again in Mokroye. Perkhotin helps Dmitri wash off the blood, all the while trying to get the story out of him, but Dmitri incoherently mumbles about gold mines and Madame Khokhlakov and punishment and theft. Still confused, Perkhotin accompanies Dmitri to Plotnikov's store, where Dmitri loads up a cart with goodies and sets off for Mokroye. Perkhotin is highly suspicious of Dmitri. He goes to the tavern to take his mind off things, but when he tells everyone about Dmitri's sudden wealth, they wonder if Dmitri's finally gotten around to killing his father. This concerns Perkhotin, so he decides to investigate and heads to Grushenka's house to get the story from her servant Fenya.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/03.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_3.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter iii

chapter iii

{"name": "Chapter III", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters remain at Norland for several months, putting up with Fanny Dashwood as best they can while they look for a house to rent. Elinor dissuades her mother from choosing houses that are too expensive for their reduced circumstances. Mrs. Dashwood is still confident that John will come up with money to support them. To Mrs. Dashwood's joy, an attachment grows between Elinor and Edward Ferrars, the brother of Fanny Dashwood and the eldest son of a man who died rich. Edward is shy and unsuited to answer his mother's and sister's ambitions for him. They want him to achieve power and influence in the world, whereas he only wants a simple life. Marianne admits to being disappointed in Edward's lack of \"sensibility,\" citing his unimpassioned reading of her favorite poetry", "analysis": ""}

Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have approved. Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions. The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland. This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there. Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible. Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished--as--they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising. Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother. "It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him already." "I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him." "Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love." "You may esteem him." "I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love." Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate. No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching. "In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in all probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but SHE will be happy." "Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?" "My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your sister's choice?" "Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet--he is not the kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!" "He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper." "Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke MY heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!"

Chapter III

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters remain at Norland for several months, putting up with Fanny Dashwood as best they can while they look for a house to rent. Elinor dissuades her mother from choosing houses that are too expensive for their reduced circumstances. Mrs. Dashwood is still confident that John will come up with money to support them. To Mrs. Dashwood's joy, an attachment grows between Elinor and Edward Ferrars, the brother of Fanny Dashwood and the eldest son of a man who died rich. Edward is shy and unsuited to answer his mother's and sister's ambitions for him. They want him to achieve power and influence in the world, whereas he only wants a simple life. Marianne admits to being disappointed in Edward's lack of "sensibility," citing his unimpassioned reading of her favorite poetry

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_4_part_7.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 47

chapter 47

{"name": "Chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-41-50", "summary": "Elinor tells her mother about her conversation with Willoughby, and though her mother, like herself and Marianne, thinks a little better of him, they do not miss him or have much affection for him anymore. Marianne finally says that she could not have been happy with Willoughby, after hearing of his cruelty toward Miss Williams; Elinor says that Marianne is certainly right in this appraisal, and that Willoughby was too selfish to have made her happy. Mrs. Dashwood takes this as encouragement to recommend Colonel Brandon even more heartily, although Marianne is certainly not ready for that suggestion. Elinor begins to wonder at Edward, having heard nothing of him since she left London; the family is surprised then, when one of their servants returns from the village with news that he is married to Lucy. Their servant saw them himself, and says that Lucy sends her compliments; Elinor knows now that Edward is lost to her forever, and doomed to an unhappy marriage as well. Mrs. Dashwood sees how upset Elinor is, despite her attempts to hide it; she realizes that Elinor felt more for Edward than she guessed before, and is sorry to have paid less attention to Elinor's disappointments simply because she was less open with them than Marianne was.", "analysis": "Marianne's transformation seems complete at this point; her affections for Willoughby are put to rest, and even her mother, who was once fond of him, has decided to forgive and forget. Marianne sees that Willoughby's selfishness and inconstancy would hardly have made her happy; perhaps she will recognize that the Colonel is very much the opposite, and be attracted to him because he is so steady in his affections and cares very much for her happiness. It seems at this point that Elinor's hopes for happiness are destroyed, as she does not have a suitor as Marianne still does. Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood do become more sensitive toward Elinor's disappointment, and come to understand her character more; for although Elinor tries hard to conceal her unhappiness, this does not mean that she doesn't feel less than Marianne does"}

Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could not be recalled.--Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon. Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from himself--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of Willoughby's deserts;--she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray. In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began voluntarily to speak of him again;--but that it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting--her rising colour, as she spoke,--and her unsteady voice, plainly shewed. "I wish to assure you both," said she, "that I see every thing--as you can desire me to do." Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued-- "It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear."--For some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before--"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this.--I should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings." "I know it--I know it," cried her mother. "Happy with a man of libertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt." Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change." "You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the LESS grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. YOUR sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that--and how little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?-- Beyond THAT, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge HIS enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties?" Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "Selfish?" in a tone that implied--"do you really think him selfish?" "The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle." "It is very true. MY happiness never was his object." "At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done. And why does he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?--The inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife." "I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to regret--nothing but my own folly." "Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood; "SHE must be answerable." Marianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued, "One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents." Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her. Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health. Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future. Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and in the first of John's, there had been this sentence:-- "We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;" which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures. Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication-- "I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married." Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention. The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it. "Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?" "I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you." "But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?" "Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy." "Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?" "Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking." Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation. "Was there no one else in the carriage?" "No, ma'am, only they two." "Do you know where they came from?" "They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me." "And are they going farther westward?" "Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here." Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth. Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to hear more. "Did you see them off, before you came away?" "No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any longer; I was afraid of being late." "Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?" "Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented." Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before. When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;--that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.

Chapter 47

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

Elinor tells her mother about her conversation with Willoughby, and though her mother, like herself and Marianne, thinks a little better of him, they do not miss him or have much affection for him anymore. Marianne finally says that she could not have been happy with Willoughby, after hearing of his cruelty toward Miss Williams; Elinor says that Marianne is certainly right in this appraisal, and that Willoughby was too selfish to have made her happy. Mrs. Dashwood takes this as encouragement to recommend Colonel Brandon even more heartily, although Marianne is certainly not ready for that suggestion. Elinor begins to wonder at Edward, having heard nothing of him since she left London; the family is surprised then, when one of their servants returns from the village with news that he is married to Lucy. Their servant saw them himself, and says that Lucy sends her compliments; Elinor knows now that Edward is lost to her forever, and doomed to an unhappy marriage as well. Mrs. Dashwood sees how upset Elinor is, despite her attempts to hide it; she realizes that Elinor felt more for Edward than she guessed before, and is sorry to have paid less attention to Elinor's disappointments simply because she was less open with them than Marianne was.

Marianne's transformation seems complete at this point; her affections for Willoughby are put to rest, and even her mother, who was once fond of him, has decided to forgive and forget. Marianne sees that Willoughby's selfishness and inconstancy would hardly have made her happy; perhaps she will recognize that the Colonel is very much the opposite, and be attracted to him because he is so steady in his affections and cares very much for her happiness. It seems at this point that Elinor's hopes for happiness are destroyed, as she does not have a suitor as Marianne still does. Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood do become more sensitive toward Elinor's disappointment, and come to understand her character more; for although Elinor tries hard to conceal her unhappiness, this does not mean that she doesn't feel less than Marianne does

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_35_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 36

chapter 36

{"name": "Chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-36", "summary": "As night approaches, there are a few signs of approaching rain. Gabriel Oak looks out at a bunch of uncovered haystacks and thinks that they might be spoiled if they get rained on. Meanwhile, there's a celebration going on in the main barn for Bathsheba and Troy's wedding. Troy is having a great time and wants all the men in the barn to get drunk with him. Bathsheba is against this idea, but he insists. He's so insistent, in fact, that he eventually kicks all the women and children out of the barn and says it'll be a dudes-only party for the rest of the night. Gabriel tries to approach Troy to tell him about the need to cover the haystacks, since the farm would lose a lot of money if they were spoiled. But Troy just dismisses him by saying that it won't rain. Sure enough, it starts to rain. Gabriel runs outside into a thunderstorm to cover the haystacks. But first, he has to get the key to a building called the granary from one of the workmen's wives.", "analysis": ""}

WEALTH IN JEOPARDY--THE REVEL One night, at the end of August, when Bathsheba's experiences as a married woman were still new, and when the weather was yet dry and sultry, a man stood motionless in the stockyard of Weatherbury Upper Farm, looking at the moon and sky. The night had a sinister aspect. A heated breeze from the south slowly fanned the summits of lofty objects, and in the sky dashes of buoyant cloud were sailing in a course at right angles to that of another stratum, neither of them in the direction of the breeze below. The moon, as seen through these films, had a lurid metallic look. The fields were sallow with the impure light, and all were tinged in monochrome, as if beheld through stained glass. The same evening the sheep had trailed homeward head to tail, the behaviour of the rooks had been confused, and the horses had moved with timidity and caution. Thunder was imminent, and, taking some secondary appearances into consideration, it was likely to be followed by one of the lengthened rains which mark the close of dry weather for the season. Before twelve hours had passed a harvest atmosphere would be a bygone thing. Oak gazed with misgiving at eight naked and unprotected ricks, massive and heavy with the rich produce of one-half the farm for that year. He went on to the barn. This was the night which had been selected by Sergeant Troy--ruling now in the room of his wife--for giving the harvest supper and dance. As Oak approached the building the sound of violins and a tambourine, and the regular jigging of many feet, grew more distinct. He came close to the large doors, one of which stood slightly ajar, and looked in. The central space, together with the recess at one end, was emptied of all incumbrances, and this area, covering about two-thirds of the whole, was appropriated for the gathering, the remaining end, which was piled to the ceiling with oats, being screened off with sail-cloth. Tufts and garlands of green foliage decorated the walls, beams, and extemporized chandeliers, and immediately opposite to Oak a rostrum had been erected, bearing a table and chairs. Here sat three fiddlers, and beside them stood a frantic man with his hair on end, perspiration streaming down his cheeks, and a tambourine quivering in his hand. The dance ended, and on the black oak floor in the midst a new row of couples formed for another. "Now, ma'am, and no offence I hope, I ask what dance you would like next?" said the first violin. "Really, it makes no difference," said the clear voice of Bathsheba, who stood at the inner end of the building, observing the scene from behind a table covered with cups and viands. Troy was lolling beside her. "Then," said the fiddler, "I'll venture to name that the right and proper thing is 'The Soldier's Joy'--there being a gallant soldier married into the farm--hey, my sonnies, and gentlemen all?" "It shall be 'The Soldier's Joy,'" exclaimed a chorus. "Thanks for the compliment," said the sergeant gaily, taking Bathsheba by the hand and leading her to the top of the dance. "For though I have purchased my discharge from Her Most Gracious Majesty's regiment of cavalry the 11th Dragoon Guards, to attend to the new duties awaiting me here, I shall continue a soldier in spirit and feeling as long as I live." So the dance began. As to the merits of "The Soldier's Joy," there cannot be, and never were, two opinions. It has been observed in the musical circles of Weatherbury and its vicinity that this melody, at the end of three-quarters of an hour of thunderous footing, still possesses more stimulative properties for the heel and toe than the majority of other dances at their first opening. "The Soldier's Joy" has, too, an additional charm, in being so admirably adapted to the tambourine aforesaid--no mean instrument in the hands of a performer who understands the proper convulsions, spasms, St. Vitus's dances, and fearful frenzies necessary when exhibiting its tones in their highest perfection. The immortal tune ended, a fine DD rolling forth from the bass-viol with the sonorousness of a cannonade, and Gabriel delayed his entry no longer. He avoided Bathsheba, and got as near as possible to the platform, where Sergeant Troy was now seated, drinking brandy-and-water, though the others drank without exception cider and ale. Gabriel could not easily thrust himself within speaking distance of the sergeant, and he sent a message, asking him to come down for a moment. The sergeant said he could not attend. "Will you tell him, then," said Gabriel, "that I only stepped ath'art to say that a heavy rain is sure to fall soon, and that something should be done to protect the ricks?" "Mr. Troy says it will not rain," returned the messenger, "and he cannot stop to talk to you about such fidgets." In juxtaposition with Troy, Oak had a melancholy tendency to look like a candle beside gas, and ill at ease, he went out again, thinking he would go home; for, under the circumstances, he had no heart for the scene in the barn. At the door he paused for a moment: Troy was speaking. "Friends, it is not only the harvest home that we are celebrating to-night; but this is also a Wedding Feast. A short time ago I had the happiness to lead to the altar this lady, your mistress, and not until now have we been able to give any public flourish to the event in Weatherbury. That it may be thoroughly well done, and that every man may go happy to bed, I have ordered to be brought here some bottles of brandy and kettles of hot water. A treble-strong goblet will be handed round to each guest." Bathsheba put her hand upon his arm, and, with upturned pale face, said imploringly, "No--don't give it to them--pray don't, Frank! It will only do them harm: they have had enough of everything." "True--we don't wish for no more, thank ye," said one or two. "Pooh!" said the sergeant contemptuously, and raised his voice as if lighted up by a new idea. "Friends," he said, "we'll send the women-folk home! 'Tis time they were in bed. Then we cockbirds will have a jolly carouse to ourselves! If any of the men show the white feather, let them look elsewhere for a winter's work." Bathsheba indignantly left the barn, followed by all the women and children. The musicians, not looking upon themselves as "company," slipped quietly away to their spring waggon and put in the horse. Thus Troy and the men on the farm were left sole occupants of the place. Oak, not to appear unnecessarily disagreeable, stayed a little while; then he, too, arose and quietly took his departure, followed by a friendly oath from the sergeant for not staying to a second round of grog. Gabriel proceeded towards his home. In approaching the door, his toe kicked something which felt and sounded soft, leathery, and distended, like a boxing-glove. It was a large toad humbly travelling across the path. Oak took it up, thinking it might be better to kill the creature to save it from pain; but finding it uninjured, he placed it again among the grass. He knew what this direct message from the Great Mother meant. And soon came another. When he struck a light indoors there appeared upon the table a thin glistening streak, as if a brush of varnish had been lightly dragged across it. Oak's eyes followed the serpentine sheen to the other side, where it led up to a huge brown garden-slug, which had come indoors to-night for reasons of its own. It was Nature's second way of hinting to him that he was to prepare for foul weather. Oak sat down meditating for nearly an hour. During this time two black spiders, of the kind common in thatched houses, promenaded the ceiling, ultimately dropping to the floor. This reminded him that if there was one class of manifestation on this matter that he thoroughly understood, it was the instincts of sheep. He left the room, ran across two or three fields towards the flock, got upon a hedge, and looked over among them. They were crowded close together on the other side around some furze bushes, and the first peculiarity observable was that, on the sudden appearance of Oak's head over the fence, they did not stir or run away. They had now a terror of something greater than their terror of man. But this was not the most noteworthy feature: they were all grouped in such a way that their tails, without a single exception, were towards that half of the horizon from which the storm threatened. There was an inner circle closely huddled, and outside these they radiated wider apart, the pattern formed by the flock as a whole not being unlike a vandyked lace collar, to which the clump of furze-bushes stood in the position of a wearer's neck. This was enough to re-establish him in his original opinion. He knew now that he was right, and that Troy was wrong. Every voice in nature was unanimous in bespeaking change. But two distinct translations attached to these dumb expressions. Apparently there was to be a thunder-storm, and afterwards a cold continuous rain. The creeping things seemed to know all about the later rain, but little of the interpolated thunder-storm; whilst the sheep knew all about the thunder-storm and nothing of the later rain. This complication of weathers being uncommon, was all the more to be feared. Oak returned to the stack-yard. All was silent here, and the conical tips of the ricks jutted darkly into the sky. There were five wheat-ricks in this yard, and three stacks of barley. The wheat when threshed would average about thirty quarters to each stack; the barley, at least forty. Their value to Bathsheba, and indeed to anybody, Oak mentally estimated by the following simple calculation:-- 5 x 30 = 150 quarters = 500 L. 3 x 40 = 120 quarters = 250 L. ------- Total . . 750 L. Seven hundred and fifty pounds in the divinest form that money can wear--that of necessary food for man and beast: should the risk be run of deteriorating this bulk of corn to less than half its value, because of the instability of a woman? "Never, if I can prevent it!" said Gabriel. Such was the argument that Oak set outwardly before him. But man, even to himself, is a palimpsest, having an ostensible writing, and another beneath the lines. It is possible that there was this golden legend under the utilitarian one: "I will help to my last effort the woman I have loved so dearly." He went back to the barn to endeavour to obtain assistance for covering the ricks that very night. All was silent within, and he would have passed on in the belief that the party had broken up, had not a dim light, yellow as saffron by contrast with the greenish whiteness outside, streamed through a knot-hole in the folding doors. Gabriel looked in. An unusual picture met his eye. The candles suspended among the evergreens had burnt down to their sockets, and in some cases the leaves tied about them were scorched. Many of the lights had quite gone out, others smoked and stank, grease dropping from them upon the floor. Here, under the table, and leaning against forms and chairs in every conceivable attitude except the perpendicular, were the wretched persons of all the work-folk, the hair of their heads at such low levels being suggestive of mops and brooms. In the midst of these shone red and distinct the figure of Sergeant Troy, leaning back in a chair. Coggan was on his back, with his mouth open, huzzing forth snores, as were several others; the united breathings of the horizonal assemblage forming a subdued roar like London from a distance. Joseph Poorgrass was curled round in the fashion of a hedge-hog, apparently in attempts to present the least possible portion of his surface to the air; and behind him was dimly visible an unimportant remnant of William Smallbury. The glasses and cups still stood upon the table, a water-jug being overturned, from which a small rill, after tracing its course with marvellous precision down the centre of the long table, fell into the neck of the unconscious Mark Clark, in a steady, monotonous drip, like the dripping of a stalactite in a cave. Gabriel glanced hopelessly at the group, which, with one or two exceptions, composed all the able-bodied men upon the farm. He saw at once that if the ricks were to be saved that night, or even the next morning, he must save them with his own hands. A faint "ting-ting" resounded from under Coggan's waistcoat. It was Coggan's watch striking the hour of two. Oak went to the recumbent form of Matthew Moon, who usually undertook the rough thatching of the home-stead, and shook him. The shaking was without effect. Gabriel shouted in his ear, "where's your thatching-beetle and rick-stick and spars?" "Under the staddles," said Moon, mechanically, with the unconscious promptness of a medium. Gabriel let go his head, and it dropped upon the floor like a bowl. He then went to Susan Tall's husband. "Where's the key of the granary?" No answer. The question was repeated, with the same result. To be shouted to at night was evidently less of a novelty to Susan Tall's husband than to Matthew Moon. Oak flung down Tall's head into the corner again and turned away. To be just, the men were not greatly to blame for this painful and demoralizing termination to the evening's entertainment. Sergeant Troy had so strenuously insisted, glass in hand, that drinking should be the bond of their union, that those who wished to refuse hardly liked to be so unmannerly under the circumstances. Having from their youth up been entirely unaccustomed to any liquor stronger than cider or mild ale, it was no wonder that they had succumbed, one and all, with extraordinary uniformity, after the lapse of about an hour. Gabriel was greatly depressed. This debauch boded ill for that wilful and fascinating mistress whom the faithful man even now felt within him as the embodiment of all that was sweet and bright and hopeless. He put out the expiring lights, that the barn might not be endangered, closed the door upon the men in their deep and oblivious sleep, and went again into the lone night. A hot breeze, as if breathed from the parted lips of some dragon about to swallow the globe, fanned him from the south, while directly opposite in the north rose a grim misshapen body of cloud, in the very teeth of the wind. So unnaturally did it rise that one could fancy it to be lifted by machinery from below. Meanwhile the faint cloudlets had flown back into the south-east corner of the sky, as if in terror of the large cloud, like a young brood gazed in upon by some monster. Going on to the village, Oak flung a small stone against the window of Laban Tall's bedroom, expecting Susan to open it; but nobody stirred. He went round to the back door, which had been left unfastened for Laban's entry, and passed in to the foot of the staircase. "Mrs. Tall, I've come for the key of the granary, to get at the rick-cloths," said Oak, in a stentorian voice. "Is that you?" said Mrs. Susan Tall, half awake. "Yes," said Gabriel. "Come along to bed, do, you drawlatching rogue--keeping a body awake like this!" "It isn't Laban--'tis Gabriel Oak. I want the key of the granary." "Gabriel! What in the name of fortune did you pretend to be Laban for?" "I didn't. I thought you meant--" "Yes you did! What do you want here?" "The key of the granary." "Take it then. 'Tis on the nail. People coming disturbing women at this time of night ought--" Gabriel took the key, without waiting to hear the conclusion of the tirade. Ten minutes later his lonely figure might have been seen dragging four large water-proof coverings across the yard, and soon two of these heaps of treasure in grain were covered snug--two cloths to each. Two hundred pounds were secured. Three wheat-stacks remained open, and there were no more cloths. Oak looked under the staddles and found a fork. He mounted the third pile of wealth and began operating, adopting the plan of sloping the upper sheaves one over the other; and, in addition, filling the interstices with the material of some untied sheaves. So far all was well. By this hurried contrivance Bathsheba's property in wheat was safe for at any rate a week or two, provided always that there was not much wind. Next came the barley. This it was only possible to protect by systematic thatching. Time went on, and the moon vanished not to reappear. It was the farewell of the ambassador previous to war. The night had a haggard look, like a sick thing; and there came finally an utter expiration of air from the whole heaven in the form of a slow breeze, which might have been likened to a death. And now nothing was heard in the yard but the dull thuds of the beetle which drove in the spars, and the rustle of thatch in the intervals.

Chapter 36

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-36

As night approaches, there are a few signs of approaching rain. Gabriel Oak looks out at a bunch of uncovered haystacks and thinks that they might be spoiled if they get rained on. Meanwhile, there's a celebration going on in the main barn for Bathsheba and Troy's wedding. Troy is having a great time and wants all the men in the barn to get drunk with him. Bathsheba is against this idea, but he insists. He's so insistent, in fact, that he eventually kicks all the women and children out of the barn and says it'll be a dudes-only party for the rest of the night. Gabriel tries to approach Troy to tell him about the need to cover the haystacks, since the farm would lose a lot of money if they were spoiled. But Troy just dismisses him by saying that it won't rain. Sure enough, it starts to rain. Gabriel runs outside into a thunderstorm to cover the haystacks. But first, he has to get the key to a building called the granary from one of the workmen's wives.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/23046-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Comedy of Errors/section_4_part_0.txt

The Comedy of Errors.act iii.scene i

act iii, scene i

{"name": "Act III, Scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-iii-scene-i", "summary": "Near E. Antipholus's house, E. Antipholus meets with Angelo, a goldsmith he has asked to make his wife a necklace . He notes that he's late for dinner, which means his wife will be \"shrewish,\" so he asks Angelo to cover for him. Angelo has been instructed to say that E. Antipholus was with him to see about making the necklace, which Angelo should bring to the house the next day. E. Antipholus then complains about E. Dromio, who has been claiming that he gave him a beating in the marketplace, which he absolutely did not...though it's strange that E. Dromio is bruised. E. Dromio won't give in, so E. Antipholus calls him an ass. The conversation turns to the Merchant Balthazar, who's looking rather serious. Balthazar and E. Antipholus then have a witty exchange about a dinner invitation E. Antipholus has extended to the Merchant. Balthazar says he's more pleased about the invitation than he is about the food, as meat is cheap. E. Antipholus quips that meat may be cheap, but words are even cheaper. Still, Balthazar is welcome at his house, and dinner will be delicious and make him think happy thoughts. Anyway, the joke's on E. Antipholus, as dinner would be awesome, if he could get into his house...which he can't. Because the gate is locked. What ensues at the gates is a long, confused exchange. S. Dromio guards the gate of E. Antipholus's house from the inside . Adriana instructed him to let nobody in, so S. Dromio feels justified in having some fun with the guys outside. E. Dromio and E. Antipholus wonder who on earth is guarding the gate and why he wouldn't let the owner of the house in. When they ask who this mystery guard is, S. Dromio truthfully replies that his name is Dromio. This, of course, confuses E. Dromio, who decides his identity has been stolen. Matters are made worse when another servant, Luce, backs up S. Dromio from inside the gate. E. Antipholus assures all the minions they'll pay for this insubordination when he breaks down the gate, which he's about to do. The confusion only increases: Adriana herself has come to the gate. She can't see who the men outside the gate are, but one insists that he's her husband . Adriana thinks her husband is inside, so she won't let them in either. Finally, E. Antipholus has had enough, and gets ready to break down his own door. Balthazar pierces the madness as the voice of reason. He says that if E. Antipholus makes a scene by breaking down his own door, he'll only be hurting his own reputation by casting suspicion on the faithfulness of his wife. Balthazar's says E. Antipholus's wife is a good woman, so she's sure to have a good explanation for locking him out. Until they find out what Adriana's good excuse is, they should go to the Tiger and have some dinner. E. Antipholus decides that going out to eat is a good idea, and he knows where they can go. There's a nice woman at the Porpentine that his wife has accused him of being unfaithful with before. He hasn't been, of course, but hey--she is pretty cute. He then tells Angelo to go get the necklace. He's going to give it to this other woman to get back at his wife for not letting him in.", "analysis": ""}

ACT III. _SCENE I. Before the house of _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_._ _Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_, _DROMIO of Ephesus_, ANGELO, and BALTHAZAR._ _Ant. E._ Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all; My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours: Say that I linger'd with you at your shop To see the making of her carcanet, And that to-morrow you will bring it home. 5 But here's a villain that would face me down He met me on the mart, and that I beat him, And charged him with a thousand marks in gold, And that I did deny my wife and house. Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this? 10 _Dro. E._ Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know; That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show: If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think. _Ant. E._ I think thou art an ass. _Dro. E._ Marry, so it doth appear 15 By the wrongs I suffer, and the blows I bear. I should kick, being kick'd; and, being at that pass, You would keep from my heels, and beware of an ass. _Ant. E._ You're sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God our cheer May answer my good will and your good welcome here. 20 _Bal._ I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear. _Ant. E._ O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish, A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish. _Bal._ Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords. _Ant. E._ And welcome more common; for that's nothing but words. 25 _Bal._ Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast. _Ant. E._ Ay to a niggardly host and more sparing guest: But though my cates be mean, take them in good part; Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart. But, soft! my door is lock'd.--Go bid them let us in. 30 _Dro. E._ Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn! _Dro. S._ [_Within_] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch! Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch. Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st for such store, When one is one too many? Go get thee from the door, 35 _Dro. E._ What patch is made our porter? My master stays in the street. _Dro. S._ [_Within_] Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on's feet. _Ant. E._ Who talks within there? ho, open the door! _Dro. S._ [_Within_] Right, sir; I'll tell you when, an you'll tell me wherefore. _Ant. E._ Wherefore? for my dinner: I have not dined to-day. 40 _Dro. S._ [_Within_] Nor to-day here you must not; come again when you may. _Ant. E._ What art thou that keepest me out from the house I owe? _Dro. S._ [_Within_] The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio. _Dro. E._ O villain, thou hast stolen both mine office and my name! The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame. 45 If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place, Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass. _Luce._ [_Within_] What a coil is there, Dromio? who are those at the gate? _Dro. E._ Let my master in, Luce. _Luce._ [_Within_] Faith, no; he comes too late; And so tell your master. _Dro. E._ O Lord, I must laugh! 50 Have at you with a proverb;--Shall I set in my staff? _Luce._ [_Within_] Have at you with another; that's, --When? can you tell? _Dro. S._ [_Within_] If thy name be call'd Luce, --Luce, thou hast answer'd him well. _Ant. E._ Do you hear, you minion? you'll let us in, I hope? _Luce._ [_Within_] I thought to have ask'd you. _Dro. S._ [_Within_] And you said no. 55 _Dro. E._ So, come, help:--well struck! there was blow for blow. _Ant. E._ Thou baggage, let me in. _Luce._ [_Within_] Can you tell for whose sake? _Dro. E._ Master, knock the door hard. _Luce._ [_Within_] Let him knock till it ache. _Ant. E._ You'll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down. _Luce._ [_Within_] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town? 60 _Adr._ [_Within_] Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise? _Dro. S._ [_Within_] By my troth, your town is troubled with unruly boys. _Ant. E._ Are you, there, wife? you might have come before. _Adr._ [_Within_] Your wife, sir knave! go get you from the door. _Dro. E._ If you went in pain, master, this 'knave' would go sore. 65 _Aug._ Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we would fain have either. _Bal._ In debating which was best, we shall part with neither. _Dro. E._ They stand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither. _Ant. E._ There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in. _Dro. E._ You would say so, master, if your garments were thin. 70 Your cake here is warm within; you stand here in the cold: It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and sold. _Ant. E._ Go fetch me something: I'll break ope the gate. _Dro. S._ [_Within_] Break any breaking here, and I'll break your knave's pate. _Dro. E._ A man may break a word with you, sir; and words are but wind; 75 Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind. _Dro. S._ [_Within_] It seems thou want'st breaking: out upon thee, hind! _Dro. E._ Here's too much 'out upon thee!' I pray thee, let me in. _Dro. S._ [_Within_] Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and fish have no fin. _Ant. E._ Well, I'll break in:--go borrow me a crow. 80 _Dro. E._ A crow without feather? Master, mean you so? For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a feather: If a crow help us in, sirrah, we'll pluck a crow together. _Ant. E._ Go get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow. _Bal._ Have patience, sir; O, let it not be so! 85 Herein you war against your reputation, And draw within the compass of suspect Th' unviolated honour of your wife. Once this,--your long experience of her wisdom, Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, 90 Plead on her part some cause to you unknown; And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse Why at this time the doors are made against you. Be ruled by me: depart in patience, And let us to the Tiger all to dinner; 95 And about evening come yourself alone To know the reason of this strange restraint. If by strong hand you offer to break in Now in the stirring passage of the day, A vulgar comment will be made of it, 100 And that supposed by the common rout Against your yet ungalled estimation, That may with foul intrusion enter in, And dwell upon your grave when you are dead; For slander lives upon succession, 105 For ever housed where it gets possession. _Ant. E._ You have prevail'd: I will depart in quiet, And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry. I know a wench of excellent discourse, Pretty and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle: 110 There will we dine. This woman that I mean, My wife--but, I protest, without desert-- Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal: To her will we to dinner. [_To Ang._] Get you home, And fetch the chain; by this I know 'tis made: 115 Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine; For there's the house: that chain will I bestow-- Be it for nothing but to spite my wife-- Upon mine hostess there: good sir, make haste. Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, 120 I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me. _Ang._ I'll meet you at that place some hour hence. _Ant. E._ Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: III, 1. SCENE I. ANGELO and BALTHAZAR.] Angelo the Goldsmith and Balthasar the Merchant. Ff. 1: _all_] om. Pope. 11-14: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 11: _Say_] _you must say_ Capell. 13: _the skin_] _my skin_ Collier MS. 14: _own_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _you_] _you for certain_ Collier MS. 15: _doth_] _dont_ Theobald. 19: _You're_] _Y'are_ Ff. _you are_ Capell. 20: _here_] om. Pope. 21-29: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 31: _Ginn_] om. Pope. _Jen'_ Malone. _Gin'_ Collier. _Jin_ Dyce. 36-60: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 32, sqq.: [Within] Rowe. 46: _been_] F1. _bid_ F2 F3 F4. 47: _an ass_] _a face_ Collier MS. 48: Luce. [Within] Rowe. Enter Luce. Ff. _there, Dromio? who_] _there! Dromio, who_ Capell. 54: _hope_] _trow_ Theobald. Malone supposes a line omitted ending _rope_. 61: Adr. [Within]. Rowe. Enter Adriana. Ff. 65-83: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 67: _part_] _have part_ Warburton. 71: _cake here_] _cake_ Capell. _cake there_ Anon. conj. 72: _mad_] F1. _as mad_ F2 F3 F4. _as a buck_] om. Capell. 75: _you,_] _your_ F1. 85: _so_] _thus_ Pope. 89: _Once this_] _Own this_ Malone conj. _This once_ Anon. conj. _her_] Rowe. _your_ Ff. 91: _her_] Rowe. _your_ Ff. 93: _made_] _barr'd_ Pope. 105: _slander_] _lasting slander_ Johnson conj. _upon_] _upon its own_ Capell conj. 106: _housed ... gets_] Collier. _hous'd ... gets_ F1. _hous'd ... once gets_ F2 F3 F4. _hous'd where 't gets_ Steevens. 108: _mirth_] _wrath_ Theobald. 116: _Porpentine_] Ff. _Porcupine_ Rowe (and passim). 117: _will I_] F1. _I will_ F2 F3 F4. 119: _mine_] F1. _my_ F2 F3 F4. 122: _hour_] F1. _hour, sir_ F2 F3 F4.

Act III, Scene i

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-iii-scene-i

Near E. Antipholus's house, E. Antipholus meets with Angelo, a goldsmith he has asked to make his wife a necklace . He notes that he's late for dinner, which means his wife will be "shrewish," so he asks Angelo to cover for him. Angelo has been instructed to say that E. Antipholus was with him to see about making the necklace, which Angelo should bring to the house the next day. E. Antipholus then complains about E. Dromio, who has been claiming that he gave him a beating in the marketplace, which he absolutely did not...though it's strange that E. Dromio is bruised. E. Dromio won't give in, so E. Antipholus calls him an ass. The conversation turns to the Merchant Balthazar, who's looking rather serious. Balthazar and E. Antipholus then have a witty exchange about a dinner invitation E. Antipholus has extended to the Merchant. Balthazar says he's more pleased about the invitation than he is about the food, as meat is cheap. E. Antipholus quips that meat may be cheap, but words are even cheaper. Still, Balthazar is welcome at his house, and dinner will be delicious and make him think happy thoughts. Anyway, the joke's on E. Antipholus, as dinner would be awesome, if he could get into his house...which he can't. Because the gate is locked. What ensues at the gates is a long, confused exchange. S. Dromio guards the gate of E. Antipholus's house from the inside . Adriana instructed him to let nobody in, so S. Dromio feels justified in having some fun with the guys outside. E. Dromio and E. Antipholus wonder who on earth is guarding the gate and why he wouldn't let the owner of the house in. When they ask who this mystery guard is, S. Dromio truthfully replies that his name is Dromio. This, of course, confuses E. Dromio, who decides his identity has been stolen. Matters are made worse when another servant, Luce, backs up S. Dromio from inside the gate. E. Antipholus assures all the minions they'll pay for this insubordination when he breaks down the gate, which he's about to do. The confusion only increases: Adriana herself has come to the gate. She can't see who the men outside the gate are, but one insists that he's her husband . Adriana thinks her husband is inside, so she won't let them in either. Finally, E. Antipholus has had enough, and gets ready to break down his own door. Balthazar pierces the madness as the voice of reason. He says that if E. Antipholus makes a scene by breaking down his own door, he'll only be hurting his own reputation by casting suspicion on the faithfulness of his wife. Balthazar's says E. Antipholus's wife is a good woman, so she's sure to have a good explanation for locking him out. Until they find out what Adriana's good excuse is, they should go to the Tiger and have some dinner. E. Antipholus decides that going out to eat is a good idea, and he knows where they can go. There's a nice woman at the Porpentine that his wife has accused him of being unfaithful with before. He hasn't been, of course, but hey--she is pretty cute. He then tells Angelo to go get the necklace. He's going to give it to this other woman to get back at his wife for not letting him in.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_34_to_36.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_9_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 34-36

chapters 34-36

{"name": "Chapters 34-36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-34-36", "summary": "Chapter 34 begins with Marlow leaning against the balustrade amid the cane-chairs, his audience listening attentively. He continues with his story, describing the new vision he had of Jim: enterprising, energetic, and enthusiastic. Marlow felt sentimental and solitary. He now tells his audience that \"He is one of us,\" and then describes how he had conceived of Cornelius as a dangerous element , while Jim thought Cornelius was too insignificant to be dangerous. Cornelius said to Marlow that Jim was \"no more than a child\" to Marlow , and Marlow responded that Jim would never leave Patusan. Then Marlow forms a kind of collage of the characters of the story in Patusan, as if \"an enchanter's wand\" had immobilized them all except for Jim. Marlow states again, \"He is one of us\" . Jim's story continues. He says good-bye to Marlow, vowing, \"I shall be faithful\" . Marlow is struck by the romance of this statement, and he tells Jim that he should be heading home in about a year. Jim says to that, \"Tell them ...\" . He ends this parting word, however, with \"No- nothing.\" As Marlow's ship pulls away from the shore, he watches Jim, wreathed head to foot in a kind of white veil. \"And, suddenly, I lost him...\" . The narrative is at an end, yet Marlow's audience does not comment. The story is incomplete. How does the story end? Only one man among the listeners shows any interest in knowing Jim's fate. He is a \"privileged man,\" living in a city, in the highest flat of a very lofty building. He receives a packet in the mail from Marlow containing three enclosures. One is a letter from Marlow that informs him of how the story reached its conclusion. Something Jim had begun writing was also included; its heading reads, \"The Fort, Patusan.\" Marlow highlights \"the commonplace hand\" and wonders: \"impossible to say whom he had in 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?\" . There is also an old letter from Jim's father, received just a few days before Jim joined the Patna, beginning \"Dear James\" and containing news of home. The last enclosure is Marlow's story of the final events. Marlow has written it into a narrative, and he comments on its \"profound and terrifying logic\" . Marlow states that the \"information is fragmentary,\" but that he has pieced it together to make \"an intelligible picture\" .", "analysis": "As Marlow brings the story of Jim to a close, he tells the audience gathered around him on the verandah: \"It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient time--that holds an even and scrupulous balance\" . This rings true in life and in the world Conrad presents. Those deserving a favorable opportunity are not always offered it; rather, opportunities seem to arrive by chance. When they do appear, they must be seized. In the end, Jim was offered an opportunity by Marlow and Stein, and he seized it. He says to Marlow, in parting despite his other ties, \"I shall be faithful\" . He hints that he will live to fulfill their hopes in him of the romantic ideal, still being watched by Marlow. As they part in twilight on the beach, \"the sea at his feet, the opportunity by his side--still veiled\" , the romantic opportunity has yet to be fully identified and grasped. The image recalls the \"Eastern bride\" of opportunity, Jewel in particular, and the unsure possibility that a full life can be lived to its end in that romantic place. Still, the statement \"I shall be faithful\" has an acutely romantic resonance and, as Jim lives to be faithful and to accept his fate, Marlow will be faithful in return. Upon learning of Jim's fate, Marlow finishes the story. But, for the time being, the story is incomplete. Marlow ends his story for his audience on the verandah without their knowing what is to come to be in Patusan. Marlow forms a collage of Patusan and all its characters, frozen as if by \"an enchanter's wand.\" Jim, however, according to Marlow, cannot be frozen like the rest: \"I am not certain of him. No magician's wand can immobilize him under my eyes. He is one of us\" , in a sense uncapturable. This characterization of their relationship reinforces Marlow's storytelling role, and behind the guise of Marlow, Conrad himself figures as a kind of god who constructs the story, or at least a detective piecing together a complex account of the human condition. Jim is an exception because, for all his depth and subtlety, his acute awareness of his own shortcomings, and his desire to make something more of himself, he is Marlow's equal, on a level with the storyteller himself. They are of the same material. Jim, being the subject of this story, is the one studied to understand the man's inner life and contradictions. This has been an inquiry into his soul, as overseen by Marlow. But the audience has no comment. The story is incomplete. No judgment can be given, it seems, until the whole of the man's life has passed. Will Jim finally come to terms with his past? The narrative then skips ahead in time, and the reader learns that there was one man who had expressed interest in Jim's fate, far after Marlow's telling of the story. Marlow now addresses him in a letter, and the boundary of Jim's story is again revealed. This time, however, Marlow has moved on from oral storytelling to the written word. First, he presents pieces of written evidence, and then, using the testimonies of others, he pieces together the story into a written narrative for this \"privileged man,\" the \"privileged reader.\" This unnamed reader, we learn, had not summarily approved of Jim, and in fact the reader had \"prophesied for him the disaster of weariness and disgust with acquired honour,\" also commenting that he would regret having given himself up to \"them\" . Marlow presents the completion of Jim's story by way of counterargument: actually \"the question is whether at the last he had not confessed to a faith mightier than the laws of order and progress\" ."}

Marlow swung his legs out, got up quickly, and staggered a little, as though he had been set down after a rush through space. He leaned his back against the balustrade and faced a disordered array of long cane chairs. The bodies prone in them seemed startled out of their torpor by his movement. One or two sat up as if alarmed; here and there a cigar glowed yet; Marlow looked at them all with the eyes of a man returning from the excessive remoteness of a dream. A throat was cleared; a calm voice encouraged negligently, 'Well.' 'Nothing,' said Marlow with a slight start. 'He had told her--that's all. She did not believe him--nothing more. As to myself, I do not know whether it be just, proper, decent for me to rejoice or to be sorry. For my part, I cannot say what I believed--indeed I don't know to this day, and never shall probably. But what did the poor devil believe himself? Truth shall prevail--don't you know Magna est veritas el . . . Yes, when it gets a chance. There is a law, no doubt--and likewise a law regulates your luck in the throwing of dice. It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient Time--that holds an even and scrupulous balance. Both of us had said the very same thing. Did we both speak the truth--or one of us did--or neither? . . .' Marlow paused, crossed his arms on his breast, and in a changed tone-- 'She said we lied. Poor soul! Well--let's leave it to Chance, whose ally is Time, that cannot be hurried, and whose enemy is Death, that will not wait. I had retreated--a little cowed, I must own. I had tried a fall with fear itself and got thrown--of course. I had only succeeded in adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her for ever in the dark. And it had come easily, naturally, unavoidably, by his act, by her own act! It was as though I had been shown the working of the implacable destiny of which we are the victims--and the tools. It was appalling to think of the girl whom I had left standing there motionless; Jim's footsteps had a fateful sound as he tramped by, without seeing me, in his heavy laced boots. "What? No lights!" he said in a loud, surprised voice. "What are you doing in the dark--you two?" Next moment he caught sight of her, I suppose. "Hallo, girl!" he cried cheerily. "Hallo, boy!" she answered at once, with amazing pluck. 'This was their usual greeting to each other, and the bit of swagger she would put into her rather high but sweet voice was very droll, pretty, and childlike. It delighted Jim greatly. This was the last occasion on which I heard them exchange this familiar hail, and it struck a chill into my heart. There was the high sweet voice, the pretty effort, the swagger; but it all seemed to die out prematurely, and the playful call sounded like a moan. It was too confoundedly awful. "What have you done with Marlow?" Jim was asking; and then, "Gone down--has he? Funny I didn't meet him. . . . You there, Marlow?" 'I didn't answer. I wasn't going in--not yet at any rate. I really couldn't. While he was calling me I was engaged in making my escape through a little gate leading out upon a stretch of newly cleared ground. No; I couldn't face them yet. I walked hastily with lowered head along a trodden path. The ground rose gently, the few big trees had been felled, the undergrowth had been cut down and the grass fired. He had a mind to try a coffee-plantation there. The big hill, rearing its double summit coal-black in the clear yellow glow of the rising moon, seemed to cast its shadow upon the ground prepared for that experiment. He was going to try ever so many experiments; I had admired his energy, his enterprise, and his shrewdness. Nothing on earth seemed less real now than his plans, his energy, and his enthusiasm; and raising my eyes, I saw part of the moon glittering through the bushes at the bottom of the chasm. For a moment it looked as though the smooth disc, falling from its place in the sky upon the earth, had rolled to the bottom of that precipice: its ascending movement was like a leisurely rebound; it disengaged itself from the tangle of twigs; the bare contorted limb of some tree, growing on the slope, made a black crack right across its face. It threw its level rays afar as if from a cavern, and in this mournful eclipse-like light the stumps of felled trees uprose very dark, the heavy shadows fell at my feet on all sides, my own moving shadow, and across my path the shadow of the solitary grave perpetually garlanded with flowers. In the darkened moonlight the interlaced blossoms took on shapes foreign to one's memory and colours indefinable to the eye, as though they had been special flowers gathered by no man, grown not in this world, and destined for the use of the dead alone. Their powerful scent hung in the warm air, making it thick and heavy like the fumes of incense. The lumps of white coral shone round the dark mound like a chaplet of bleached skulls, and everything around was so quiet that when I stood still all sound and all movement in the world seemed to come to an end. 'It was a great peace, as if the earth had been one grave, and for a time I stood there thinking mostly of the living who, buried in remote places out of the knowledge of mankind, still are fated to share in its tragic or grotesque miseries. In its noble struggles too--who knows? The human heart is vast enough to contain all the world. It is valiant enough to bear the burden, but where is the courage that would cast it off? 'I suppose I must have fallen into a sentimental mood; I only know that I stood there long enough for the sense of utter solitude to get hold of me so completely that all I had lately seen, all I had heard, and the very human speech itself, seemed to have passed away out of existence, living only for a while longer in my memory, as though I had been the last of mankind. It was a strange and melancholy illusion, evolved half-consciously like all our illusions, which I suspect only to be visions of remote unattainable truth, seen dimly. This was, indeed, one of the lost, forgotten, unknown places of the earth; I had looked under its obscure surface; and I felt that when to-morrow I had left it for ever, it would slip out of existence, to live only in my memory till I myself passed into oblivion. I have that feeling about me now; perhaps it is that feeling which has incited me to tell you the story, to try to hand over to you, as it were, its very existence, its reality--the truth disclosed in a moment of illusion. 'Cornelius broke upon it. He bolted out, vermin-like, from the long grass growing in a depression of the ground. I believe his house was rotting somewhere near by, though I've never seen it, not having been far enough in that direction. He ran towards me upon the path; his feet, shod in dirty white shoes, twinkled on the dark earth; he pulled himself up, and began to whine and cringe under a tall stove-pipe hat. His dried-up little carcass was swallowed up, totally lost, in a suit of black broadcloth. That was his costume for holidays and ceremonies, and it reminded me that this was the fourth Sunday I had spent in Patusan. All the time of my stay I had been vaguely aware of his desire to confide in me, if he only could get me all to himself. He hung about with an eager craving look on his sour yellow little face; but his timidity had kept him back as much as my natural reluctance to have anything to do with such an unsavoury creature. He would have succeeded, nevertheless, had he not been so ready to slink off as soon as you looked at him. He would slink off before Jim's severe gaze, before my own, which I tried to make indifferent, even before Tamb' Itam's surly, superior glance. He was perpetually slinking away; whenever seen he was seen moving off deviously, his face over his shoulder, with either a mistrustful snarl or a woe-begone, piteous, mute aspect; but no assumed expression could conceal this innate irremediable abjectness of his nature, any more than an arrangement of clothing can conceal some monstrous deformity of the body. 'I don't know whether it was the demoralisation of my utter defeat in my encounter with a spectre of fear less than an hour ago, but I let him capture me without even a show of resistance. I was doomed to be the recipient of confidences, and to be confronted with unanswerable questions. It was trying; but the contempt, the unreasoned contempt, the man's appearance provoked, made it easier to bear. He couldn't possibly matter. Nothing mattered, since I had made up my mind that Jim, for whom alone I cared, had at last mastered his fate. He had told me he was satisfied . . . nearly. This is going further than most of us dare. I--who have the right to think myself good enough--dare not. Neither does any of you here, I suppose? . . .' Marlow paused, as if expecting an answer. Nobody spoke. 'Quite right,' he began again. 'Let no soul know, since the truth can be wrung out of us only by some cruel, little, awful catastrophe. But he is one of us, and he could say he was satisfied . . . nearly. Just fancy this! Nearly satisfied. One could almost envy him his catastrophe. Nearly satisfied. After this nothing could matter. It did not matter who suspected him, who trusted him, who loved him, who hated him--especially as it was Cornelius who hated him. 'Yet after all this was a kind of recognition. You shall judge of a man by his foes as well as by his friends, and this enemy of Jim was such as no decent man would be ashamed to own, without, however, making too much of him. This was the view Jim took, and in which I shared; but Jim disregarded him on general grounds. "My dear Marlow," he said, "I feel that if I go straight nothing can touch me. Indeed I do. Now you have been long enough here to have a good look round--and, frankly, don't you think I am pretty safe? It all depends upon me, and, by Jove! I have lots of confidence in myself. The worst thing he could do would be to kill me, I suppose. I don't think for a moment he would. He couldn't, you know--not if I were myself to hand him a loaded rifle for the purpose, and then turn my back on him. That's the sort of thing he is. And suppose he would--suppose he could? Well--what of that? I didn't come here flying for my life--did I? I came here to set my back against the wall, and I am going to stay here . . ." '"Till you are _quite_ satisfied," I struck in. 'We were sitting at the time under the roof in the stern of his boat; twenty paddles flashed like one, ten on a side, striking the water with a single splash, while behind our backs Tamb' Itam dipped silently right and left, and stared right down the river, attentive to keep the long canoe in the greatest strength of the current. Jim bowed his head, and our last talk seemed to flicker out for good. He was seeing me off as far as the mouth of the river. The schooner had left the day before, working down and drifting on the ebb, while I had prolonged my stay overnight. And now he was seeing me off. 'Jim had been a little angry with me for mentioning Cornelius at all. I had not, in truth, said much. The man was too insignificant to be dangerous, though he was as full of hate as he could hold. He had called me "honourable sir" at every second sentence, and had whined at my elbow as he followed me from the grave of his "late wife" to the gate of Jim's compound. He declared himself the most unhappy of men, a victim, crushed like a worm; he entreated me to look at him. I wouldn't turn my head to do so; but I could see out of the corner of my eye his obsequious shadow gliding after mine, while the moon, suspended on our right hand, seemed to gloat serenely upon the spectacle. He tried to explain--as I've told you--his share in the events of the memorable night. It was a matter of expediency. How could he know who was going to get the upper hand? "I would have saved him, honourable sir! I would have saved him for eighty dollars," he protested in dulcet tones, keeping a pace behind me. "He has saved himself," I said, "and he has forgiven you." I heard a sort of tittering, and turned upon him; at once he appeared ready to take to his heels. "What are you laughing at?" I asked, standing still. "Don't be deceived, honourable sir!" he shrieked, seemingly losing all control over his feelings. "_He_ save himself! He knows nothing, honourable sir--nothing whatever. Who is he? What does he want here--the big thief? What does he want here? He throws dust into everybody's eyes; he throws dust into your eyes, honourable sir; but he can't throw dust into my eyes. He is a big fool, honourable sir." I laughed contemptuously, and, turning on my heel, began to walk on again. He ran up to my elbow and whispered forcibly, "He's no more than a little child here--like a little child--a little child." Of course I didn't take the slightest notice, and seeing the time pressed, because we were approaching the bamboo fence that glittered over the blackened ground of the clearing, he came to the point. He commenced by being abjectly lachrymose. His great misfortunes had affected his head. He hoped I would kindly forget what nothing but his troubles made him say. He didn't mean anything by it; only the honourable sir did not know what it was to be ruined, broken down, trampled upon. After this introduction he approached the matter near his heart, but in such a rambling, ejaculatory, craven fashion, that for a long time I couldn't make out what he was driving at. He wanted me to intercede with Jim in his favour. It seemed, too, to be some sort of money affair. I heard time and again the words, "Moderate provision--suitable present." He seemed to be claiming value for something, and he even went the length of saying with some warmth that life was not worth having if a man were to be robbed of everything. I did not breathe a word, of course, but neither did I stop my ears. The gist of the affair, which became clear to me gradually, was in this, that he regarded himself as entitled to some money in exchange for the girl. He had brought her up. Somebody else's child. Great trouble and pains--old man now--suitable present. If the honourable sir would say a word. . . . I stood still to look at him with curiosity, and fearful lest I should think him extortionate, I suppose, he hastily brought himself to make a concession. In consideration of a "suitable present" given at once, he would, he declared, be willing to undertake the charge of the girl, "without any other provision--when the time came for the gentleman to go home." His little yellow face, all crumpled as though it had been squeezed together, expressed the most anxious, eager avarice. His voice whined coaxingly, "No more trouble--natural guardian--a sum of money . . ." 'I stood there and marvelled. That kind of thing, with him, was evidently a vocation. I discovered suddenly in his cringing attitude a sort of assurance, as though he had been all his life dealing in certitudes. He must have thought I was dispassionately considering his proposal, because he became as sweet as honey. "Every gentleman made a provision when the time came to go home," he began insinuatingly. I slammed the little gate. "In this case, Mr. Cornelius," I said, "the time will never come." He took a few seconds to gather this in. "What!" he fairly squealed. "Why," I continued from my side of the gate, "haven't you heard him say so himself? He will never go home." "Oh! this is too much," he shouted. He would not address me as "honoured sir" any more. He was very still for a time, and then without a trace of humility began very low: "Never go--ah! He--he--he comes here devil knows from where--comes here--devil knows why--to trample on me till I die--ah--trample" (he stamped softly with both feet), "trample like this--nobody knows why--till I die. . . ." His voice became quite extinct; he was bothered by a little cough; he came up close to the fence and told me, dropping into a confidential and piteous tone, that he would not be trampled upon. "Patience--patience," he muttered, striking his breast. I had done laughing at him, but unexpectedly he treated me to a wild cracked burst of it. "Ha! ha! ha! We shall see! We shall see! What! Steal from me! Steal from me everything! Everything! Everything!" His head drooped on one shoulder, his hands were hanging before him lightly clasped. One would have thought he had cherished the girl with surpassing love, that his spirit had been crushed and his heart broken by the most cruel of spoliations. Suddenly he lifted his head and shot out an infamous word. "Like her mother--she is like her deceitful mother. Exactly. In her face, too. In her face. The devil!" He leaned his forehead against the fence, and in that position uttered threats and horrible blasphemies in Portuguese in very weak ejaculations, mingled with miserable plaints and groans, coming out with a heave of the shoulders as though he had been overtaken by a deadly fit of sickness. It was an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance, and I hastened away. He tried to shout something after me. Some disparagement of Jim, I believe--not too loud though, we were too near the house. All I heard distinctly was, "No more than a little child--a little child."' 'But next morning, at the first bend of the river shutting off the houses of Patusan, all this dropped out of my sight bodily, with its colour, its design, and its meaning, like a picture created by fancy on a canvas, upon which, after long contemplation, you turn your back for the last time. It remains in the memory motionless, unfaded, with its life arrested, in an unchanging light. There are the ambitions, the fears, the hate, the hopes, and they remain in my mind just as I had seen them--intense and as if for ever suspended in their expression. I had turned away from the picture and was going back to the world where events move, men change, light flickers, life flows in a clear stream, no matter whether over mud or over stones. I wasn't going to dive into it; I would have enough to do to keep my head above the surface. But as to what I was leaving behind, I cannot imagine any alteration. The immense and magnanimous Doramin and his little motherly witch of a wife, gazing together upon the land and nursing secretly their dreams of parental ambition; Tunku Allang, wizened and greatly perplexed; Dain Waris, intelligent and brave, with his faith in Jim, with his firm glance and his ironic friendliness; the girl, absorbed in her frightened, suspicious adoration; Tamb' Itam, surly and faithful; Cornelius, leaning his forehead against the fence under the moonlight--I am certain of them. They exist as if under an enchanter's wand. But the figure round which all these are grouped--that one lives, and I am not certain of him. No magician's wand can immobilise him under my eyes. He is one of us. 'Jim, as I've told you, accompanied me on the first stage of my journey back to the world he had renounced, and the way at times seemed to lead through the very heart of untouched wilderness. The empty reaches sparkled under the high sun; between the high walls of vegetation the heat drowsed upon the water, and the boat, impelled vigorously, cut her way through the air that seemed to have settled dense and warm under the shelter of lofty trees. 'The shadow of the impending separation had already put an immense space between us, and when we spoke it was with an effort, as if to force our low voices across a vast and increasing distance. The boat fairly flew; we sweltered side by side in the stagnant superheated air; the smell of mud, of mush, the primeval smell of fecund earth, seemed to sting our faces; till suddenly at a bend it was as if a great hand far away had lifted a heavy curtain, had flung open un immense portal. The light itself seemed to stir, the sky above our heads widened, a far-off murmur reached our ears, a freshness enveloped us, filled our lungs, quickened our thoughts, our blood, our regrets--and, straight ahead, the forests sank down against the dark-blue ridge of the sea. 'I breathed deeply, I revelled in the vastness of the opened horizon, in the different atmosphere that seemed to vibrate with the toil of life, with the energy of an impeccable world. This sky and this sea were open to me. The girl was right--there was a sign, a call in them--something to which I responded with every fibre of my being. I let my eyes roam through space, like a man released from bonds who stretches his cramped limbs, runs, leaps, responds to the inspiring elation of freedom. "This is glorious!" I cried, and then I looked at the sinner by my side. He sat with his head sunk on his breast and said "Yes," without raising his eyes, as if afraid to see writ large on the clear sky of the offing the reproach of his romantic conscience. 'I remember the smallest details of that afternoon. We landed on a bit of white beach. It was backed by a low cliff wooded on the brow, draped in creepers to the very foot. Below us the plain of the sea, of a serene and intense blue, stretched with a slight upward tilt to the thread-like horizon drawn at the height of our eyes. Great waves of glitter blew lightly along the pitted dark surface, as swift as feathers chased by the breeze. A chain of islands sat broken and massive facing the wide estuary, displayed in a sheet of pale glassy water reflecting faithfully the contour of the shore. High in the colourless sunshine a solitary bird, all black, hovered, dropping and soaring above the same spot with a slight rocking motion of the wings. A ragged, sooty bunch of flimsy mat hovels was perched over its own inverted image upon a crooked multitude of high piles the colour of ebony. A tiny black canoe put off from amongst them with two tiny men, all black, who toiled exceedingly, striking down at the pale water: and the canoe seemed to slide painfully on a mirror. This bunch of miserable hovels was the fishing village that boasted of the white lord's especial protection, and the two men crossing over were the old headman and his son-in-law. They landed and walked up to us on the white sand, lean, dark-brown as if dried in smoke, with ashy patches on the skin of their naked shoulders and breasts. Their heads were bound in dirty but carefully folded headkerchiefs, and the old man began at once to state a complaint, voluble, stretching a lank arm, screwing up at Jim his old bleared eyes confidently. The Rajah's people would not leave them alone; there had been some trouble about a lot of turtles' eggs his people had collected on the islets there--and leaning at arm's-length upon his paddle, he pointed with a brown skinny hand over the sea. Jim listened for a time without looking up, and at last told him gently to wait. He would hear him by-and-by. They withdrew obediently to some little distance, and sat on their heels, with their paddles lying before them on the sand; the silvery gleams in their eyes followed our movements patiently; and the immensity of the outspread sea, the stillness of the coast, passing north and south beyond the limits of my vision, made up one colossal Presence watching us four dwarfs isolated on a strip of glistening sand. '"The trouble is," remarked Jim moodily, "that for generations these beggars of fishermen in that village there had been considered as the Rajah's personal slaves--and the old rip can't get it into his head that . . ." 'He paused. "That you have changed all that," I said. '"Yes I've changed all that," he muttered in a gloomy voice. '"You have had your opportunity," I pursued. '"Have I?" he said. "Well, yes. I suppose so. Yes. I have got back my confidence in myself--a good name--yet sometimes I wish . . . No! I shall hold what I've got. Can't expect anything more." He flung his arm out towards the sea. "Not out there anyhow." He stamped his foot upon the sand. "This is my limit, because nothing less will do." 'We continued pacing the beach. "Yes, I've changed all that," he went on, with a sidelong glance at the two patient squatting fishermen; "but only try to think what it would be if I went away. Jove! can't you see it? Hell loose. No! To-morrow I shall go and take my chance of drinking that silly old Tunku Allang's coffee, and I shall make no end of fuss over these rotten turtles' eggs. No. I can't say--enough. Never. I must go on, go on for ever holding up my end, to feel sure that nothing can touch me. I must stick to their belief in me to feel safe and to--to" . . . He cast about for a word, seemed to look for it on the sea . . . "to keep in touch with" . . . His voice sank suddenly to a murmur . . . "with those whom, perhaps, I shall never see any more. With--with--you, for instance." 'I was profoundly humbled by his words. "For God's sake," I said, "don't set me up, my dear fellow; just look to yourself." I felt a gratitude, an affection, for that straggler whose eyes had singled me out, keeping my place in the ranks of an insignificant multitude. How little that was to boast of, after all! I turned my burning face away; under the low sun, glowing, darkened and crimson, like un ember snatched from the fire, the sea lay outspread, offering all its immense stillness to the approach of the fiery orb. Twice he was going to speak, but checked himself; at last, as if he had found a formula-- '"I shall be faithful," he said quietly. "I shall be faithful," he repeated, without looking at me, but for the first time letting his eyes wander upon the waters, whose blueness had changed to a gloomy purple under the fires of sunset. Ah! he was romantic, romantic. I recalled some words of Stein's. . . . "In the destructive element immerse! . . . To follow the dream, and again to follow the dream--and so--always--usque ad finem . . ." He was romantic, but none the less true. Who could tell what forms, what visions, what faces, what forgiveness he could see in the glow of the west! . . . A small boat, leaving the schooner, moved slowly, with a regular beat of two oars, towards the sandbank to take me off. "And then there's Jewel," he said, out of the great silence of earth, sky, and sea, which had mastered my very thoughts so that his voice made me start. "There's Jewel." "Yes," I murmured. "I need not tell you what she is to me," he pursued. "You've seen. In time she will come to understand . . ." "I hope so," I interrupted. "She trusts me, too," he mused, and then changed his tone. "When shall we meet next, I wonder?" he said. '"Never--unless you come out," I answered, avoiding his glance. He didn't seem to be surprised; he kept very quiet for a while. '"Good-bye, then," he said, after a pause. "Perhaps it's just as well." 'We shook hands, and I walked to the boat, which waited with her nose on the beach. The schooner, her mainsail set and jib-sheet to windward, curveted on the purple sea; there was a rosy tinge on her sails. "Will you be going home again soon?" asked Jim, just as I swung my leg over the gunwale. "In a year or so if I live," I said. The forefoot grated on the sand, the boat floated, the wet oars flashed and dipped once, twice. Jim, at the water's edge, raised his voice. "Tell them . . ." he began. I signed to the men to cease rowing, and waited in wonder. Tell who? The half-submerged sun faced him; I could see its red gleam in his eyes that looked dumbly at me. . . . "No--nothing," he said, and with a slight wave of his hand motioned the boat away. I did not look again at the shore till I had clambered on board the schooner. 'By that time the sun had set. The twilight lay over the east, and the coast, turned black, extended infinitely its sombre wall that seemed the very stronghold of the night; the western horizon was one great blaze of gold and crimson in which a big detached cloud floated dark and still, casting a slaty shadow on the water beneath, and I saw Jim on the beach watching the schooner fall off and gather headway. 'The two half-naked fishermen had arisen as soon as I had gone; they were no doubt pouring the plaint of their trifling, miserable, oppressed lives into the ears of the white lord, and no doubt he was listening to it, making it his own, for was it not a part of his luck--the luck "from the word Go"--the luck to which he had assured me he was so completely equal? They, too, I should think, were in luck, and I was sure their pertinacity would be equal to it. Their dark-skinned bodies vanished on the dark background long before I had lost sight of their protector. He was white from head to foot, and remained persistently visible with the stronghold of the night at his back, the sea at his feet, the opportunity by his side--still veiled. What do you say? Was it still veiled? I don't know. For me that white figure in the stillness of coast and sea seemed to stand at the heart of a vast enigma. The twilight was ebbing fast from the sky above his head, the strip of sand had sunk already under his feet, he himself appeared no bigger than a child--then only a speck, a tiny white speck, that seemed to catch all the light left in a darkened world. . . . And, suddenly, I lost him. . . . 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.'

Chapters 34-36

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-34-36

Chapter 34 begins with Marlow leaning against the balustrade amid the cane-chairs, his audience listening attentively. He continues with his story, describing the new vision he had of Jim: enterprising, energetic, and enthusiastic. Marlow felt sentimental and solitary. He now tells his audience that "He is one of us," and then describes how he had conceived of Cornelius as a dangerous element , while Jim thought Cornelius was too insignificant to be dangerous. Cornelius said to Marlow that Jim was "no more than a child" to Marlow , and Marlow responded that Jim would never leave Patusan. Then Marlow forms a kind of collage of the characters of the story in Patusan, as if "an enchanter's wand" had immobilized them all except for Jim. Marlow states again, "He is one of us" . Jim's story continues. He says good-bye to Marlow, vowing, "I shall be faithful" . Marlow is struck by the romance of this statement, and he tells Jim that he should be heading home in about a year. Jim says to that, "Tell them ..." . He ends this parting word, however, with "No- nothing." As Marlow's ship pulls away from the shore, he watches Jim, wreathed head to foot in a kind of white veil. "And, suddenly, I lost him..." . The narrative is at an end, yet Marlow's audience does not comment. The story is incomplete. How does the story end? Only one man among the listeners shows any interest in knowing Jim's fate. He is a "privileged man," living in a city, in the highest flat of a very lofty building. He receives a packet in the mail from Marlow containing three enclosures. One is a letter from Marlow that informs him of how the story reached its conclusion. Something Jim had begun writing was also included; its heading reads, "The Fort, Patusan." Marlow highlights "the commonplace hand" and wonders: "impossible to say whom he had in 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?" . There is also an old letter from Jim's father, received just a few days before Jim joined the Patna, beginning "Dear James" and containing news of home. The last enclosure is Marlow's story of the final events. Marlow has written it into a narrative, and he comments on its "profound and terrifying logic" . Marlow states that the "information is fragmentary," but that he has pieced it together to make "an intelligible picture" .

As Marlow brings the story of Jim to a close, he tells the audience gathered around him on the verandah: "It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient time--that holds an even and scrupulous balance" . This rings true in life and in the world Conrad presents. Those deserving a favorable opportunity are not always offered it; rather, opportunities seem to arrive by chance. When they do appear, they must be seized. In the end, Jim was offered an opportunity by Marlow and Stein, and he seized it. He says to Marlow, in parting despite his other ties, "I shall be faithful" . He hints that he will live to fulfill their hopes in him of the romantic ideal, still being watched by Marlow. As they part in twilight on the beach, "the sea at his feet, the opportunity by his side--still veiled" , the romantic opportunity has yet to be fully identified and grasped. The image recalls the "Eastern bride" of opportunity, Jewel in particular, and the unsure possibility that a full life can be lived to its end in that romantic place. Still, the statement "I shall be faithful" has an acutely romantic resonance and, as Jim lives to be faithful and to accept his fate, Marlow will be faithful in return. Upon learning of Jim's fate, Marlow finishes the story. But, for the time being, the story is incomplete. Marlow ends his story for his audience on the verandah without their knowing what is to come to be in Patusan. Marlow forms a collage of Patusan and all its characters, frozen as if by "an enchanter's wand." Jim, however, according to Marlow, cannot be frozen like the rest: "I am not certain of him. No magician's wand can immobilize him under my eyes. He is one of us" , in a sense uncapturable. This characterization of their relationship reinforces Marlow's storytelling role, and behind the guise of Marlow, Conrad himself figures as a kind of god who constructs the story, or at least a detective piecing together a complex account of the human condition. Jim is an exception because, for all his depth and subtlety, his acute awareness of his own shortcomings, and his desire to make something more of himself, he is Marlow's equal, on a level with the storyteller himself. They are of the same material. Jim, being the subject of this story, is the one studied to understand the man's inner life and contradictions. This has been an inquiry into his soul, as overseen by Marlow. But the audience has no comment. The story is incomplete. No judgment can be given, it seems, until the whole of the man's life has passed. Will Jim finally come to terms with his past? The narrative then skips ahead in time, and the reader learns that there was one man who had expressed interest in Jim's fate, far after Marlow's telling of the story. Marlow now addresses him in a letter, and the boundary of Jim's story is again revealed. This time, however, Marlow has moved on from oral storytelling to the written word. First, he presents pieces of written evidence, and then, using the testimonies of others, he pieces together the story into a written narrative for this "privileged man," the "privileged reader." This unnamed reader, we learn, had not summarily approved of Jim, and in fact the reader had "prophesied for him the disaster of weariness and disgust with acquired honour," also commenting that he would regret having given himself up to "them" . Marlow presents the completion of Jim's story by way of counterargument: actually "the question is whether at the last he had not confessed to a faith mightier than the laws of order and progress" .

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_20_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 21

chapter 21

{"name": "Chapter 21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-21", "summary": "Time for yet another interruption: Marlow breaks in to ask if anyone in his audience has heard of Patusan. No, but we're sure you're about to enlighten us, Marlow. And indeed he is. This Stein guy has a trading post on Patusan, and he suggests sending Jim there to run it. Apparently the guy who is currently running the post, Cornelius, is a bit of a loser. He's not up to snuff. In fact, Stein only gave Cornelius the job as a favor to Cornelius's wife, whom Stein admired. But the wife is now dead, and Stein thinks Jim would do a better job than the guy he's stuck with. This idea prompts Marlow to ponder his relationship with Jim and the idea of home. Marlow takes this opportunity to jump ahead in time to assure us that Jim was successful on Patusan. As it turns out, he's nearing the end of Jim's story. But Marlow, we still have twenty-four chapters to go...", "analysis": ""}

'I don't suppose any of you have ever heard of Patusan?' Marlow resumed, after a silence occupied in the careful lighting of a cigar. 'It does not matter; there's many a heavenly body in the lot crowding upon us of a night that mankind had never heard of, it being outside the sphere of its activities and of no earthly importance to anybody but to the astronomers who are paid to talk learnedly about its composition, weight, path--the irregularities of its conduct, the aberrations of its light--a sort of scientific scandal-mongering. Thus with Patusan. It was referred to knowingly in the inner government circles in Batavia, especially as to its irregularities and aberrations, and it was known by name to some few, very few, in the mercantile world. Nobody, however, had been there, and I suspect no one desired to go there in person, just as an astronomer, I should fancy, would strongly object to being transported into a distant heavenly body, where, parted from his earthly emoluments, he would be bewildered by the view of an unfamiliar heavens. However, neither heavenly bodies nor astronomers have anything to do with Patusan. It was Jim who went there. I only meant you to understand that had Stein arranged to send him into a star of the fifth magnitude the change could not have been greater. He left his earthly failings behind him and what sort of reputation he had, and there was a totally new set of conditions for his imaginative faculty to work upon. Entirely new, entirely remarkable. And he got hold of them in a remarkable way. 'Stein was the man who knew more about Patusan than anybody else. More than was known in the government circles I suspect. I have no doubt he had been there, either in his butterfly-hunting days or later on, when he tried in his incorrigible way to season with a pinch of romance the fattening dishes of his commercial kitchen. There were very few places in the Archipelago he had not seen in the original dusk of their being, before light (and even electric light) had been carried into them for the sake of better morality and--and--well--the greater profit, too. It was at breakfast of the morning following our talk about Jim that he mentioned the place, after I had quoted poor Brierly's remark: "Let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there." He looked up at me with interested attention, as though I had been a rare insect. "This could be done, too," he remarked, sipping his coffee. "Bury him in some sort," I explained. "One doesn't like to do it of course, but it would be the best thing, seeing what he is." "Yes; he is young," Stein mused. "The youngest human being now in existence," I affirmed. "Schon. There's Patusan," he went on in the same tone. . . . "And the woman is dead now," he added incomprehensibly. 'Of course I don't know that story; I can only guess that once before Patusan had been used as a grave for some sin, transgression, or misfortune. It is impossible to suspect Stein. The only woman that had ever existed for him was the Malay girl he called "My wife the princess," or, more rarely, in moments of expansion, "the mother of my Emma." Who was the woman he had mentioned in connection with Patusan I can't say; but from his allusions I understand she had been an educated and very good-looking Dutch-Malay girl, with a tragic or perhaps only a pitiful history, whose most painful part no doubt was her marriage with a Malacca Portuguese who had been clerk in some commercial house in the Dutch colonies. I gathered from Stein that this man was an unsatisfactory person in more ways than one, all being more or less indefinite and offensive. It was solely for his wife's sake that Stein had appointed him manager of Stein & Co.'s trading post in Patusan; but commercially the arrangement was not a success, at any rate for the firm, and now the woman had died, Stein was disposed to try another agent there. The Portuguese, whose name was Cornelius, considered himself a very deserving but ill-used person, entitled by his abilities to a better position. This man Jim would have to relieve. "But I don't think he will go away from the place," remarked Stein. "That has nothing to do with me. It was only for the sake of the woman that I . . . But as I think there is a daughter left, I shall let him, if he likes to stay, keep the old house." 'Patusan is a remote district of a native-ruled state, and the chief settlement bears the same name. At a point on the river about forty miles from the sea, where the first houses come into view, there can be seen rising above the level of the forests the summits of two steep hills very close together, and separated by what looks like a deep fissure, the cleavage of some mighty stroke. As a matter of fact, the valley between is nothing but a narrow ravine; the appearance from the settlement is of one irregularly conical hill split in two, and with the two halves leaning slightly apart. On the third day after the full, the moon, as seen from the open space in front of Jim's house (he had a very fine house in the native style when I visited him), rose exactly behind these hills, its diffused light at first throwing the two masses into intensely black relief, and then the nearly perfect disc, glowing ruddily, appeared, gliding upwards between the sides of the chasm, till it floated away above the summits, as if escaping from a yawning grave in gentle triumph. "Wonderful effect," said Jim by my side. "Worth seeing. Is it not?" 'And this question was put with a note of personal pride that made me smile, as though he had had a hand in regulating that unique spectacle. He had regulated so many things in Patusan--things that would have appeared as much beyond his control as the motions of the moon and the stars. 'It was inconceivable. That was the distinctive quality of the part into which Stein and I had tumbled him unwittingly, with no other notion than to get him out of the way; out of his own way, be it understood. That was our main purpose, though, I own, I might have had another motive which had influenced me a little. I was about to go home for a time; and it may be I desired, more than I was aware of myself, to dispose of him--to dispose of him, you understand--before I left. I was going home, and he had come to me from there, with his miserable trouble and his shadowy claim, like a man panting under a burden in a mist. I cannot say I had ever seen him distinctly--not even to this day, after I had my last view of him; but it seemed to me that the less I understood the more I was bound to him in the name of that doubt which is the inseparable part of our knowledge. I did not know so much more about myself. And then, I repeat, I was going home--to that home distant enough for all its hearthstones to be like one hearthstone, by which the humblest of us has the right to sit. We wander in our thousands over the face of the earth, the illustrious and the obscure, earning beyond the seas our fame, our money, or only a crust of bread; but it seems to me that for each of us going home must be like going to render an account. We return to face our superiors, our kindred, our friends--those whom we obey, and those whom we love; but even they who have neither, the most free, lonely, irresponsible and bereft of ties,--even those for whom home holds no dear face, no familiar voice,--even they have to meet the spirit that dwells within the land, under its sky, in its air, in its valleys, and on its rises, in its fields, in its waters and its trees--a mute friend, judge, and inspirer. Say what you like, to get its joy, to breathe its peace, to face its truth, one must return with a clear conscience. All this may seem to you sheer sentimentalism; and indeed very few of us have the will or the capacity to look consciously under the surface of familiar emotions. There are the girls we love, the men we look up to, the tenderness, the friendships, the opportunities, the pleasures! But the fact remains that you must touch your reward with clean hands, lest it turn to dead leaves, to thorns, in your grasp. I think it is the lonely, without a fireside or an affection they may call their own, those who return not to a dwelling but to the land itself, to meet its disembodied, eternal, and unchangeable spirit--it is those who understand best its severity, its saving power, the grace of its secular right to our fidelity, to our obedience. Yes! few of us understand, but we all feel it though, and I say _all_ without exception, because those who do not feel do not count. Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life. I don't know how much Jim understood; but I know he felt, he felt confusedly but powerfully, the demand of some such truth or some such illusion--I don't care how you call it, there is so little difference, and the difference means so little. The thing is that in virtue of his feeling he mattered. He would never go home now. Not he. Never. Had he been capable of picturesque manifestations he would have shuddered at the thought and made you shudder too. But he was not of that sort, though he was expressive enough in his way. Before the idea of going home he would grow desperately stiff and immovable, with lowered chin and pouted lips, and with those candid blue eyes of his glowering darkly under a frown, as if before something unbearable, as if before something revolting. There was imagination in that hard skull of his, over which the thick clustering hair fitted like a cap. As to me, I have no imagination (I would be more certain about him today, if I had), and I do not mean to imply that I figured to myself the spirit of the land uprising above the white cliffs of Dover, to ask me what I--returning with no bones broken, so to speak--had done with my very young brother. I could not make such a mistake. I knew very well he was of those about whom there is no inquiry; I had seen better men go out, disappear, vanish utterly, without provoking a sound of curiosity or sorrow. The spirit of the land, as becomes the ruler of great enterprises, is careless of innumerable lives. Woe to the stragglers! We exist only in so far as we hang together. He had straggled in a way; he had not hung on; but he was aware of it with an intensity that made him touching, just as a man's more intense life makes his death more touching than the death of a tree. I happened to be handy, and I happened to be touched. That's all there is to it. I was concerned as to the way he would go out. It would have hurt me if, for instance, he had taken to drink. The earth is so small that I was afraid of, some day, being waylaid by a blear-eyed, swollen-faced, besmirched loafer, with no soles to his canvas shoes, and with a flutter of rags about the elbows, who, on the strength of old acquaintance, would ask for a loan of five dollars. You know the awful jaunty bearing of these scarecrows coming to you from a decent past, the rasping careless voice, the half-averted impudent glances--those meetings more trying to a man who believes in the solidarity of our lives than the sight of an impenitent death-bed to a priest. That, to tell you the truth, was the only danger I could see for him and for me; but I also mistrusted my want of imagination. It might even come to something worse, in some way it was beyond my powers of fancy to foresee. He wouldn't let me forget how imaginative he was, and your imaginative people swing farther in any direction, as if given a longer scope of cable in the uneasy anchorage of life. They do. They take to drink too. It may be I was belittling him by such a fear. How could I tell? Even Stein could say no more than that he was romantic. I only knew he was one of us. And what business had he to be romantic? I am telling you so much about my own instinctive feelings and bemused reflections because there remains so little to be told of him. He existed for me, and after all it is only through me that he exists for you. I've led him out by the hand; I have paraded him before you. Were my commonplace fears unjust? I won't say--not even now. You may be able to tell better, since the proverb has it that the onlookers see most of the game. At any rate, they were superfluous. He did not go out, not at all; on the contrary, he came on wonderfully, came on straight as a die and in excellent form, which showed that he could stay as well as spurt. I ought to be delighted, for it is a victory in which I had taken my part; but I am not so pleased as I would have expected to be. I ask myself whether his rush had really carried him out of that mist in which he loomed interesting if not very big, with floating outlines--a straggler yearning inconsolably for his humble place in the ranks. And besides, the last word is not said,--probably shall never be said. Are not our lives too short for that full utterance which through all our stammerings is of course our only and abiding intention? I have given up expecting those last words, whose ring, if they could only be pronounced, would shake both heaven and earth. There is never time to say our last word--the last word of our love, of our desire, faith, remorse, submissions, revolt. The heaven and the earth must not be shaken, I suppose--at least, not by us who know so many truths about either. My last words about Jim shall be few. I affirm he had achieved greatness; but the thing would be dwarfed in the telling, or rather in the hearing. Frankly, it is not my words that I mistrust but your minds. I could be eloquent were I not afraid you fellows had starved your imaginations to feed your bodies. I do not mean to be offensive; it is respectable to have no illusions--and safe--and profitable--and dull. Yet you, too, in your time must have known the intensity of life, that light of glamour created in the shock of trifles, as amazing as the glow of sparks struck from a cold stone--and as short-lived, alas!'

Chapter 21

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-21

Time for yet another interruption: Marlow breaks in to ask if anyone in his audience has heard of Patusan. No, but we're sure you're about to enlighten us, Marlow. And indeed he is. This Stein guy has a trading post on Patusan, and he suggests sending Jim there to run it. Apparently the guy who is currently running the post, Cornelius, is a bit of a loser. He's not up to snuff. In fact, Stein only gave Cornelius the job as a favor to Cornelius's wife, whom Stein admired. But the wife is now dead, and Stein thinks Jim would do a better job than the guy he's stuck with. This idea prompts Marlow to ponder his relationship with Jim and the idea of home. Marlow takes this opportunity to jump ahead in time to assure us that Jim was successful on Patusan. As it turns out, he's nearing the end of Jim's story. But Marlow, we still have twenty-four chapters to go...

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/33.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_32_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 33

chapter 33

{"name": "Phase IV: \"The Consequence,\" Chapter Thirty-Three", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-33", "summary": "Angel wants to spend a day with Tess, just the two of them, before they get married. It'll be their last day as an engaged couple. So they go shopping together on Christmas Eve. Angel leaves Tess briefly in front of an inn . While she's waiting, a couple of men pass by. One of them is from Trantridge , and he recognizes her. He's starting to say so, when Angel comes back. Angel sees the horrified expression on Tess's face, and punches the guy in the jaw. The guy staggers back, and says that it must be a mistake--it must be some other girl, forty miles off. Angel realizes that he overreacted, and gives the guy a few shillings for a bandage. Tess is depressed by the incident, and asks if it would be possible to postpone the wedding. Angel says no, and Tess is silent the whole way home. She's thinking that they're going to move hundreds of miles away, where no one who knew her before could possibly ever see her. That night, Tess gets woken up by the sound of a scuffle from Angel's room overhead. She runs upstairs, and he tells her that he was having a dream that he was fighting that guy again, and was beating up his suitcase in his sleep. Tess makes up her mind at last: since she can't bring herself to tell him her history in person, she writes it all down in a letter, seals it up, and tiptoes upstairs and pokes it under Angel's door. The next morning, she meets him downstairs as usual, and he kisses her as usual. Even when they're alone, he doesn't allude to the letter. Could he have read it? She peeps into his room that afternoon, and doesn't see the note. He must have read it, and he must have forgiven her. The last few days before the wedding slip by. The morning of their wedding, she begins to suspect that he never got the letter. She slips up to his room, and finds the corner of the letter sticking out from under his carpet. It must have gone under the rug when she stuck it under the door. He never saw it. She burns the letter in her room, and pulls Angel aside downstairs. She wants to tell him all of her faults now, before they are married, so that he can never blame her for not telling him later. But Angel says that he doesn't want to hear them, since that they'll have plenty of time to talk over both of their faults later on, after they're married. She has to be \"perfect\" on her wedding day. He promises that he'll confess his own faults later, too. They have to take a coach to the church, because it's a long way off and it's the middle of winter. Because the Dairyman's cart is open, they've rented a closed coach from a local inn. It's old and rickety. There aren't very many people at the church to watch the ceremony, because they hadn't advertised it by publishing the banns . Tess repeats her vows in a low voice, and they are married. Angel knows that she loves him, but he doesn't realize that she'd lie down in front of a cart and get run over repeatedly for him. After the service, Tess stares for a while at the old coach--she thinks it looks familiar. Angel assumes that it's because it reminds her of the legend of the D'Urberville coach, but she's never heard it before. Angel doesn't want to tell her the whole story, since it's pretty gloomy. But he gives the bare bones of it: some member of the D'Urberville family committed some horrible crime in the family coach and, after that, members of the family have a vision of the coach whenever... but that's as far as Angel gets with the story. Tess asks whether it's when they've committed a crime, or when they're about to die, that D'Urbervilles see the coach? Angel doesn't answer, and kisses her. They get back to the dairy, and Tess manages to get a few minutes by herself to calm down. As they leave the dairy, all the workers and Mr. and Mrs. Crick line up to say good-bye. Angel kisses each in turn as a formal farewell, and the dairymaids get all agitated. But Angel doesn't notice. As they're starting to leave through the gate, a rooster crows. Hearing a rooster crow in the afternoon, apparently, is bad luck, and they hurry away as Dairyman Crick threatens to ring the bird's neck.", "analysis": ""}

Angel felt that he would like to spend a day with her before the wedding, somewhere away from the dairy, as a last jaunt in her company while there were yet mere lover and mistress; a romantic day, in circumstances that would never be repeated; with that other and greater day beaming close ahead of them. During the preceding week, therefore, he suggested making a few purchases in the nearest town, and they started together. Clare's life at the dairy had been that of a recluse in respect the world of his own class. For months he had never gone near a town, and, requiring no vehicle, had never kept one, hiring the dairyman's cob or gig if he rode or drove. They went in the gig that day. And then for the first time in their lives they shopped as partners in one concern. It was Christmas Eve, with its loads a holly and mistletoe, and the town was very full of strangers who had come in from all parts of the country on account of the day. Tess paid the penalty of walking about with happiness superadded to beauty on her countenance by being much stared at as she moved amid them on his arm. In the evening they returned to the inn at which they had put up, and Tess waited in the entry while Angel went to see the horse and gig brought to the door. The general sitting-room was full of guests, who were continually going in and out. As the door opened and shut each time for the passage of these, the light within the parlour fell full upon Tess's face. Two men came out and passed by her among the rest. One of them had stared her up and down in surprise, and she fancied he was a Trantridge man, though that village lay so many miles off that Trantridge folk were rarities here. "A comely maid that," said the other. "True, comely enough. But unless I make a great mistake--" And he negatived the remainder of the definition forthwith. Clare had just returned from the stable-yard, and, confronting the man on the threshold, heard the words, and saw the shrinking of Tess. The insult to her stung him to the quick, and before he had considered anything at all he struck the man on the chin with the full force of his fist, sending him staggering backwards into the passage. The man recovered himself, and seemed inclined to come on, and Clare, stepping outside the door, put himself in a posture of defence. But his opponent began to think better of the matter. He looked anew at Tess as he passed her, and said to Clare-- "I beg pardon, sir; 'twas a complete mistake. I thought she was another woman, forty miles from here." Clare, feeling then that he had been too hasty, and that he was, moreover, to blame for leaving her standing in an inn-passage, did what he usually did in such cases, gave the man five shillings to plaster the blow; and thus they parted, bidding each other a pacific good night. As soon as Clare had taken the reins from the ostler, and the young couple had driven off, the two men went in the other direction. "And was it a mistake?" said the second one. "Not a bit of it. But I didn't want to hurt the gentleman's feelings--not I." In the meantime the lovers were driving onward. "Could we put off our wedding till a little later?" Tess asked in a dry dull voice. "I mean if we wished?" "No, my love. Calm yourself. Do you mean that the fellow may have time to summon me for assault?" he asked good-humouredly. "No--I only meant--if it should have to be put off." What she meant was not very clear, and he directed her to dismiss such fancies from her mind, which she obediently did as well as she could. But she was grave, very grave, all the way home; till she thought, "We shall go away, a very long distance, hundreds of miles from these parts, and such as this can never happen again, and no ghost of the past reach there." They parted tenderly that night on the landing, and Clare ascended to his attic. Tess sat up getting on with some little requisites, lest the few remaining days should not afford sufficient time. While she sat she heard a noise in Angel's room overhead, a sound of thumping and struggling. Everybody else in the house was asleep, and in her anxiety lest Clare should be ill she ran up and knocked at his door, and asked him what was the matter. "Oh, nothing, dear," he said from within. "I am so sorry I disturbed you! But the reason is rather an amusing one: I fell asleep and dreamt that I was fighting that fellow again who insulted you, and the noise you heard was my pummelling away with my fists at my portmanteau, which I pulled out to-day for packing. I am occasionally liable to these freaks in my sleep. Go to bed and think of it no more." This was the last drachm required to turn the scale of her indecision. Declare the past to him by word of mouth she could not; but there was another way. She sat down and wrote on the four pages of a note-sheet a succinct narrative of those events of three or four years ago, put it into an envelope, and directed it to Clare. Then, lest the flesh should again be weak, she crept upstairs without any shoes and slipped the note under his door. Her night was a broken one, as it well might be, and she listened for the first faint noise overhead. It came, as usual; he descended, as usual. She descended. He met her at the bottom of the stairs and kissed her. Surely it was as warmly as ever! He looked a little disturbed and worn, she thought. But he said not a word to her about her revelation, even when they were alone. Could he have had it? Unless he began the subject she felt that she could say nothing. So the day passed, and it was evident that whatever he thought he meant to keep to himself. Yet he was frank and affectionate as before. Could it be that her doubts were childish? that he forgave her; that he loved her for what she was, just as she was, and smiled at her disquiet as at a foolish nightmare? Had he really received her note? She glanced into his room, and could see nothing of it. It might be that he forgave her. But even if he had not received it she had a sudden enthusiastic trust that he surely would forgive her. Every morning and night he was the same, and thus New Year's Eve broke--the wedding day. The lovers did not rise at milking-time, having through the whole of this last week of their sojourn at the dairy been accorded something of the position of guests, Tess being honoured with a room of her own. When they arrived downstairs at breakfast-time they were surprised to see what effects had been produced in the large kitchen for their glory since they had last beheld it. At some unnatural hour of the morning the dairyman had caused the yawning chimney-corner to be whitened, and the brick hearth reddened, and a blazing yellow damask blower to be hung across the arch in place of the old grimy blue cotton one with a black sprig pattern which had formerly done duty there. This renovated aspect of what was the focus indeed of the room on a full winter morning threw a smiling demeanour over the whole apartment. "I was determined to do summat in honour o't", said the dairyman. "And as you wouldn't hear of my gieing a rattling good randy wi' fiddles and bass-viols complete, as we should ha' done in old times, this was all I could think o' as a noiseless thing." Tess's friends lived so far off that none could conveniently have been present at the ceremony, even had any been asked; but as a fact nobody was invited from Marlott. As for Angel's family, he had written and duly informed them of the time, and assured them that he would be glad to see one at least of them there for the day if he would like to come. His brothers had not replied at all, seeming to be indignant with him; while his father and mother had written a rather sad letter, deploring his precipitancy in rushing into marriage, but making the best of the matter by saying that, though a dairywoman was the last daughter-in-law they could have expected, their son had arrived at an age which he might be supposed to be the best judge. This coolness in his relations distressed Clare less than it would have done had he been without the grand card with which he meant to surprise them ere long. To produce Tess, fresh from the dairy, as a d'Urberville and a lady, he had felt to be temerarious and risky; hence he had concealed her lineage till such time as, familiarized with worldly ways by a few months' travel and reading with him, he could take her on a visit to his parents and impart the knowledge while triumphantly producing her as worthy of such an ancient line. It was a pretty lover's dream, if no more. Perhaps Tess's lineage had more value for himself than for anybody in the world beside. Her perception that Angel's bearing towards her still remained in no whit altered by her own communication rendered Tess guiltily doubtful if he could have received it. She rose from breakfast before he had finished, and hastened upstairs. It had occurred to her to look once more into the queer gaunt room which had been Clare's den, or rather eyrie, for so long, and climbing the ladder she stood at the open door of the apartment, regarding and pondering. She stooped to the threshold of the doorway, where she had pushed in the note two or three days earlier in such excitement. The carpet reached close to the sill, and under the edge of the carpet she discerned the faint white margin of the envelope containing her letter to him, which he obviously had never seen, owing to her having in her haste thrust it beneath the carpet as well as beneath the door. With a feeling of faintness she withdrew the letter. There it was--sealed up, just as it had left her hands. The mountain had not yet been removed. She could not let him read it now, the house being in full bustle of preparation; and descending to her own room she destroyed the letter there. She was so pale when he saw her again that he felt quite anxious. The incident of the misplaced letter she had jumped at as if it prevented a confession; but she knew in her conscience that it need not; there was still time. Yet everything was in a stir; there was coming and going; all had to dress, the dairyman and Mrs Crick having been asked to accompany them as witnesses; and reflection or deliberate talk was well-nigh impossible. The only minute Tess could get to be alone with Clare was when they met upon the landing. "I am so anxious to talk to you--I want to confess all my faults and blunders!" she said with attempted lightness. "No, no--we can't have faults talked of--you must be deemed perfect to-day at least, my Sweet!" he cried. "We shall have plenty of time, hereafter, I hope, to talk over our failings. I will confess mine at the same time." "But it would be better for me to do it now, I think, so that you could not say--" "Well, my quixotic one, you shall tell me anything--say, as soon as we are settled in our lodging; not now. I, too, will tell you my faults then. But do not let us spoil the day with them; they will be excellent matter for a dull time." "Then you don't wish me to, dearest?" "I do not, Tessy, really." The hurry of dressing and starting left no time for more than this. Those words of his seemed to reassure her on further reflection. She was whirled onward through the next couple of critical hours by the mastering tide of her devotion to him, which closed up further meditation. Her one desire, so long resisted, to make herself his, to call him her lord, her own--then, if necessary, to die--had at last lifted her up from her plodding reflective pathway. In dressing, she moved about in a mental cloud of many-coloured idealities, which eclipsed all sinister contingencies by its brightness. The church was a long way off, and they were obliged to drive, particularly as it was winter. A closed carriage was ordered from a roadside inn, a vehicle which had been kept there ever since the old days of post-chaise travelling. It had stout wheel-spokes, and heavy felloes a great curved bed, immense straps and springs, and a pole like a battering-ram. The postilion was a venerable "boy" of sixty--a martyr to rheumatic gout, the result of excessive exposure in youth, counter-acted by strong liquors--who had stood at inn-doors doing nothing for the whole five-and-twenty years that had elapsed since he had no longer been required to ride professionally, as if expecting the old times to come back again. He had a permanent running wound on the outside of his right leg, originated by the constant bruisings of aristocratic carriage-poles during the many years that he had been in regular employ at the King's Arms, Casterbridge. Inside this cumbrous and creaking structure, and behind this decayed conductor, the _partie carree_ took their seats--the bride and bridegroom and Mr and Mrs Crick. Angel would have liked one at least of his brothers to be present as groomsman, but their silence after his gentle hint to that effect by letter had signified that they did not care to come. They disapproved of the marriage, and could not be expected to countenance it. Perhaps it was as well that they could not be present. They were not worldly young fellows, but fraternizing with dairy-folk would have struck unpleasantly upon their biased niceness, apart from their views of the match. Upheld by the momentum of the time, Tess knew nothing of this, did not see anything, did not know the road they were taking to the church. She knew that Angel was close to her; all the rest was a luminous mist. She was a sort of celestial person, who owed her being to poetry--one of those classical divinities Clare was accustomed to talk to her about when they took their walks together. The marriage being by licence there were only a dozen or so of people in the church; had there been a thousand they would have produced no more effect upon her. They were at stellar distances from her present world. In the ecstatic solemnity with which she swore her faith to him the ordinary sensibilities of sex seemed a flippancy. At a pause in the service, while they were kneeling together, she unconsciously inclined herself towards him, so that her shoulder touched his arm; she had been frightened by a passing thought, and the movement had been automatic, to assure herself that he was really there, and to fortify her belief that his fidelity would be proof against all things. Clare knew that she loved him--every curve of her form showed that-- but he did not know at that time the full depth of her devotion, its single-mindedness, its meekness; what long-suffering it guaranteed, what honesty, what endurance, what good faith. As they came out of church the ringers swung the bells off their rests, and a modest peal of three notes broke forth--that limited amount of expression having been deemed sufficient by the church builders for the joys of such a small parish. Passing by the tower with her husband on the path to the gate she could feel the vibrant air humming round them from the louvred belfry in the circle of sound, and it matched the highly-charged mental atmosphere in which she was living. This condition of mind, wherein she felt glorified by an irradiation not her own, like the angel whom St John saw in the sun, lasted till the sound of the church bells had died away, and the emotions of the wedding-service had calmed down. Her eyes could dwell upon details more clearly now, and Mr and Mrs Crick having directed their own gig to be sent for them, to leave the carriage to the young couple, she observed the build and character of that conveyance for the first time. Sitting in silence she regarded it long. "I fancy you seem oppressed, Tessy," said Clare. "Yes," she answered, putting her hand to her brow. "I tremble at many things. It is all so serious, Angel. Among other things I seem to have seen this carriage before, to be very well acquainted with it. It is very odd--I must have seen it in a dream." "Oh--you have heard the legend of the d'Urberville Coach--that well-known superstition of this county about your family when they were very popular here; and this lumbering old thing reminds you of it." "I have never heard of it to my knowledge," said she. "What is the legend--may I know it?" "Well--I would rather not tell it in detail just now. A certain d'Urberville of the sixteenth or seventeenth century committed a dreadful crime in his family coach; and since that time members of the family see or hear the old coach whenever--But I'll tell you another day--it is rather gloomy. Evidently some dim knowledge of it has been brought back to your mind by the sight of this venerable caravan." "I don't remember hearing it before," she murmured. "Is it when we are going to die, Angel, that members of my family see it, or is it when we have committed a crime?" "Now, Tess!" He silenced her by a kiss. By the time they reached home she was contrite and spiritless. She was Mrs Angel Clare, indeed, but had she any moral right to the name? Was she not more truly Mrs Alexander d'Urberville? Could intensity of love justify what might be considered in upright souls as culpable reticence? She knew not what was expected of women in such cases; and she had no counsellor. However, when she found herself alone in her room for a few minutes--the last day this on which she was ever to enter it--she knelt down and prayed. She tried to pray to God, but it was her husband who really had her supplication. Her idolatry of this man was such that she herself almost feared it to be ill-omened. She was conscious of the notion expressed by Friar Laurence: "These violent delights have violent ends." It might be too desperate for human conditions--too rank, to wild, too deadly. "O my love, why do I love you so!" she whispered there alone; "for she you love is not my real self, but one in my image; the one I might have been!" Afternoon came, and with it the hour for departure. They had decided to fulfil the plan of going for a few days to the lodgings in the old farmhouse near Wellbridge Mill, at which he meant to reside during his investigation of flour processes. At two o'clock there was nothing left to do but to start. All the servantry of the dairy were standing in the red-brick entry to see them go out, the dairyman and his wife following to the door. Tess saw her three chamber-mates in a row against the wall, pensively inclining their heads. She had much questioned if they would appear at the parting moment; but there they were, stoical and staunch to the last. She knew why the delicate Retty looked so fragile, and Izz so tragically sorrowful, and Marian so blank; and she forgot her own dogging shadow for a moment in contemplating theirs. She impulsively whispered to him-- "Will you kiss 'em all, once, poor things, for the first and last time?" Clare had not the least objection to such a farewell formality--which was all that it was to him--and as he passed them he kissed them in succession where they stood, saying "Goodbye" to each as he did so. When they reached the door Tess femininely glanced back to discern the effect of that kiss of charity; there was no triumph in her glance, as there might have been. If there had it would have disappeared when she saw how moved the girls all were. The kiss had obviously done harm by awakening feelings they were trying to subdue. Of all this Clare was unconscious. Passing on to the wicket-gate he shook hands with the dairyman and his wife, and expressed his last thanks to them for their attentions; after which there was a moment of silence before they had moved off. It was interrupted by the crowing of a cock. The white one with the rose comb had come and settled on the palings in front of the house, within a few yards of them, and his notes thrilled their ears through, dwindling away like echoes down a valley of rocks. "Oh?" said Mrs Crick. "An afternoon crow!" Two men were standing by the yard gate, holding it open. "That's bad," one murmured to the other, not thinking that the words could be heard by the group at the door-wicket. The cock crew again--straight towards Clare. "Well!" said the dairyman. "I don't like to hear him!" said Tess to her husband. "Tell the man to drive on. Goodbye, goodbye!" The cock crew again. "Hoosh! Just you be off, sir, or I'll twist your neck!" said the dairyman with some irritation, turning to the bird and driving him away. And to his wife as they went indoors: "Now, to think o' that just to-day! I've not heard his crow of an afternoon all the year afore." "It only means a change in the weather," said she; "not what you think: 'tis impossible!"

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

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-33

Angel wants to spend a day with Tess, just the two of them, before they get married. It'll be their last day as an engaged couple. So they go shopping together on Christmas Eve. Angel leaves Tess briefly in front of an inn . While she's waiting, a couple of men pass by. One of them is from Trantridge , and he recognizes her. He's starting to say so, when Angel comes back. Angel sees the horrified expression on Tess's face, and punches the guy in the jaw. The guy staggers back, and says that it must be a mistake--it must be some other girl, forty miles off. Angel realizes that he overreacted, and gives the guy a few shillings for a bandage. Tess is depressed by the incident, and asks if it would be possible to postpone the wedding. Angel says no, and Tess is silent the whole way home. She's thinking that they're going to move hundreds of miles away, where no one who knew her before could possibly ever see her. That night, Tess gets woken up by the sound of a scuffle from Angel's room overhead. She runs upstairs, and he tells her that he was having a dream that he was fighting that guy again, and was beating up his suitcase in his sleep. Tess makes up her mind at last: since she can't bring herself to tell him her history in person, she writes it all down in a letter, seals it up, and tiptoes upstairs and pokes it under Angel's door. The next morning, she meets him downstairs as usual, and he kisses her as usual. Even when they're alone, he doesn't allude to the letter. Could he have read it? She peeps into his room that afternoon, and doesn't see the note. He must have read it, and he must have forgiven her. The last few days before the wedding slip by. The morning of their wedding, she begins to suspect that he never got the letter. She slips up to his room, and finds the corner of the letter sticking out from under his carpet. It must have gone under the rug when she stuck it under the door. He never saw it. She burns the letter in her room, and pulls Angel aside downstairs. She wants to tell him all of her faults now, before they are married, so that he can never blame her for not telling him later. But Angel says that he doesn't want to hear them, since that they'll have plenty of time to talk over both of their faults later on, after they're married. She has to be "perfect" on her wedding day. He promises that he'll confess his own faults later, too. They have to take a coach to the church, because it's a long way off and it's the middle of winter. Because the Dairyman's cart is open, they've rented a closed coach from a local inn. It's old and rickety. There aren't very many people at the church to watch the ceremony, because they hadn't advertised it by publishing the banns . Tess repeats her vows in a low voice, and they are married. Angel knows that she loves him, but he doesn't realize that she'd lie down in front of a cart and get run over repeatedly for him. After the service, Tess stares for a while at the old coach--she thinks it looks familiar. Angel assumes that it's because it reminds her of the legend of the D'Urberville coach, but she's never heard it before. Angel doesn't want to tell her the whole story, since it's pretty gloomy. But he gives the bare bones of it: some member of the D'Urberville family committed some horrible crime in the family coach and, after that, members of the family have a vision of the coach whenever... but that's as far as Angel gets with the story. Tess asks whether it's when they've committed a crime, or when they're about to die, that D'Urbervilles see the coach? Angel doesn't answer, and kisses her. They get back to the dairy, and Tess manages to get a few minutes by herself to calm down. As they leave the dairy, all the workers and Mr. and Mrs. Crick line up to say good-bye. Angel kisses each in turn as a formal farewell, and the dairymaids get all agitated. But Angel doesn't notice. As they're starting to leave through the gate, a rooster crows. Hearing a rooster crow in the afternoon, apparently, is bad luck, and they hurry away as Dairyman Crick threatens to ring the bird's neck.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/01.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_0_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 1

chapter 1

{"name": "Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-1", "summary": "In the midst of a beautiful, luxurious painter's studio, we meet Lord Henry Wotton and his friend, artist Basil Hallward. The studio is Basil's, and, as they chat, he critically regards his current masterpiece, a portrait of a gorgeous young man. Lord Henry tells Basil that the painting is his best work ever and suggests where he should exhibit it--but Basil says he doesn't want to do that. Lord Henry is appalled, but Basil holds out, claiming that he's put too much of himself into this painting. Henry protests that there's absolutely no resemblance between Basil and the man in the picture; while the subject of the painting is totally hot, intellectuals like Basil, he half-jokingly says, are generally pretty ugly. Basil tells Henry that he's wrong--looks aside, anyone who's different in any way is marked by fate. He predicts that his art, Lord Henry's wealth, and Dorian Gray's beauty will make them all suffer for their distinction. Lord Henry ignores Basil's dire prophecy, and focuses on the name--Dorian Gray, the beautiful boy in the portrait. Basil, it turns out, hadn't wanted to tell Henry Dorian's name, and Lord Henry asks why. Basil replies that some names are special to him; whenever he likes someone, he always conceals their names from friends, because it makes them seem more mysterious. In general, mysteries are more appealing. This is something Lord Henry completely understands. In his marriage for example, he and his wife have nothing but secrets, and they both like it that way. Basil laughs off Lord Henry's cynical attitude, and claims that his friend isn't really a cynic on the inside. Lord Henry responds that everyone's a poseur of one kind or another, and that cynicism is entertaining, in the least. The friends go out into the garden, and Henry announces that he has to leave. Before he goes, though, he asks one more question: why won't he exhibit Dorian's portrait? Basil protests that he already told Lord Henry the real reason. Under pressure, he explains further, that it's not the sitter that the portrait reveals, but the artist himself. Basil is afraid that showing the picture would reveal the secret of his very soul. Lord Henry laughs and asks what this secret is; Basil says he will tell it, though he warns that Lord Henry will hardly believe it, much less understand. Basil then relates how he met Dorian at a party at Lady Brandon's. As he chatted with various boring nobles, he realized someone was looking at him--someone so utterly fascinating that it terrified him. He tried to leave, but Lady Brandon grabbed him. He suddenly found himself face to face with the handsome young man who scared him: it's Dorian Gray. Basil and Dorian start their friendship by laughing together at Lady Brandon; Lord Henry says lightly that laughter is a good way to begin a friendship, but the best way to end one, to which Basil replies that Henry does not understand what friendship or enmity is. Lord Henry, who apparently is never serious, protests that he does indeed distinguish between his friends and enemies. He chooses his friends for their looks and his enemies for their brains. Basil and Henry kid around a bit, and Basil claims again that his friend really is a decent man, inside his flippant facade. Henry returns to the subject at hand--Dorian Gray. We learn that Basil sees Dorian every day. Lord Henry remarks that it's amazing that Basil now cares for something more than his art, but Basil insists that Dorian is his art now; apparently, meeting Dorian has changed the whole way he sees the world. Lord Henry starts hassling Basil about meeting Dorian. Basil finally admits that he doesn't want to exhibit the picture because the world will find out about his adoration for Dorian, something he hasn't even told Dorian about. Lord Henry asks if Dorian feels the same way about Basil; Basil thinks Dorian likes him, but isn't sure. Lord Henry suggests that Basil might get sick of Dorian--after all, he reasons, genius lasts longer than mere physical beauty. Basil thinks not. He argues that Lord Henry couldn't possibly understand, since he's so faithless in his loves. Ooh, ouch. Lord Henry remembers that he's heard the name Dorian Gray before, from his Aunt Agatha; he hadn't paid attention when she mentioned him, but now wishes he had. Basil replies that he's glad he didn't because he still doesn't want Henry to meet Dorian--and right on cue, Basil's butler announces that Mr. Dorian Gray has arrived. Score one for Lord Henry. Basil orders the butler to tell Dorian to wait a few moments. Then he turns to Lord Henry authoritatively, and tries to impart once more how much Dorian means to him. Basil tells Lord Henry that Dorian is his best friend and warns him not to \"influence\" him. Lord Henry just laughs him off, and we have to wonder what his plans are...", "analysis": ""}

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures. As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake. "It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place." "I don't think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. "No, I won't send it anywhere." Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion." "I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can't exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it." Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed. "Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same." "Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." "You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one's fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live--undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are--my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks--we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward. "Yes, that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it to you." "But why not?" "Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet--we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke's--we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it--much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose." "Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago." "What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "You know quite well." "I do not, Harry." "Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture. I want the real reason." "I told you the real reason." "No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish." "Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. "I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter; "and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it." Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then--but I don't know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape." "Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all." "I don't believe that, Harry, and I don't believe you do either. However, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for I used to be very proud--I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon. 'You are not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?" "Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers. "I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other." "And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?" asked his companion. "I know she goes in for giving a rapid _precis_ of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know." "Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!" said Hallward listlessly. "My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in opening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?" "Oh, something like, 'Charming boy--poor dear mother and I absolutely inseparable. Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?' Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once." "Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one," said the young lord, plucking another daisy. Hallward shook his head. "You don't understand what friendship is, Harry," he murmured--"or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one." "How horribly unjust of you!" cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky. "Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain." "I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be merely an acquaintance." "My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance." "And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?" "Oh, brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won't die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else." "Harry!" exclaimed Hallward, frowning. "My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can't help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. When poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite magnificent. And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of the proletariat live correctly." "I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, Harry, I feel sure you don't either." Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. "How English you are Basil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one puts forward an idea to a true Englishman--always a rash thing to do--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don't propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?" "Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day. He is absolutely necessary to me." "How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your art." "He is all my art to me now," said the painter gravely. "I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the world's history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from him, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much more to me than a model or a sitter. I won't tell you that I am dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way--I wonder will you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate life in a way that was hidden from me before. 'A dream of form in days of thought'--who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad--for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty--his merely visible presence--ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and body--how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price but which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I had always looked for and always missed." "Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray." Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After some time he came back. "Harry," he said, "Dorian Gray is to me simply a motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours. That is all." "Then why won't you exhibit his portrait?" asked Lord Henry. "Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry--too much of myself!" "Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions." "I hate them for it," cried Hallward. "An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of Dorian Gray." "I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won't argue with you. It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?" The painter considered for a few moments. "He likes me," he answered after a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day." "Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger," murmured Lord Henry. "Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well-informed man--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a _bric-a-brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of colour, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic." "Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can't feel what I feel. You change too often." "Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies." And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. One's own soul, and the passions of one's friends--those were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt's, he would have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the importance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives. The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was charming to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward and said, "My dear fellow, I have just remembered." "Remembered what, Harry?" "Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray." "Where was it?" asked Hallward, with a slight frown. "Don't look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha's. She told me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help her in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend." "I am very glad you didn't, Harry." "Why?" "I don't want you to meet him." "You don't want me to meet him?" "No." "Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into the garden. "You must introduce me now," cried Lord Henry, laughing. The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. "Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments." The man bowed and went up the walk. Then he looked at Lord Henry. "Dorian Gray is my dearest friend," he said. "He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don't spoil him. Don't try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. Don't take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you." He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. "What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house.

Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-1

In the midst of a beautiful, luxurious painter's studio, we meet Lord Henry Wotton and his friend, artist Basil Hallward. The studio is Basil's, and, as they chat, he critically regards his current masterpiece, a portrait of a gorgeous young man. Lord Henry tells Basil that the painting is his best work ever and suggests where he should exhibit it--but Basil says he doesn't want to do that. Lord Henry is appalled, but Basil holds out, claiming that he's put too much of himself into this painting. Henry protests that there's absolutely no resemblance between Basil and the man in the picture; while the subject of the painting is totally hot, intellectuals like Basil, he half-jokingly says, are generally pretty ugly. Basil tells Henry that he's wrong--looks aside, anyone who's different in any way is marked by fate. He predicts that his art, Lord Henry's wealth, and Dorian Gray's beauty will make them all suffer for their distinction. Lord Henry ignores Basil's dire prophecy, and focuses on the name--Dorian Gray, the beautiful boy in the portrait. Basil, it turns out, hadn't wanted to tell Henry Dorian's name, and Lord Henry asks why. Basil replies that some names are special to him; whenever he likes someone, he always conceals their names from friends, because it makes them seem more mysterious. In general, mysteries are more appealing. This is something Lord Henry completely understands. In his marriage for example, he and his wife have nothing but secrets, and they both like it that way. Basil laughs off Lord Henry's cynical attitude, and claims that his friend isn't really a cynic on the inside. Lord Henry responds that everyone's a poseur of one kind or another, and that cynicism is entertaining, in the least. The friends go out into the garden, and Henry announces that he has to leave. Before he goes, though, he asks one more question: why won't he exhibit Dorian's portrait? Basil protests that he already told Lord Henry the real reason. Under pressure, he explains further, that it's not the sitter that the portrait reveals, but the artist himself. Basil is afraid that showing the picture would reveal the secret of his very soul. Lord Henry laughs and asks what this secret is; Basil says he will tell it, though he warns that Lord Henry will hardly believe it, much less understand. Basil then relates how he met Dorian at a party at Lady Brandon's. As he chatted with various boring nobles, he realized someone was looking at him--someone so utterly fascinating that it terrified him. He tried to leave, but Lady Brandon grabbed him. He suddenly found himself face to face with the handsome young man who scared him: it's Dorian Gray. Basil and Dorian start their friendship by laughing together at Lady Brandon; Lord Henry says lightly that laughter is a good way to begin a friendship, but the best way to end one, to which Basil replies that Henry does not understand what friendship or enmity is. Lord Henry, who apparently is never serious, protests that he does indeed distinguish between his friends and enemies. He chooses his friends for their looks and his enemies for their brains. Basil and Henry kid around a bit, and Basil claims again that his friend really is a decent man, inside his flippant facade. Henry returns to the subject at hand--Dorian Gray. We learn that Basil sees Dorian every day. Lord Henry remarks that it's amazing that Basil now cares for something more than his art, but Basil insists that Dorian is his art now; apparently, meeting Dorian has changed the whole way he sees the world. Lord Henry starts hassling Basil about meeting Dorian. Basil finally admits that he doesn't want to exhibit the picture because the world will find out about his adoration for Dorian, something he hasn't even told Dorian about. Lord Henry asks if Dorian feels the same way about Basil; Basil thinks Dorian likes him, but isn't sure. Lord Henry suggests that Basil might get sick of Dorian--after all, he reasons, genius lasts longer than mere physical beauty. Basil thinks not. He argues that Lord Henry couldn't possibly understand, since he's so faithless in his loves. Ooh, ouch. Lord Henry remembers that he's heard the name Dorian Gray before, from his Aunt Agatha; he hadn't paid attention when she mentioned him, but now wishes he had. Basil replies that he's glad he didn't because he still doesn't want Henry to meet Dorian--and right on cue, Basil's butler announces that Mr. Dorian Gray has arrived. Score one for Lord Henry. Basil orders the butler to tell Dorian to wait a few moments. Then he turns to Lord Henry authoritatively, and tries to impart once more how much Dorian means to him. Basil tells Lord Henry that Dorian is his best friend and warns him not to "influence" him. Lord Henry just laughs him off, and we have to wonder what his plans are...

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/chapters_13_to_14.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_9_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapters 13-14

chapters 13-14

{"name": "Chapters 13-14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-1314", "summary": "While the party breakfasted at Barton Hall, a letter came for Colonel Brandon. He \"took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.\" He soon returned, saying that he was obliged to leave for London and regretting that the party would not be able to go to Whitwell without him. Mrs. Jennings intimated that she knew who the letter was from, and after Brandon left told the group about a Miss Williams, the colonel's natural daughter. Sir John arranged for the party to drive in the country. Marianne and Willoughby dashed off in the first carriage and returned after the last one, telling no one where they had been. However, during a dance that evening, Mrs. Jennings told Marianne that she had found out where they had been. Having questioned the groom, she learned that Willoughby had taken Marianne to Allenham and shown her over the house. Despite Marianne's embarrassment, Mrs. Jennings continued to banter the girl on how the house would one day be hers. Elinor reproved her sister for her impropriety in going alone with Willoughby to Allenham. Marianne, at first annoyed, later conceded her error. But her enthusiasm about the place, apparently prompted by dreams of future ownership, superseded any regrets. While Mrs. Jennings conjectured about Colonel Brandon's business in London, Elinor wondered about \"the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby\" about whether or not they were engaged. Willoughby was a constant visitor, and he and Marianne seemed to have reached a tacit agreement, which, however, needed verbalization. One day he begged Mrs. Dashwood, \"Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours unchanged as your dwelling.\" Mrs. Dashwood graciously accorded, and an engagement was made for dinner the next day.", "analysis": "The absence of commercial entertainment in Austen's day compelled provincial people to seek relaxation in their own homes and the homes of others. So we find the characters in Sense and Sensibility constantly involved in all sorts of social occasions. Only one novel features picnics, but one is planned in Sense and Sensibility. As the month was October, and late for picnics, Elinor was right in preparing to be \"fatigued, wet through, and frightened.\" Only Sir John would have thought of such an idea to entertain his guests. Notice Austen's use of irony in representing Willoughby's sentimental attachment to Barton Cottage. No change was needed, although the kitchen smoked and the staircase was dark and narrow. Contrast this with Elinor's commonsensible perspective on her home."}

Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. "What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John. Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma'am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." "No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying." "Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?" "My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a blow upon them all was this! "But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?" He shook his head. "We must go," said Sir John.--"It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all." "I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!" "If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not." "You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return." "I cannot afford to lose ONE hour."-- Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing." "I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne. "There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell." Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable. "Well, then, when will you come back again?" "I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return." "You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all." "Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him." "Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is." "I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of." Colonel Brandon's horses were announced. "You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John. "No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post." "Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind." "I assure you it is not in my power." He then took leave of the whole party. "Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" "I am afraid, none at all." "Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing. "Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about." He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body. "Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure." "And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural daughter." "Indeed!" "Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune." When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs. It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning." Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"-- "Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my curricle?" "Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago." Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr. Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the garden and going all over the house. Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance. As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it; and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it. "Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?" "Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby." "Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life." "I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety." "On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure." "But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?" "If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and--" "If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be justified in what you have done." She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England." Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she would have described every room in the house with equal delight. The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all. "Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she. "I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain." So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine. She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed--"Improve this dear cottage! No. THAT I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it." "I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it;--in no one convenience or INconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this." "There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford." Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted. "You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me." The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. "Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton." He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.

Chapters 13-14

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-1314

While the party breakfasted at Barton Hall, a letter came for Colonel Brandon. He "took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room." He soon returned, saying that he was obliged to leave for London and regretting that the party would not be able to go to Whitwell without him. Mrs. Jennings intimated that she knew who the letter was from, and after Brandon left told the group about a Miss Williams, the colonel's natural daughter. Sir John arranged for the party to drive in the country. Marianne and Willoughby dashed off in the first carriage and returned after the last one, telling no one where they had been. However, during a dance that evening, Mrs. Jennings told Marianne that she had found out where they had been. Having questioned the groom, she learned that Willoughby had taken Marianne to Allenham and shown her over the house. Despite Marianne's embarrassment, Mrs. Jennings continued to banter the girl on how the house would one day be hers. Elinor reproved her sister for her impropriety in going alone with Willoughby to Allenham. Marianne, at first annoyed, later conceded her error. But her enthusiasm about the place, apparently prompted by dreams of future ownership, superseded any regrets. While Mrs. Jennings conjectured about Colonel Brandon's business in London, Elinor wondered about "the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby" about whether or not they were engaged. Willoughby was a constant visitor, and he and Marianne seemed to have reached a tacit agreement, which, however, needed verbalization. One day he begged Mrs. Dashwood, "Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours unchanged as your dwelling." Mrs. Dashwood graciously accorded, and an engagement was made for dinner the next day.

The absence of commercial entertainment in Austen's day compelled provincial people to seek relaxation in their own homes and the homes of others. So we find the characters in Sense and Sensibility constantly involved in all sorts of social occasions. Only one novel features picnics, but one is planned in Sense and Sensibility. As the month was October, and late for picnics, Elinor was right in preparing to be "fatigued, wet through, and frightened." Only Sir John would have thought of such an idea to entertain his guests. Notice Austen's use of irony in representing Willoughby's sentimental attachment to Barton Cottage. No change was needed, although the kitchen smoked and the staircase was dark and narrow. Contrast this with Elinor's commonsensible perspective on her home.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_1_chapters_6_to_11.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Red and the Black/section_1_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapters 6-11

book 1, chapters 6-11

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301223854/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/redblack/section2/", "summary": "Julien timidly walks over to the Renal home. Moved by Julien's weak frame and pale complexion, Mme. de Renal's \"romantic disposition\" makes her feel immediate pity for Julien. Their first encounter is tender and innocent, especially since Mme. de Renal initially thinks that Julien is a young woman. Julien is not used to being treated so well by an aristocrat and the two instantly take a liking to each other. He promises not to harm her children and, realizing that he has an advantage, kisses her hand. Mme. de Renal is shocked but does not scold Julien. He continues to make a good impression by reciting portions of the Bible in Latin from memory. M. de Renal's self-esteem is aroused by Julien's intelligence and he parades the whole town through his house to witness how great his children's tutor is. The Renals and their children accept Julien as a fixture in their home, but he continues to loathe \"high society\" in private. Elisa, Mme. de Renal's maid, falls in love with Julien, and it is through her maid's eyes that Mme. de Renal begins to have feelings for Julien as well. Raised in a convent, Mme. de Renal had never known love and thought that all men were like her husband and M. Valenod, only concerned with hatred and money. Convinced that Mme. de Renal is only out to humiliate him, Julien acts very cold around her. He also rejects Elisa's offer of marriage. M. Chelan urges Julien to reconsider, recognizing the Julien's lack of true devotion to the Church. He does not call Julien a hypocrite, but Julien is ashamed that someone actually loves him. After a few days, however, Julien perfects \"the language of sly and prudent hypocrisy,\" refusing to reveal his true ambitions to the priest. Jealous of Elisa, Mme. de Renal begins to fall in love with Julien and is overjoyed when he refuses Elisa. She blushes in his presence, buys him gifts, and starts to pay more attention to her physical appearance. The Renals move out to the countryside for the spring, and Julien decides to seduce Mme. de Renal. He does not love her, but convinces himself that it would be cowardly not to hold her hand as they sit in the garden. Considering it his military \"duty,\" Julien grabs hold of her hand--and Mme. de Renal does not resist him. The next day Julien ignores the children and further humiliates M. de Renal by securing a raise. Julien's moment of glory is short-lived. After discovering that M. de Renal is changing the bed straw, he begs Mme. de Renal to remove a portrait from under his mattress. Afraid that it is a portrait of the woman he loves, Mme. de Renal chooses not to look at what turns out to be a portrait of Napoleon. Julien is furious at himself for his near blunder. Had M. de Renal seen the portrait, Julien's hypocrisy would have been evident. That evening, Julien redoubles his efforts, passionately kissing Mme. de Renal. Invisible in the darkness of night, Julien is able to achieve this \"victory\" directly in front of M. de Renal.", "analysis": "Commentary The beginning part of this section emphasizes Mme. de Renal's purity and innocence. Unlike her husband, she is unconcerned with social rank and class, immediately calling Julien, \"Sir.\" Stendhal's correlation of Mme. de Renal's beauty with her strong sense of morality is a hallmark of nineteenth-century romantic fiction. Despite this tenderness on the part of Stendhal, his description of Mme. de Renal's youth in a convent and the ease with which she falls in love with Julien also evokes the irony of many Enlightenment writers, especially Voltaire. Stendhal also introduces an important theme in this section: triangular desire. Elisa falls in love with Julien, while Mme. de Renal jealously falls in love because of Elisa. Julien desires Mme. de Renal, but only because she represents a conquest that he compares to military glory. Together they form a love triangle, one of many that Stendhal employs throughout the novel. For Stendhal, the love triangle meant that one could only fall in love through an intermediary figure. Indeed, Stendhal thought of himself as a scientist of love, attempting to reduce love to different formulas, levels, and stages, much like a mathematician. He often distinguished four types of love: passion- love, physical-love, vanity-love, and stylish-love. This devotion to understanding the psychology of love and its abstract analysis was a major influence for later Realist writers such as Balzac, Flaubert, and Zola. From the moment he enters the Renal home, Julien thinks of himself as Napoleon and Mme. de Renal as a battle to be won--not about love. Each advance represents an incremental increase in the intensity of their relationship but also a feeling of pride for Julien. Kissing Mme. de Renal's hand is a victory, but more importantly, an attack against the aristocracy: he is humiliating M. de Renal by seducing his wife. Julien thinks incessantly about adhering to Napoleon's military \"style\" and fulfilling \"the destiny of Napoleon.\" Stendhal reinforces this symbolic closeness with the image of an eagle circling above Julien's head. The metaphor is twofold: the eagle is both the symbol of Napoleon and military glory, and a bird circling his prey. In effect, Julien's adoration of Napoleon gets him into serious trouble. M. de Renal almost discovers Julien's portrait of Napoleon, covered with inscriptions of praise written by Julien himself. After Mme. de Renal returns it to him, Julien immediately burns the portrait, establishing his conviction to succeed in French society at any cost."}

CHAPTER VI ENNUI Non so piu cosa son Cosa facio. MOZART (_Figaro_). Madame de Renal was going out of the salon by the folding window which opened on to the garden with that vivacity and grace which was natural to her when she was free from human observation, when she noticed a young peasant near the entrance gate. He was still almost a child, extremely pale, and looked as though he had been crying. He was in a white shirt and had under his arm a perfectly new suit of violet frieze. The little peasant's complexion was so white and his eyes were so soft, that Madame de Renal's somewhat romantic spirit thought at first that it might be a young girl in disguise, who had come to ask some favour of the M. the Mayor. She took pity on this poor creature, who had stopped at the entrance of the door, and who apparently did not dare to raise its hand to the bell. Madame de Renal approached, forgetting for the moment the bitter chagrin occasioned by the tutor's arrival. Julien, who was turned towards the gate, did not see her advance. He trembled when a soft voice said quite close to his ear: "What do you want here, my child." Julien turned round sharply and was so struck by Madame de Renal's look, full of graciousness as it was, that up to a certain point he forgot to be nervous. Overcome by her beauty he soon forgot everything, even what he had come for. Madame de Renal repeated her question. "I have come here to be tutor, Madame," he said at last, quite ashamed of his tears which he was drying as best as he could. Madame de Renal remained silent. They had a view of each other at close range. Julien had never seen a human being so well-dressed, and above all he had never seen a woman with so dazzling a complexion speak to him at all softly. Madame de Renal observed the big tears which had lingered on the cheeks of the young peasant, those cheeks which had been so pale and were now so pink. Soon she began to laugh with all the mad gaiety of a young girl, she made fun of herself, and was unable to realise the extent of her happiness. So this was that tutor whom she had imagined a dirty, badly dressed priest, who was coming to scold and flog her children. "What! Monsieur," she said to him at last, "you know Latin?" The word "Monsieur" astonished Julien so much that he reflected for a moment. "Yes, Madame," he said timidly. Madame de Renal was so happy that she plucked up the courage to say to Julien, "You will not scold the poor children too much?" "I scold them!" said Julien in astonishment; "why should I?" "You won't, will you, Monsieur," she added after a little silence, in a soft voice whose emotion became more and more intense. "You will be nice to them, you promise me?" To hear himself called "Monsieur" again in all seriousness by so well dressed a lady was beyond all Julien's expectations. He had always said to himself in all the castles of Spain that he had built in his youth, that no real lady would ever condescend to talk to him except when he had a fine uniform. Madame de Renal, on her side, was completely taken in by Julien's beautiful complexion, his big black eyes, and his pretty hair, which was more than usually curly, because he had just plunged his head into the basin of the public fountain in order to refresh himself. She was over-joyed to find that this sinister tutor, whom she had feared to find so harsh and severe to her children, had, as a matter of fact, the timid manner of a girl. The contrast between her fears and what she now saw, proved a great event for Madame de Renal's peaceful temperament. Finally, she recovered from her surprise. She was astonished to find herself at the gate of her own house talking in this way and at such close quarters to this young and somewhat scantily dressed man. "Let us go in, Monsieur," she said to him with a certain air of embarrassment. During Madame de Renal's whole life she had never been so deeply moved by such a sense of pure pleasure. Never had so gracious a vision followed in the wake of her disconcerting fears. So these pretty children of whom she took such care were not after all to fall into the hands of a dirty grumbling priest. She had scarcely entered the vestibule when she turned round towards Julien, who was following her trembling. His astonishment at the sight of so fine a house proved but an additional charm in Madame de Renal's eyes. She could not believe her own eyes. It seemed to her, above all, that the tutor ought to have a black suit. "But is it true, Monsieur," she said to him, stopping once again, and in mortal fear that she had made a mistake, so happy had her discovery made her. "Is it true that you know Latin?" These words offended Julien's pride, and dissipated the charming atmosphere which he had been enjoying for the last quarter of an hour. "Yes, Madame," he said, trying to assume an air of coldness, "I know Latin as well as the cure, who has been good enough to say sometimes that I know it even better." Madame de Renal thought that Julien looked extremely wicked. He had stopped two paces from her. She approached and said to him in a whisper: "You won't beat my children the first few days, will you, even if they do not know their lessons?" The softness and almost supplication of so beautiful a lady made Julien suddenly forget what he owed to his reputation as a Latinist. Madame de Renal's face was close to his own. He smelt the perfume of a woman's summer clothing, a quite astonishing experience for a poor peasant. Julien blushed extremely, and said with a sigh in a faltering voice: "Fear nothing, Madame, I will obey you in everything." It was only now, when her anxiety about her children had been relieved once and for all, that Madame de Renal was struck by Julien's extreme beauty. The comparative effeminancy of his features and his air of extreme embarrassment did not seem in any way ridiculous to a woman who was herself extremely timid. The male air, which is usually considered essential to a man's beauty, would have terrified her. "How old are you, sir," she said to Julien. "Nearly nineteen." "My elder son is eleven," went on Madame de Renal, who had completely recovered her confidence. "He will be almost a chum for you. You will talk sensibly to him. His father started beating him once. The child was ill for a whole week, and yet it was only a little tap." What a difference between him and me, thought Julien. Why, it was only yesterday that my father beat me. How happy these rich people are. Madame de Renal, who had already begun to observe the fine nuances of the workings in the tutor's mind, took this fit of sadness for timidity and tried to encourage him. "What is your name, Monsieur?" she said to him, with an accent and a graciousness whose charm Julien appreciated without being able to explain. "I am called Julien Sorel, Madame. I feel nervous of entering a strange house for the first time in my life. I have need of your protection and I want you to make many allowances for me during the first few days. I have never been to the college, I was too poor. I have never spoken to anyone else except my cousin who was Surgeon-Major, Member of the Legion of Honour, and M. the cure Chelan. He will give you a good account of me. My brothers always used to beat me, and you must not believe them if they speak badly of me to you. You must forgive my faults, Madame. I shall always mean everything for the best." Julien had regained his confidence during this long speech. He was examining Madame de Renal. Perfect grace works wonders when it is natural to the character, and above all, when the person whom it adorns never thinks of trying to affect it. Julien, who was quite a connoisseur in feminine beauty, would have sworn at this particular moment that she was not more than twenty. The rash idea of kissing her hand immediately occurred to him. He soon became frightened of his idea. A minute later he said to himself, it will be an act of cowardice if I do not carry out an action which may be useful to me, and lessen the contempt which this fine lady probably has for a poor workman just taken away from the saw-mill. Possibly Julien was a little encouraged through having heard some young girls repeat on Sundays during the last six months the words "pretty boy." During this internal debate, Madame de Renal was giving him two or three hints on the way to commence handling the children. The strain Julien was putting on himself made him once more very pale. He said with an air of constraint. "I will never beat your children, Madame. I swear it before God." In saying this, he dared to take Madame de Renal's hand and carry it to his lips. She was astonished at this act, and after reflecting, became shocked. As the weather was very warm, her arm was quite bare underneath the shawl, and Julien's movement in carrying her hand to his lips entirely uncovered it. After a few moments she scolded herself. It seemed to her that her anger had not been quick enough. M. de Renal, who had heard voices, came out of his study, and assuming the same air of paternal majesty with which he celebrated marriages at the mayoral office, said to Julien: "It is essential for me to have a few words with you before my children see you." He made Julien enter a room and insisted on his wife being present, although she wished to leave them alone. Having closed the door M. Renal sat down. "M. the cure has told me that you are a worthy person, and everybody here will treat you with respect. If I am satisfied with you I will later on help you in having a little establishment of your own. I do not wish you to see either anything more of your relatives or your friends. Their tone is bound to be prejudicial to my children. Here are thirty-six francs for the first month, but I insist on your word not to give a sou of this money to your father." M. de Renal was piqued against the old man for having proved the shrewder bargainer. "Now, Monsieur, for I have given orders for everybody here to call you Monsieur, and you will appreciate the advantage of having entered the house of real gentle folk, now, Monsieur, it is not becoming for the children to see you in a jacket." "Have the servants seen him?" said M. de Renal to his wife. "No, my dear," she answered, with an air of deep pensiveness. "All the better. Put this on," he said to the surprised young man, giving him a frock-coat of his own. "Let us now go to M. Durand's the draper." When M. de Renal came back with the new tutor in his black suit more than an hour later, he found his wife still seated in the same place. She felt calmed by Julien's presence. When she examined him she forgot to be frightened of him. Julien was not thinking about her at all. In spite of all his distrust of destiny and mankind, his soul at this moment was as simple as that of a child. It seemed as though he had lived through years since the moment, three hours ago, when he had been all atremble in the church. He noticed Madame de Renal's frigid manner and realised that she was very angry, because he had dared to kiss her hand. But the proud consciousness which was given to him by the feel of clothes so different from those which he usually wore, transported him so violently and he had so great a desire to conceal his exultation, that all his movements were marked by a certain spasmodic irresponsibility. Madame de Renal looked at him with astonishment. "Monsieur," said M. de Renal to him, "dignity above all is necessary if you wish to be respected by my children." "Sir," answered Julien, "I feel awkward in my new clothes. I am a poor peasant and have never wore anything but jackets. If you allow it, I will retire to my room." "What do you think of this 'acquisition?'" said M. de Renal to his wife. Madame de Renal concealed the truth from her husband, obeying an almost instinctive impulse which she certainly did not own to herself. "I am not as fascinated as you are by this little peasant. Your favours will result in his not being able to keep his place, and you will have to send him back before the month is out." "Oh, well! we'll send him back then, he cannot run me into more than a hundred francs, and Verrieres will have got used to seeing M. de Renal's children with a tutor. That result would not have been achieved if I had allowed Julien to wear a workman's clothes. If I do send him back, I shall of course keep the complete black suit which I have just ordered at the draper's. All he will keep is the ready-made suit which I have just put him into at the the tailor's." The hour that Julien spent in his room seemed only a minute to Madame de Renal. The children who had been told about their new tutor began to overwhelm their mother with questions. Eventually Julien appeared. He was quite another man. It would be incorrect to say that he was grave--he was the very incarnation of gravity. He was introduced to the children and spoke to them in a manner that astonished M. de Renal himself. "I am here, gentlemen, he said, as he finished his speech, to teach you Latin. You know what it means to recite a lesson. Here is the Holy Bible, he said, showing them a small volume in thirty-two mo., bound in black. It deals especially with the history of our Lord Jesus Christ and is the part which is called the New Testament. I shall often make you recite your lesson, but do you make me now recite mine." Adolphe, the eldest of the children, had taken up the book. "Open it anywhere you like," went on Julien and tell me the first word of any verse, "I will then recite by heart that sacred book which governs our conduct towards the whole world, until you stop me." Adolphe opened the book and read a word, and Julien recited the whole of the page as easily as though he had been talking French. M. de Renal looked at his wife with an air of triumph The children, seeing the astonishment of their parents, opened their eyes wide. A servant came to the door of the drawing-room; Julien went on talking Latin. The servant first remained motionless, and then disappeared. Soon Madame's house-maid, together with the cook, arrived at the door. Adolphe had already opened the book at eight different places, while Julien went on reciting all the time with the same facility. "Great heavens!" said the cook, a good and devout girl, quite aloud, "what a pretty little priest!" M. de Renal's self-esteem became uneasy. Instead of thinking of examining the tutor, his mind was concentrated in racking his memory for some other Latin words. Eventually he managed to spout a phrase of Horace. Julien knew no other Latin except his Bible. He answered with a frown. "The holy ministry to which I destine myself has forbidden me to read so profane a poet." M. de Renal quoted quite a large number of alleged verses from Horace. He explained to his children who Horace was, but the admiring children, scarcely attended to what he was saying: they were looking at Julien. The servants were still at the door. Julien thought that he ought to prolong the test--"M. Stanislas-Xavier also," he said to the youngest of the children, "must give me a passage from the holy book." Little Stanislas, who was quite flattered, read indifferently the first word of a verse, and Julien said the whole page. To put the finishing touch on M. de Renal's triumph, M. Valenod, the owner of the fine Norman horses, and M. Charcot de Maugiron, the sub-prefect of the district came in when Julien was reciting. This scene earned for Julien the title of Monsieur; even the servants did not dare to refuse it to him. That evening all Verrieres flocked to M. de Renal's to see the prodigy. Julien answered everybody in a gloomy manner and kept his own distance. His fame spread so rapidly in the town that a few hours afterwards M. de Renal, fearing that he would be taken away by somebody else, proposed to that he should sign an engagement for two years. "No, Monsieur," Julien answered coldly, "if you wished to dismiss me, I should have to go. An engagement which binds me without involving you in any obligation is not an equal one and I refuse it." Julien played his cards so well, that in less than a month of his arrival at the house, M. de Renal himself respected him. As the cure had quarrelled with both M. de Renal and M. Valenod, there was no one who could betray Julien's old passion for Napoleon. He always spoke of Napoleon with abhorrence. CHAPTER VII THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES They only manage to touch the heart by wounding it.--_A Modern_. The children adored him, but he did not like them in the least. His thoughts were elsewhere. But nothing which the little brats ever did made him lose his patience. Cold, just and impassive, and none the less liked, inasmuch his arrival had more or less driven ennui out of the house, he was a good tutor. As for himself, he felt nothing but hate and abhorrence for that good society into which he had been admitted; admitted, it is true at the bottom of the table, a circumstance which perhaps explained his hate and his abhorrence. There were certain 'full-dress' dinners at which he was scarcely able to control his hate for everything that surrounded him. One St. Louis feast day in particular, when M. Valenod was monopolizing the conversation of M. de Renal, Julien was on the point of betraying himself. He escaped into the garden on the pretext of finding the children. "What praise of honesty," he exclaimed. "One would say that was the only virtue, and yet think how they respect and grovel before a man who has almost doubled and trebled his fortune since he has administered the poor fund. I would bet anything that he makes a profit even out of the monies which are intended for the foundlings of these poor creatures whose misery is even more sacred than that of others. Oh, Monsters! Monsters! And I too, am a kind of foundling, hated as I am by my father, my brothers, and all my family." Some days before the feast of St. Louis, when Julien was taking a solitary walk and reciting his breviary in the little wood called the Belvedere, which dominates the _Cours de la Fidelite_, he had endeavoured in vain to avoid his two brothers whom he saw coming along in the distance by a lonely path. The jealousy of these coarse workmen had been provoked to such a pitch by their brother's fine black suit, by his air of extreme respectability, and by the sincere contempt which he had for them, that they had beaten him until he had fainted and was bleeding all over. Madame de Renal, who was taking a walk with M. de Renal and the sub-prefect, happened to arrive in the little wood. She saw Julien lying on the ground and thought that he was dead. She was so overcome that she made M. Valenod jealous. His alarm was premature. Julien found Madame de Renal very pretty, but he hated her on account of her beauty, for that had been the first danger which had almost stopped his career. He talked to her as little as possible, in order to make her forget the transport which had induced him to kiss her hand on the first day. Madame de Renal's housemaid, Elisa, had lost no time in falling in love with the young tutor. She often talked about him to her mistress. Elisa's love had earned for Julien the hatred of one of the men-servants. One day he heard the man saying to Elisa, "You haven't a word for me now that this dirty tutor has entered the household." The insult was undeserved, but Julien with the instinctive vanity of a pretty boy redoubled his care of his personal appearance. M. Valenod's hate also increased. He said publicly, that it was not becoming for a young abbe to be such a fop. Madame de Renal observed that Julien talked more frequently than usual to Mademoiselle Elisa. She learnt that the reason of these interviews was the poverty of Julien's extremely small wardrobe. He had so little linen that he was obliged to have it very frequently washed outside the house, and it was in these little matters that Elisa was useful to him. Madame de Renal was touched by this extreme poverty which she had never suspected before. She was anxious to make him presents, but she did not dare to do so. This inner conflict was the first painful emotion that Julien had caused her. Till then Julien's name had been synonymous with a pure and quite intellectual joy. Tormented by the idea of Julien's poverty, Madame de Renal spoke to her husband about giving him some linen for a present. "What nonsense," he answered, "the very idea of giving presents to a man with whom we are perfectly satisfied and who is a good servant. It will only be if he is remiss that we shall have to stimulate his zeal." Madame de Renal felt humiliated by this way of looking at things, though she would never have noticed it in the days before Julien's arrival. She never looked at the young abbe's attire, with its combination of simplicity and absolute cleanliness, without saying to herself, "The poor boy, how can he manage?" Little by little, instead of being shocked by all Julien's deficiencies, she pitied him for them. Madame de Renal was one of those provincial women whom one is apt to take for fools during the first fortnight of acquaintanceship. She had no experience of the world and never bothered to keep up the conversation. Nature had given her a refined and fastidious soul, while that instinct for happiness which is innate in all human beings caused her, as a rule, to pay no attention to the acts of the coarse persons in whose midst chance had thrown her. If she had received the slightest education, she would have been noticeable for the spontaneity and vivacity of her mind, but being an heiress, she had been brought up in a Convent of Nuns, who were passionate devotees of the _Sacred Heart of Jesus_ and animated by a violent hate for the French as being the enemies of the Jesuits. Madame de Renal had had enough sense to forget quickly all the nonsense which she had learned at the convent, but had substituted nothing for it, and in the long run knew nothing. The flatteries which had been lavished on her when still a child, by reason of the great fortune of which she was the heiress, and a decided tendency to passionate devotion, had given her quite an inner life of her own. In spite of her pose of perfect affability and her elimination of her individual will which was cited as a model example by all the husbands in Verrieres and which made M. de Renal feel very proud, the moods of her mind were usually dictated by a spirit of the most haughty discontent. Many a princess who has become a bye-word for pride has given infinitely more attention to what her courtiers have been doing around her than did this apparently gentle and demure woman to anything which her husband either said or did. Up to the time of Julien's arrival she had never really troubled about anything except her children. Their little maladies, their troubles, their little joys, occupied all the sensibility of that soul, who, during her whole life, had adored no one but God, when she had been at the Sacred Heart of Besancon. A feverish attack of one of her sons would affect her almost as deeply as if the child had died, though she would not deign to confide in anyone. A burst of coarse laughter, a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied by some platitude on the folly of women, had been the only welcome her husband had vouchsafed to those confidences about her troubles, which the need of unburdening herself had induced her to make during the first years of their marriage. Jokes of this kind, and above all, when they were directed at her children's ailments, were exquisite torture to Madame de Renal. And these jokes were all she found to take the place of those exaggerated sugary flatteries with which she had been regaled at the Jesuit Convent where she had passed her youth. Her education had been given her by suffering. Too proud even to talk to her friend, Madame Derville, about troubles of this kind, she imagined that all men were like her husband, M. Valenod, and the sub-prefect, M. Charcot de Maugiron. Coarseness, and the most brutal callousness to everything except financial gain, precedence, or orders, together with blind hate of every argument to which they objected, seemed to her as natural to the male sex as wearing boots and felt hats. After many years, Madame de Renal had still failed to acclimatize herself to those monied people in whose society she had to live. Hence the success of the little peasant Julien. She found in the sympathy of this proud and noble soul a sweet enjoyment which had all the glamour and fascination of novelty. Madame de Renal soon forgave him that extreme ignorance, which constituted but an additional charm, and the roughness of his manner which she succeeded in correcting. She thought that he was worth listening to, even when the conversation turned on the most ordinary events, even in fact when it was only a question of a poor dog which had been crushed as he crossed the street by a peasant's cart going at a trot. The sight of the dog's pain made her husband indulge in his coarse laugh, while she noticed Julien frown, with his fine black eyebrows which were so beautifully arched. Little by little, it seemed to her that generosity, nobility of soul and humanity were to be found in nobody else except this young abbe. She felt for him all the sympathy and even all the admiration which those virtues excite in well-born souls. If the scene had been Paris, Julien's position towards Madame de Renal would have been soon simplified. But at Paris, love is a creature of novels. The young tutor and his timid mistress would soon have found the elucidation of their position in three or four novels, and even in the couplets of the Gymnase Theatre. The novels which have traced out for them the part they would play, and showed them the model which they were to imitate, and Julien would sooner or later have been forced by his vanity to follow that model, even though it had given him no pleasure and had perhaps actually gone against the grain. If the scene had been laid in a small town in Aveyron or the Pyrenees, the slightest episode would have been rendered crucial by the fiery condition of the atmosphere. But under our more gloomy skies, a poor young man who is only ambitious because his natural refinement makes him feel the necessity of some of those joys which only money can give, can see every day a woman of thirty who is sincerely virtuous, is absorbed in her children, and never goes to novels for her examples of conduct. Everything goes slowly, everything happens gradually, in the provinces where there is far more naturalness. Madame de Renal was often overcome to the point of tears when she thought of the young tutor's poverty. Julien surprised her one day actually crying. "Oh Madame! has any misfortune happened to you?" "No, my friend," she answered, "call the children, let us go for a walk." She took his arm and leant on it in a manner that struck Julien as singular. It was the first time she had called Julien "My friend." Towards the end of the walk, Julien noticed that she was blushing violently. She slackened her pace. "You have no doubt heard," she said, without looking at him, "that I am the only heiress of a very rich aunt who lives at Besancon. She loads me with presents.... My sons are getting on so wonderfully that I should like to ask you to accept a small present as a token of my gratitude. It is only a matter of a few louis to enable you to get some linen. But--" she added, blushing still more, and she left off speaking-- "But what, Madame?" said Julien. "It is unnecessary," she went on lowering her head, "to mention this to my husband." "I may not be big, Madame, but I am not mean," answered Julien, stopping, and drawing himself up to his full height, with his eyes shining with rage, "and this is what you have not realised sufficiently. I should be lower than a menial if I were to put myself in the position of concealing from M de. Renal anything at all having to do with my money." Madame de Renal was thunderstruck. "The Mayor," went on Julien, "has given me on five occasions sums of thirty-six francs since I have been living in his house. I am ready to show any account-book to M. de Renal and anyone else, even to M. Valenod who hates me." As the result of this outburst, Madame de Renal remained pale and nervous, and the walk ended without either one or the other finding any pretext for renewing the conversation. Julien's proud heart had found it more and more impossible to love Madame de Renal. As for her, she respected him, she admired him, and she had been scolded by him. Under the pretext of making up for the involuntary humiliation which she had caused him, she indulged in acts of the most tender solicitude. The novelty of these attentions made Madame de Renal happy for eight days. Their effect was to appease to some extent Julien's anger. He was far from seeing anything in them in the nature of a fancy for himself personally. "That is just what rich people are," he said to himself--"they snub you and then they think they can make up for everything by a few monkey tricks." Madame de Renal's heart was too full, and at the same time too innocent, for her not too tell her husband, in spite of her resolutions not to do so, about the offer she had made to Julien, and the manner in which she had been rebuffed. "How on earth," answered M. de Renal, keenly piqued, "could you put up with a refusal on the part of a servant,"--and, when Madame de Renal protested against the word "Servant," "I am using, madam, the words of the late Prince of Conde, when he presented his Chamberlains to his new wife. 'All these people' he said 'are servants.' I have also read you this passage from the Memoirs of Besenval, a book which is indispensable on all questions of etiquette. 'Every person, not a gentleman, who lives in your house and receives a salary is your servant.' I'll go and say a few words to M. Julien and give him a hundred francs." "Oh, my dear," said Madame De Renal trembling, "I hope you won't do it before the servants!" "Yes, they might be jealous and rightly so," said her husband as he took his leave, thinking of the greatness of the sum. Madame de Renal fell on a chair almost fainting in her anguish. He is going to humiliate Julien, and it is my fault! She felt an abhorrence for her husband and hid her face in her hands. She resolved that henceforth she would never make any more confidences. When she saw Julien again she was trembling all over. Her chest was so cramped that she could not succeed in pronouncing a single word. In her embarrassment she took his hands and pressed them. "Well, my friend," she said to him at last, "are you satisfied with my husband?" "How could I be otherwise," answered Julien, with a bitter smile, "he has given me a hundred francs." Madame de Renal looked at him doubtfully. "Give me your arm," she said at last, with a courageous intonation that Julien had not heard before. She dared to go as far as the shop of the bookseller of Verrieres, in spite of his awful reputation for Liberalism. In the shop she chose ten louis worth of books for a present for her sons. But these books were those which she knew Julien was wanting. She insisted on each child writing his name then and there in the bookseller's shop in those books which fell to his lot. While Madame de Renal was rejoicing over the kind reparation which she had had the courage to make to Julien, the latter was overwhelmed with astonishment at the quantity of books which he saw at the bookseller's. He had never dared to enter so profane a place. His heart was palpitating. Instead of trying to guess what was passing in Madame de Renal's heart he pondered deeply over the means by which a young theological student could procure some of those books. Eventually it occurred to him that it would be possible, with tact, to persuade M. de Renal that one of the proper subjects of his sons' curriculum would be the history of the celebrated gentlemen who had been born in the province. After a month of careful preparation Julien witnessed the success of this idea. The success was so great that he actually dared to risk mentioning to M. de Renal in conversation, a matter which the noble mayor found disagreeable from quite another point of view. The suggestion was to contribute to the fortune of a Liberal by taking a subscription at the bookseller's. M. de Renal agreed that it would be wise to give his elder son a first hand acquaintance with many works which he would hear mentioned in conversation when he went to the Military School. But Julien saw that the mayor had determined to go no further. He suspected some secret reason but could not guess it. "I was thinking, sir," he said to him one day, "that it would be highly undesirable for the name of so good a gentleman as a Renal to appear on a bookseller's dirty ledger." M. de Renal's face cleared. "It would also be a black mark," continued Julien in a more humble tone, "against a poor theology student if it ever leaked out that his name had been on the ledger of a bookseller who let out books. The Liberals might go so far as to accuse me of having asked for the most infamous books. Who knows if they will not even go so far as to write the titles of those perverse volumes after my name?" But Julien was getting off the track. He noticed that the Mayor's physiognomy was re-assuming its expression of embarrassment and displeasure. Julien was silent. "I have caught my man," he said to himself. It so happened that a few days afterwards the elder of the children asked Julien, in M. de Renal's presence, about a book which had been advertised in the _Quotidienne_. "In order to prevent the Jacobin Party having the slightest pretext for a score," said the young tutor, "and yet give me the means of answering M. de Adolphe's question, you can make your most menial servant take out a subscription at the booksellers." "That's not a bad idea," said M. de Renal, who was obviously very delighted. "You will have to stipulate all the same," said Julien in that solemn and almost melancholy manner which suits some people so well when they see the realization of matters which they have desired for a long time past, "you will have to stipulate that the servant should not take out any novels. Those dangerous books, once they got into the house, might corrupt Madame de Renal's maids, and even the servant himself." "You are forgetting the political pamphlets," went on M. de Renal with an important air. He was anxious to conceal the admiration with which the cunning "middle course" devised by his children's tutor had filled him. In this way Julien's life was made up of a series of little acts of diplomacy, and their success gave him far more food for thought than the marked manifestation of favouritism which he could have read at any time in Madame de Renal's heart, had he so wished. The psychological position in which he had found himself all his life was renewed again in the mayor of Verrieres' house. Here in the same way as at his father's saw-mill, he deeply despised the people with whom he lived, and was hated by them. He saw every day in the conversation of the sub-perfect, M. Valenod and the other friends of the family, about things which had just taken place under their very eyes, how little ideas corresponded to reality. If an action seemed to Julien worthy of admiration, it was precisely that very action which would bring down upon itself the censure of the people with whom he lived. His inner mental reply always was, "What beasts or what fools!" The joke was that, in spite of all his pride, he often understood absolutely nothing what they were talking about. Throughout his whole life he had only spoken sincerely to the old Surgeon-Major. The few ideas he had were about Buonaparte's Italian Campaigns or else surgery. His youthful courage revelled in the circumstantial details of the most terrible operations. He said to himself. "I should not have flinched." The first time that Madame de Renal tried to enter into conversation independently of the children's education, he began to talk of surgical operations. She grew pale and asked him to leave off. Julien knew nothing beyond that. So it came about that, though he passed his life in Madame de Renal's company, the most singular silence would reign between them as soon as they were alone. When he was in the salon, she noticed in his eyes, in spite of all the humbleness of his demeanour, an air of intellectual superiority towards everyone who came to visit her. If she found herself alone with him for a single moment, she saw that he was palpably embarrassed. This made her feel uneasy, for her woman's instinct caused her to realise that this embarrassment was not inspired by any tenderness. Owing to some mysterious idea, derived from some tale of good society, such as the old Surgeon-Major had seen it, Julien felt humiliated whenever the conversation languished on any occasion when he found himself in a woman's society, as though the particular pause were his own special fault. This sensation was a hundred times more painful in _tete-a-tete_. His imagination, full as it was of the most extravagant and most Spanish ideas of what a man ought to say when he is alone with a woman, only suggested to the troubled youth things which were absolutely impossible. His soul was in the clouds. Nevertheless he was unable to emerge from this most humiliating silence. Consequently, during his long walks with Madame de Renal and the children, the severity of his manner was accentuated by the poignancy of his sufferings. He despised himself terribly. If, by any luck, he made himself speak, he came out with the most absurd things. To put the finishing touch on his misery, he saw his own absurdity and exaggerated its extent, but what he did not see was the expression in his eyes, which were so beautiful and betokened so ardent a soul, that like good actors, they sometimes gave charm to something which is really devoid of it. Madame de Renal noticed that when he was alone with her he never chanced to say a good thing except when he was taken out of himself by some unexpected event, and consequently forgot to try and turn a compliment. As the friends of the house did not spoil her by regaling her with new and brilliant ideas, she enjoyed with delight all the flashes of Julien's intellect. After the fall of Napoleon, every appearance of gallantry has been severely exiled from provincial etiquette. People are frightened of losing their jobs. All rascals look to the religious order for support, and hypocrisy has made firm progress even among the Liberal classes. One's ennui is doubled. The only pleasures left are reading and agriculture. Madame de Renal, the rich heiress of a devout aunt, and married at sixteen to a respectable gentleman, had never felt or seen in her whole life anything that had the slightest resemblance in the whole world to love. Her confessor, the good cure Chelan, had once mentioned love to her, in discussing the advances of M. de Valenod, and had drawn so loathsome a picture of the passion that the word now stood to her for nothing but the most abject debauchery. She had regarded love, such as she had come across it, in the very small number of novels with which chance had made her acquainted, as an exception if not indeed as something absolutely abnormal. It was, thanks to this ignorance, that Madame de Renal, although incessantly absorbed in Julien, was perfectly happy, and never thought of reproaching herself in the slightest. CHAPTER VIII LITTLE EPISODES "Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, And stolen glances sweeter for the theft, And burning blushes, though for no transgression." _Don Juan_, c. I, st. 74. It was only when Madame de Renal began to think of her maid Elisa that there was some slight change in that angelic sweetness which she owed both to her natural character and her actual happiness. The girl had come into a fortune, went to confess herself to the cure Chelan and confessed to him her plan of marrying Julien. The cure was truly rejoiced at his friend's good fortune, but he was extremely surprised when Julien resolutely informed him that Mademoiselle Elisa's offer could not suit him. "Beware, my friend, of what is passing within your heart," said the cure with a frown, "I congratulate you on your mission, if that is the only reason why you despise a more than ample fortune. It is fifty-six years since I was first cure of Verrieres, and yet I shall be turned out, according to all appearances. I am distressed by it, and yet my income amounts to eight hundred francs. I inform you of this detail so that you may not be under any illusions as to what awaits you in your career as a priest. If you think of paying court to the men who enjoy power, your eternal damnation is assured. You may make your fortune, but you will have to do harm to the poor, flatter the sub-prefect, the mayor, the man who enjoys prestige, and pander to his passion; this conduct, which in the world is called knowledge of life, is not absolutely incompatible with salvation so far as a layman is concerned; but in our career we have to make a choice; it is a question of making one's fortune either in this world or the next; there is no middle course. Come, my dear friend, reflect, and come back in three days with a definite answer. I am pained to detect that there is at the bottom of your character a sombre passion which is far from indicating to me that moderation and that perfect renunciation of earthly advantages so necessary for a priest; I augur well of your intellect, but allow me to tell you," added the good cure with tears in his eyes, "I tremble for your salvation in your career as a priest." Julien was ashamed of his emotion; he found himself loved for the first time in his life; he wept with delight; and went to hide his tears in the great woods behind Verrieres. "Why am I in this position?" he said to himself at last, "I feel that I would give my life a hundred times over for this good cure Chelan, and he has just proved to me that I am nothing more than a fool. It is especially necessary for me to deceive him, and he manages to find me out. The secret ardour which he refers to is my plan of making my fortune. He thinks I am unworthy of being a priest, that too, just when I was imagining that my sacrifice of fifty louis would give him the very highest idea of my piety and devotion to my mission." "In future," continued Julien, "I will only reckon on those elements in my character which I have tested. Who could have told me that I should find any pleasure in shedding tears? How I should like some one to convince me that I am simply a fool!" Three days later, Julien found the excuse with which he ought to have been prepared on the first day; the excuse was a piece of calumny, but what did it matter? He confessed to the cure, with a great deal of hesitation, that he had been persuaded from the suggested union by a reason he could not explain, inasmuch as it tended to damage a third party. This was equivalent to impeaching Elisa's conduct. M. Chelan found that his manner betrayed a certain worldly fire which was very different from that which ought to have animated a young acolyte. "My friend," he said to him again, "be a good country citizen, respected and educated, rather than a priest without a true mission." So far as words were concerned, Julien answered these new remonstrances very well. He managed to find the words which a young and ardent seminarist would have employed, but the tone in which he pronounced them, together with the thinly concealed fire which blazed in his eye, alarmed M. Chelan. You must not have too bad an opinion of Julien's prospects. He invented with correctness all the words suitable to a prudent and cunning hypocrisy. It was not bad for his age. As for his tone and his gestures, he had spent his life with country people; he had never been given an opportunity of seeing great models. Consequently, as soon as he was given a chance of getting near such gentlemen, his gestures became as admirable as his words. Madame de Renal was astonished that her maid's new fortune did not make her more happy. She saw her repeatedly going to the cure and coming back with tears in her eyes. At last Elisa talked to her of her marriage. Madame de Renal thought she was ill. A kind of fever prevented her from sleeping. She only lived when either her maid or Julien were in sight. She was unable to think of anything except them and the happiness which they would find in their home. Her imagination depicted in the most fascinating colours the poverty of the little house, where they were to live on their income of fifty louis a year. Julien could quite well become an advocate at Bray, the sub-prefecture, two leagues from Verrieres. In that case she would see him sometimes. Madame de Renal sincerely believed she would go mad. She said so to her husband and finally fell ill. That very evening when her maid was attending her, she noticed that the girl was crying. She abhorred Elisa at that moment, and started to scold her; she then begged her pardon. Elisa's tears redoubled. She said if her mistress would allow her, she would tell her all her unhappiness. "Tell me," answered Madame de Renal. "Well, Madame, he refuses me, some wicked people must have spoken badly about me. He believes them." "Who refuses you?" said Madame de Renal, scarcely breathing. "Who else, Madame, but M. Julien," answered the maid sobbing. "M. the cure had been unable to overcome his resistance, for M. the cure thinks that he ought not to refuse an honest girl on the pretext that she has been a maid. After all, M. Julien's father is nothing more than a carpenter, and how did he himself earn his living before he was at Madame's?" Madame de Renal stopped listening; her excessive happiness had almost deprived her of her reason. She made the girl repeat several times the assurance that Julien had refused her, with a positiveness which shut the door on the possibility of his coming round to a more prudent decision. "I will make a last attempt," she said to her maid. "I will speak to M. Julien." The following day, after breakfast, Madame de Renal indulged in the delightful luxury of pleading her rival's cause, and of seeing Elisa's hand and fortune stubbornly refused for a whole hour. Julien gradually emerged from his cautiously worded answers, and finished by answering with spirit Madame de Renal's good advice. She could not help being overcome by the torrent of happiness which, after so many days of despair, now inundated her soul. She felt quite ill. When she had recovered and was comfortably in her own room she sent everyone away. She was profoundly astonished. "Can I be in love with Julien?" she finally said to herself. This discovery, which at any other time would have plunged her into remorse and the deepest agitation, now only produced the effect of a singular, but as it were, indifferent spectacle. Her soul was exhausted by all that she had just gone through, and had no more sensibility to passion left. Madame de Renal tried to work, and fell into a deep sleep; when she woke up she did not frighten herself so much as she ought to have. She was too happy to be able to see anything wrong in anything. Naive and innocent as she was, this worthy provincial woman had never tortured her soul in her endeavours to extract from it a little sensibility to some new shade of sentiment or unhappiness. Entirely absorbed as she had been before Julien's arrival with that mass of work which falls to the lot of a good mistress of a household away from Paris, Madame de Renal thought of passion in the same way in which we think of a lottery: a certain deception, a happiness sought after by fools. The dinner bell rang. Madame de Renal blushed violently. She heard the voice of Julien who was bringing in the children. Having grown somewhat adroit since her falling in love, she complained of an awful headache in order to explain her redness. "That's just like what all women are," answered M. de Renal with a coarse laugh. "Those machines have always got something or other to be put right." Although she was accustomed to this type of wit, Madame de Renal was shocked by the tone of voice. In order to distract herself, she looked at Julien's physiognomy; he would have pleased her at this particular moment, even if he had been the ugliest man imaginable. M. de Renal, who always made a point of copying the habits of the gentry of the court, established himself at Vergy in the first fine days of the spring; this is the village rendered celebrated by the tragic adventure of Gabrielle. A hundred paces from the picturesque ruin of the old Gothic church, M. de Renal owns an old chateau with its four towers and a garden designed like the one in the Tuileries with a great many edging verges of box and avenues of chestnut trees which are cut twice in the year. An adjacent field, crowded with apple trees, served for a promenade. Eight or ten magnificent walnut trees were at the end of the orchard. Their immense foliage went as high as perhaps eighty feet. "Each of these cursed walnut trees," M. de Renal was in the habit of saying, whenever his wife admired them, "costs me the harvest of at least half an acre; corn cannot grow under their shade." Madame de Renal found the sight of the country novel: her admiration reached the point of enthusiasm. The sentiment by which she was animated gave her both ideas and resolution. M. de Renal had returned to the town, for mayoral business, two days after their arrival in Vergy. But Madame de Renal engaged workmen at her own expense. Julien had given her the idea of a little sanded path which was to go round the orchard and under the big walnut trees, and render it possible for the children to take their walk in the very earliest hours of the morning without getting their feet wet from the dew. This idea was put into execution within twenty-four hours of its being conceived. Madame de Renal gaily spent the whole day with Julien in supervising the workmen. When the Mayor of Verrieres came back from the town he was very surprised to find the avenue completed. His arrival surprised Madame de Renal as well. She had forgotten his existence. For two months he talked with irritation about the boldness involved in making so important a repair without consulting him, but Madame de Renal had had it executed at her own expense, a fact which somewhat consoled him. She spent her days in running about the orchard with her children, and in catching butterflies. They had made big hoods of clear gauze with which they caught the poor _lepidoptera_. This is the barbarous name which Julien taught Madame de Renal. For she had had M. Godart's fine work ordered from Besancon, and Julien used to tell her about the strange habits of the creatures. They ruthlessly transfixed them by means of pins in a great cardboard box which Julien had prepared. Madame de Renal and Julien had at last a topic of conversation; he was no longer exposed to the awful torture that had been occasioned by their moments of silence. They talked incessantly and with extreme interest, though always about very innocent matters. This gay, full, active life, pleased the fancy of everyone, except Mademoiselle Elisa who found herself overworked. Madame had never taken so much trouble with her dress, even at carnival time, when there is a ball at Verrieres, she would say; she changes her gowns two or three times a day. As it is not our intention to flatter anyone, we do not propose to deny that Madame de Renal, who had a superb skin, arranged her gowns in such a way as to leave her arms and her bosom very exposed. She was extremely well made, and this style of dress suited her delightfully. "You have never been _so young_, Madame," her Verrieres friends would say to her, when they came to dinner at Vergy (this is one of the local expressions). It is a singular thing, and one which few amongst us will believe, but Madame de Renal had no specific object in taking so much trouble. She found pleasure in it and spent all the time which she did not pass in hunting butterflies with the children and Julien, in working with Elisa at making gowns, without giving the matter a further thought. Her only expedition to Verrieres was caused by her desire to buy some new summer gowns which had just come from Mulhouse. She brought back to Vergy a young woman who was a relative of hers. Since her marriage, Madame de Renal had gradually become attached to Madame Derville, who had once been her school mate at the _Sacre Coeur_. Madame Derville laughed a great deal at what she called her cousin's mad ideas: "I would never have thought of them alone," she said. When Madame de Renal was with her husband, she was ashamed of those sudden ideas, which, are called sallies in Paris, and thought them quite silly: but Madame Derville's presence gave her courage. She would start to telling her her thoughts in a timid voice, but after the ladies had been alone for a long time, Madame de Renal's brain became more animated, and a long morning spent together by the two friends passed like a second, and left them in the best of spirits. On this particular journey, however, the acute Madame Derville thought her cousin much less merry, but much more happy than usual. Julien, on his side, had since coming to the country lived like an absolute child, and been as happy as his pupils in running after the butterflies. After so long a period of constraint and wary diplomacy, he was at last alone and far from human observation; he was instinctively free from any apprehension on the score of Madame de Renal, and abandoned himself to the sheer pleasure of being alive, which is so keen at so young an age, especially among the most beautiful mountains in the world. Ever since Madame Derville's arrival, Julien thought that she was his friend; he took the first opportunity of showing her the view from the end of the new avenue, under the walnut tree; as a matter of fact it is equal, if not superior, to the most wonderful views that Switzerland and the Italian lakes can offer. If you ascend the steep slope which commences some paces from there, you soon arrive at great precipices fringed by oak forests, which almost jut on to the river. It was to the peaked summits of these rocks that Julien, who was now happy, free, and king of the household into the bargain, would take the two friends, and enjoy their admiration these sublime views. "To me it's like Mozart's music," Madame Derville would say. The country around Verrieres had been spoilt for Julien by the jealousy of his brothers and the presence of a tyranous and angry father. He was free from these bitter memories at Vergy; for the first time in his life, he failed to see an enemy. When, as frequently happened, M. de Renal was in town, he ventured to read; soon, instead of reading at night time, a procedure, moreover, which involved carefully hiding his lamp at the bottom of a flower-pot turned upside down, he was able to indulge in sleep; in the day, however, in the intervals between the children's lessons, he would come among these rocks with that book which was the one guide of his conduct and object of his enthusiasm. He found in it simultaneously happiness, ecstasy and consolation for his moments of discouragement. Certain remarks of Napoleon about women, several discussions about the merits of the novels which were fashionable in his reign, furnished him now for the first time with some ideas which any other young man of his age would have had for a long time. The dog days arrived. They started the habit of spending the evenings under an immense pine tree some yards from the house. The darkness was profound. One evening, Julien was speaking and gesticulating, enjoying to the full the pleasure of being at his best when talking to young women; in one of his gestures, he touched the hand of Madame de Renal which was leaning on the back of one of those chairs of painted wood, which are so frequently to be seen in gardens. The hand was quickly removed, but Julien thought it a point of duty to secure that that hand should not be removed when he touched it. The idea of a duty to be performed and the consciousness of his stultification, or rather of his social inferiority, if he should fail in achieving it, immediately banished all pleasure from his heart. CHAPTER IX AN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY M. Guerin's Dido, a charming sketch!--_Strombeck_. His expression was singular when he saw Madame de Renal the next day; he watched her like an enemy with whom he would have to fight a duel. These looks, which were so different from those of the previous evening, made Madame de Renal lose her head; she had been kind to him and he appeared angry. She could not take her eyes off his. Madame Derville's presence allowed Julien to devote less time to conversation, and more time to thinking about what he had in his mind. His one object all this day was to fortify himself by reading the inspired book that gave strength to his soul. He considerably curtailed the children's lessons, and when Madame de Renal's presence had effectually brought him back to the pursuit of his ambition, he decided that she absolutely must allow her hand to rest in his that evening. The setting of the sun which brought the crucial moment nearer and nearer made Julien's heart beat in a strange way. Night came. He noticed with a joy, which took an immense weight off his heart, that it was going to be very dark. The sky, which was laden with big clouds that had been brought along by a sultry wind, seemed to herald a storm. The two friends went for their walk very late. All they did that night struck Julien as strange. They were enjoying that hour which seems to give certain refined souls an increased pleasure in loving. At last they sat down, Madame de Renal beside Julien, and Madame Derville near her friend. Engrossed as he was by the attempt which he was going to make, Julien could think of nothing to say. The conversation languished. "Shall I be as nervous and miserable over my first duel?" said Julien to himself; for he was too suspicious both of himself and of others, not to realise his own mental state. In his mortal anguish, he would have preferred any danger whatsoever. How many times did he not wish some matter to crop up which would necessitate Madame de Renal going into the house and leaving the garden! The violent strain on Julien's nerves was too great for his voice not to be considerably changed; soon Madame de Renal's voice became nervous as well, but Julien did not notice it. The awful battle raging between duty and timidity was too painful, for him to be in a position to observe anything outside himself. A quarter to ten had just struck on the chateau clock without his having ventured anything. Julien was indignant at his own cowardice, and said to himself, "at the exact moment when ten o'clock strikes, I will perform what I have resolved to do all through the day, or I will go up to my room and blow out my brains." After a final moment of expectation and anxiety, during which Julien was rendered almost beside himself by his excessive emotion, ten o'clock struck from the clock over his head. Each stroke of the fatal clock reverberated in his bosom, and caused an almost physical pang. Finally, when the last stroke of ten was still reverberating, he stretched out his hand and took Madame de Renal's, who immediately withdrew it. Julien, scarcely knowing what he was doing, seized it again. In spite of his own excitement, he could not help being struck by the icy coldness of the hand which he was taking; he pressed it convulsively; a last effort was made to take it away, but in the end the hand remained in his. His soul was inundated with happiness, not that he loved Madame de Renal, but an awful torture had just ended. He thought it necessary to say something, to avoid Madame Derville noticing anything. His voice was now strong and ringing. Madame de Renal's, on the contrary, betrayed so much emotion that her friend thought she was ill, and suggested her going in. Julien scented danger, "if Madame de Renal goes back to the salon, I shall relapse into the awful state in which I have been all day. I have held the hand far too short a time for it really to count as the scoring of an actual advantage." At the moment when Madame Derville was repeating her suggestion to go back to the salon, Julien squeezed vigorously the hand that was abandoned to him. Madame de Renal, who had started to get up, sat down again and said in a faint voice, "I feel a little ill, as a matter of fact, but the open air is doing me good." These words confirmed Julien's happiness, which at the present moment was extreme; he spoke, he forgot to pose, and appeared the most charming man in the world to the two friends who were listening to him. Nevertheless, there was a slight lack of courage in all this eloquence which had suddenly come upon him. He was mortally afraid that Madame Derville would get tired of the wind before the storm, which was beginning to rise, and want to go back alone into the salon. He would then have remained _tete-a-tete_ with Madame de Renal. He had had, almost by accident that blind courage which is sufficient for action; but he felt that it was out of his power to speak the simplest word to Madame de Renal. He was certain that, however slight her reproaches might be, he would nevertheless be worsted, and that the advantage he had just won would be destroyed. Luckily for him on this evening, his moving and emphatic speeches found favour with Madame Derville, who very often found him as clumsy as a child and not at all amusing. As for Madame de Renal, with her hand in Julien's, she did not have a thought; she simply allowed herself to go on living. The hours spent under this great pine tree, planted by by Charles the Bold according to the local tradition, were a real period of happiness. She listened with delight to the soughing of the wind in the thick foliage of the pine tree and to the noise of some stray drops which were beginning to fall upon the leaves which were lowest down. Julien failed to notice one circumstance which, if he had, would have quickly reassured him; Madame de Renal, who had been obliged to take away her hand, because she had got up to help her cousin to pick up a flower-pot which the wind had knocked over at her feet, had scarcely sat down again before she gave him her hand with scarcely any difficulty and as though it had already been a pre-arranged thing between them. Midnight had struck a long time ago; it was at last necessary to leave the garden; they separated. Madame de Renal swept away as she was, by the happiness of loving, was so completely ignorant of the world that she scarcely reproached herself at all. Her happiness deprived her of her sleep. A leaden sleep overwhelmed Julien who was mortally fatigued by the battle which timidity and pride had waged in his heart all through the day. He was called at five o'clock on the following day and scarcely gave Madame de Renal a single thought. He had accomplished his duty, and a heroic duty too. The consciousness of this filled him with happiness; he locked himself in his room, and abandoned himself with quite a new pleasure to reading exploits of his hero. When the breakfast bell sounded, the reading of the Bulletins of the Great Army had made him forget all his advantages of the previous day. He said to himself flippantly, as he went down to the salon, "I must tell that woman that I am in love with her." Instead of those looks brimful of pleasure which he was expecting to meet, he found the stern visage of M. de Renal, who had arrived from Verrieres two hours ago, and did not conceal his dissatisfaction at Julien's having passed the whole morning without attending to the children. Nothing could have been more sordid than this self-important man when he was in a bad temper and thought that he could safely show it. Each harsh word of her husband pierced Madame de Renal's heart. As for Julien, he was so plunged in his ecstasy, and still so engrossed by the great events which had been passing before his eyes for several hours, that he had some difficulty at first in bringing his attention sufficiently down to listen to the harsh remarks which M. de Renal was addressing to him. He said to him at last, rather abruptly, "I was ill." The tone of this answer would have stung a much less sensitive man than the mayor of Verrieres. He half thought of answering Julien by turning him out of the house straight away. He was only restrained by the maxim which he had prescribed for himself, of never hurrying unduly in business matters. "The young fool," he said to himself shortly afterwards, "has won a kind of reputation in my house. That man Valenod may take him into his family, or he may quite well marry Elisa, and in either case, he will be able to have the laugh of me in his heart." In spite of the wisdom of these reflections, M. de Renal's dissatisfaction did not fail to vent itself any the less by a string of coarse insults which gradually irritated Julien. Madame de Renal was on the point of bursting into tears. Breakfast was scarcely over, when she asked Julien to give her his arm for a walk. She leaned on him affectionately. Julien could only answer all that Madame de Renal said to him by whispering. "_That's what rich people are like!_" M. de Renal was walking quite close to them; his presence increased Julien's anger. He suddenly noticed that Madame de Renal was leaning on his arm in a manner which was somewhat marked. This horrified him, and he pushed her violently away and disengaged his arm. Luckily, M. de Renal did not see this new piece of impertinence; it was only noticed by Madame Derville. Her friend burst into tears. M. de Renal now started to chase away by a shower of stones a little peasant girl who had taken a private path crossing a corner of the orchard. "Monsieur Julien, restrain yourself, I pray you. Remember that we all have our moments of temper," said madame Derville rapidly. Julien looked at her coldly with eyes in which the most supreme contempt was depicted. This look astonished Madame Derville, and it would have surprised her even more if she had appreciated its real expression; she would have read in it something like a vague hope of the most atrocious vengeance. It is, no doubt, such moments of humiliation which have made Robespierres. "Your Julien is very violent; he frightens me," said Madame Derville to her friend, in a low voice. "He is right to be angry," she answered. "What does it matter if he does pass a morning without speaking to the children, after the astonishing progress which he has made them make. One must admit that men are very hard." For the first time in her life Madame de Renal experienced a kind of desire for vengeance against her husband. The extreme hatred of the rich by which Julien was animated was on the point of exploding. Luckily, M. de Renal called his gardener, and remained occupied with him in barring by faggots of thorns the private road through the orchard. Julien did not vouchsafe any answer to the kindly consideration of which he was the object during all the rest of the walk. M. de Renal had scarcely gone away before the two friends made the excuse of being fatigued, and each asked him for an arm. Walking as he did between these two women whose extreme nervousness filled their cheeks with a blushing embarrassment, the haughty pallor and sombre, resolute air of Julien formed a strange contrast. He despised these women and all tender sentiments. "What!" he said to himself, "not even an income of five hundred francs to finish my studies! Ah! how I should like to send them packing." And absorbed as he was by these stern ideas, such few courteous words of his two friends as he deigned to take the trouble to understand, displeased him as devoid of sense, silly, feeble, in a word--feminine. As the result of speaking for the sake of speaking and of endeavouring to keep the conversation alive, it came about that Madame de Renal mentioned that her husband had come from Verrieres because he had made a bargain for the May straw with one of his farmers. (In this district it is the May straw with which the bed mattresses are filled). "My husband will not rejoin us," added Madame de Renal; "he will occupy himself with finishing the re-stuffing of the house mattresses with the help of the gardener and his valet. He has put the May straw this morning in all the beds on the first storey; he is now at the second." Julien changed colour. He looked at Madame de Renal in a singular way, and soon managed somehow to take her on one side, doubling his pace. Madame Derville allowed them to get ahead. "Save my life," said Julien to Madame de Renal; "only you can do it, for you know that the valet hates me desperately. I must confess to you, madame, that I have a portrait. I have hidden it in the mattress of my bed." At these words Madame de Renal in her turn became pale. "Only you, Madame, are able at this moment to go into my room, feel about without their noticing in the corner of the mattress; it is nearest the window. You will find a small, round box of black cardboard, very glossy." "Does it contain a portrait?" said Madame de Renal, scarcely able to hold herself upright. Julien noticed her air of discouragement, and at once proceeded to exploit it. "I have a second favour to ask you, madame. I entreat you not to look at that portrait; it is my secret." "It is a secret," repeated Madame de Renal in a faint voice. But though she had been brought up among people who are proud of their fortune and appreciative of nothing except money, love had already instilled generosity into her soul. Truly wounded as she was, it was with an air of the most simple devotion that Madame de Renal asked Julien the questions necessary to enable her to fulfil her commission. "So" she said to him as she went away, "it is a little round box of black cardboard, very glossy." "Yes, Madame," answered Julien, with that hardness which danger gives to men. She ascended the second storey of the chateau as pale as though she had been going to her death. Her misery was completed by the sensation that she was on the verge of falling ill, but the necessity of doing Julien a service restored her strength. "I must have that box," she said to herself, as she doubled her pace. She heard her husband speaking to the valet in Julien's very room. Happily, they passed into the children's room. She lifted up the mattress, and plunged her hand into the stuffing so violently that she bruised her fingers. But, though she was very sensitive to slight pain of this kind, she was not conscious of it now, for she felt almost simultaneously the smooth surface of the cardboard box. She seized it and disappeared. She had scarcely recovered from the fear of being surprised by her husband than the horror with which this box inspired her came within an ace of positively making her feel ill. "So Julien is in love, and I hold here the portrait of the woman whom he loves!" Seated on the chair in the ante-chamber of his apartment, Madame de Renal fell a prey to all the horrors of jealousy. Her extreme ignorance, moreover, was useful to her at this juncture; her astonishment mitigated her grief. Julien seized the box without thanking her or saying a single word, and ran into his room, where he lit a fire and immediately burnt it. He was pale and in a state of collapse. He exaggerated the extent of the danger which he had undergone. "Finding Napoleon's portrait," he said to himself, "in the possession of a man who professes so great a hate for the usurper! Found, too, by M. de Renal, who is so great an _ultra_, and is now in a state of irritation, and, to complete my imprudence, lines written in my own handwriting on the white cardboard behind the portrait, lines, too, which can leave no doubt on the score of my excessive admiration. And each of these transports of love is dated. There was one the day before yesterday." "All my reputation collapsed and shattered in a moment," said Julien to himself as he watched the box burn, "and my reputation is my only asset. It is all I have to live by--and what a life to, by heaven!" An hour afterwards, this fatigue, together with the pity which he felt for himself made him inclined to be more tender. He met Madame de Renal and took her hand, which he kissed with more sincerity than he had ever done before. She blushed with happiness and almost simultaneously rebuffed Julien with all the anger of jealousy. Julien's pride which had been so recently wounded made him act foolishly at this juncture. He saw in Madame de Renal nothing but a rich woman, he disdainfully let her hand fall and went away. He went and walked about meditatively in the garden. Soon a bitter smile appeared on his lips. "Here I am walking about as serenely as a man who is master of his own time. I am not bothering about the children! I am exposing myself to M. de Renal's humiliating remarks, and he will be quite right." He ran to the children's room. The caresses of the youngest child, whom he loved very much, somewhat calmed his agony. "He does not despise me yet," thought Julien. But he soon reproached himself for this alleviation of his agony as though it were a new weakness. The children caress me just in the same way in which they would caress the young hunting-hound which was bought yesterday. CHAPTER X A GREAT HEART AND A SMALL FORTUNE But passion most disembles, yet betrays, Even by its darkness, as the blackest sky Foretells the heaviest tempest. _Don Juan_, c. 4, st. 75. M. De Renal was going through all the rooms in the chateau, and he came back into the children's room with the servants who were bringing back the stuffings of the mattresses. The sudden entry of this man had the effect on Julien of the drop of water which makes the pot overflow. Looking paler and more sinister than usual, he rushed towards him. M. de Renal stopped and looked at his servants. "Monsieur," said Julien to him, "Do you think your children would have made the progress they have made with me with any other tutor? If you answer 'No,'" continued Julien so quickly that M. de Renal did not have time to speak, "how dare you reproach me with neglecting them?" M. de Renal, who had scarcely recovered from his fright, concluded from the strange tone he saw this little peasant assume, that he had some advantageous offer in his pocket, and that he was going to leave him. The more he spoke the more Julien's anger increased, "I can live without you, Monsieur," he added. "I am really sorry to see you so upset," answered M. de Renal shuddering a little. The servants were ten yards off engaged in making the beds. "That is not what I mean, Monsieur," replied Julien quite beside himself. "Think of the infamous words that you have addressed to me, and before women too." M. de Renal understood only too well what Julien was asking, and a painful conflict tore his soul. It happened that Julien, who was really mad with rage, cried out, "I know where to go, Monsieur, when I leave your house." At these words M. de Renal saw Julien installed with M. Valenod. "Well, sir," he said at last with a sigh, just as though he had called in a surgeon to perform the most painful operation, "I accede to your request. I will give you fifty francs a month. Starting from the day after to-morrow which is the first of the month." Julien wanted to laugh, and stood there dumbfounded. All his anger had vanished. "I do not despise the brute enough," he said to himself. "I have no doubt that that is the greatest apology that so base a soul can make." The children who had listened to this scene with gaping mouths, ran into the garden to tell their mother that M. Julien was very angry, but that he was going to have fifty francs a month. Julien followed them as a matter of habit without even looking at M. de Renal whom he left in a considerable state of irritation. "That makes one hundred and sixty-eight francs," said the mayor to himself, "that M. Valenod has cost me. I must absolutely speak a few strong words to him about his contract to provide for the foundlings." A minute afterwards Julien found himself opposite M. de Renal. "I want to speak to M. Chelan on a matter of conscience. I have the honour to inform you that I shall be absent some hours." "Why, my dear Julien," said M. de Renal smiling with the falsest expression possible, "take the whole day, and to-morrow too if you like, my good friend. Take the gardener's horse to go to Verrieres." "He is on the very point," said M. de Renal to himself, "of giving an answer to Valenod. He has promised me nothing, but I must let this hot-headed young man have time to cool down." Julien quickly went away, and went up into the great forest, through which one can manage to get from Vergy to Verrieres. He did not wish to arrive at M. Chelan's at once. Far from wishing to cramp himself in a new pose of hypocrisy he needed to see clear in his own soul, and to give audience to the crowd of sentiments which were agitating him. "I have won a battle," he said to himself, as soon as he saw that he was well in the forest, and far from all human gaze. "So I have won a battle." This expression shed a rosy light on his situation, and restored him to some serenity. "Here I am with a salary of fifty francs a month, M. de Renal must be precious afraid, but what of?" This meditation about what could have put fear into the heart of that happy, powerful man against whom he had been boiling with rage only an hour back, completed the restoration to serenity of Julien's soul. He was almost able to enjoy for a moment the delightful beauty of the woods amidst which he was walking. Enormous blocks of bare rocks had fallen down long ago in the middle of the forest by the mountain side. Great cedars towered almost as high as these rocks whose shade caused a delicious freshness within three yards of places where the heat of the sun's rays would have made it impossible to rest. Julien took breath for a moment in the shade of these great rocks, and then he began again to climb. Traversing a narrow path that was scarcely marked, and was only used by the goat herds, he soon found himself standing upon an immense rock with the complete certainty of being far away from all mankind. This physical position made him smile. It symbolised to him the position he was burning to attain in the moral sphere. The pure air of these lovely mountains filled his soul with serenity and even with joy. The mayor of Verrieres still continued to typify in his eyes all the wealth and all the arrogance of the earth; but Julien felt that the hatred that had just thrilled him had nothing personal about it in spite of all the violence which he had manifested. If he had left off seeing M. de Renal he would in eight days have forgotten him, his castle, his dogs, his children and all his family. "I forced him, I don't know how, to make the greatest sacrifice. What? more than fifty crowns a year, and only a minute before I managed to extricate myself from the greatest danger; so there are two victories in one day. The second one is devoid of merit, I must find out the why and the wherefore. But these laborious researches are for to-morrow." Standing up on his great rock, Julien looked at the sky which was all afire with an August sun. The grasshoppers sang in the field about the rock; when they held their peace there was universal silence around him. He saw twenty leagues of country at his feet. He noticed from time to time some hawk, which launching off from the great rocks over his head was describing in silence its immense circles. Julien's eye followed the bird of prey mechanically. Its tranquil powerful movements struck him. He envied that strength, that isolation. "Would Napoleon's destiny be one day his?" CHAPTER XI AN EVENING Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, And tremulously gently her small hand Withdrew itself from his, but left behind A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland, And slight, so very slight that to the mind, 'Twas but a doubt. _Don Juan_, c. I. st, 71. It was necessary, however, to put in an appearance at Verrieres. As Julien left the cure house he was fortunate enough to meet M. Valenod, whom he hastened to tell of the increase in his salary. On returning to Vergy, Julien waited till night had fallen before going down into the garden. His soul was fatigued by the great number of violent emotions which had agitated him during the day. "What shall I say to them?" he reflected anxiously, as he thought about the ladies. He was far from realising that his soul was just in a mood to discuss those trivial circumstances which usually monopolise all feminine interests. Julien was often unintelligible to Madame Derville, and even to her friend, and he in his turn only half understood all that they said to him. Such was the effect of the force and, if I may venture to use such language, the greatness of the transports of passion which overwhelmed the soul of this ambitious youth. In this singular being it was storm nearly every day. As he entered the garden this evening, Julien was inclined to take an interest in what the pretty cousins were thinking. They were waiting for him impatiently. He took his accustomed seat next to Madame de Renal. The darkness soon became profound. He attempted to take hold of a white hand which he had seen some time near him, as it leant on the back of a chair. Some hesitation was shewn, but eventually the hand was withdrawn in a manner which indicated displeasure. Julien was inclined to give up the attempt as a bad job, and to continue his conversation quite gaily, when he heard M. de Renal approaching. The coarse words he had uttered in the morning were still ringing in Julien's ears. "Would not taking possession of his wife's hand in his very presence," he said to himself, "be a good way of scoring off that creature who has all that life can give him. Yes! I will do it. I, the very man for whom he has evidenced so great a contempt." From that moment the tranquillity which was so alien to Julien's real character quickly disappeared. He was obsessed by an anxious desire that Madame de Renal should abandon her hand to him. M. de Renal was talking politics with vehemence; two or three commercial men in Verrieres had been growing distinctly richer than he was, and were going to annoy him over the elections. Madame Derville was listening to him. Irritated by these tirades, Julien brought his chair nearer Madame de Renal. All his movements were concealed by the darkness. He dared to put his hand very near to the pretty arm which was left uncovered by the dress. He was troubled and had lost control of his mind. He brought his face near to that pretty arm and dared to put his lips on it. Madame de Renal shuddered. Her husband was four paces away. She hastened to give her hand to Julien, and at the same time to push him back a little. As M. de Renal was continuing his insults against those ne'er-do-wells and Jacobins who were growing so rich, Julien covered the hand which had been abandoned to him with kisses, which were either really passionate or at any rate seemed so to Madame de Renal. But the poor woman had already had the proofs on that same fatal day that the man whom she adored, without owning it to herself, loved another! During the whole time Julien had been absent she had been the prey to an extreme unhappiness which had made her reflect. "What," she said to herself, "Am I going to love, am I going to be in love? Am I, a married woman, going to fall in love? But," she said to herself, "I have never felt for my husband this dark madness, which never permits of my keeping Julien out of my thoughts. After all, he is only a child who is full of respect for me. This madness will be fleeting. In what way do the sentiments which I may have for this young man concern my husband? M. de Renal would be bored by the conversations which I have with Julien on imaginative subjects. As for him, he simply thinks of his business. I am not taking anything away from him to give to Julien." No hypocrisy had sullied the purity of that naive soul, now swept away by a passion such as it had never felt before. She deceived herself, but without knowing it. But none the less, a certain instinct of virtue was alarmed. Such were the combats which were agitating her when Julien appeared in the garden. She heard him speak and almost at the same moment she saw him sit down by her side. Her soul was as it were transported by this charming happiness which had for the last fortnight surprised her even more than it had allured. Everything was novel for her. None the less, she said to herself after some moments, "the mere presence of Julien is quite enough to blot out all his wrongs." She was frightened; it was then that she took away her hand. His passionate kisses, the like of which she had never received before, made her forget that perhaps he loved another woman. Soon he was no longer guilty in her eyes. The cessation of that poignant pain which suspicion had engendered and the presence of a happiness that she had never even dreamt of, gave her ecstasies of love and of mad gaiety. The evening was charming for everyone, except the mayor of Verrieres, who was unable to forget his _parvenu_ manufacturers. Julien left off thinking about his black ambition, or about those plans of his which were so difficult to accomplish. For the first time in his life he was led away by the power of beauty. Lost in a sweetly vague reverie, quite alien to his character, and softly pressing that hand, which he thought ideally pretty, he half listened to the rustle of the leaves of the pine trees, swept by the light night breeze, and to the dogs of the mill on the Doubs, who barked in the distance. But this emotion was one of pleasure and not passion. As he entered his room, he only thought of one happiness, that of taking up again his favourite book. When one is twenty the idea of the world and the figure to be cut in it dominate everything. He soon, however, laid down the book. As the result of thinking of the victories of Napoleon, he had seen a new element in his own victory. "Yes," he said to himself, "I have won a battle. I must exploit it. I must crush the pride of that proud gentleman while he is in retreat. That would be real Napoleon. I must ask him for three days' holiday to go and see my friend Fouque. If he refuses me I will threaten to give him notice, but he will yield the point." Madame de Renal could not sleep a wink. It seemed as though, until this moment, she had never lived. She was unable to distract her thoughts from the happiness of feeling Julian cover her hand with his burning kisses. Suddenly the awful word adultery came into her mind. All the loathesomeness with which the vilest debauchery can invest sensual love presented itself to her imagination. These ideas essayed to pollute the divinely tender image which she was fashioning of Julien, and of the happiness of loving him. The future began to be painted in terrible colours. She began to regard herself as contemptible. That moment was awful. Her soul was arriving in unknown countries. During the evening she had tasted a novel happiness. Now she found herself suddenly plunged in an atrocious unhappiness. She had never had any idea of such sufferings; they troubled her reason. She thought for a moment of confessing to her husband that she was apprehensive of loving Julien. It would be an opportunity of speaking of him. Fortunately her memory threw up a maxim which her aunt had once given her on the eve of her marriage. The maxim dealt with the danger of making confidences to a husband, for a husband is after all a master. She wrung her hands in the excess of her grief. She was driven this way and that by clashing and painful ideas. At one moment she feared that she was not loved. The next the awful idea of crime tortured her, as much as if she had to be exposed in the pillory on the following day in the public square of Verrieres, with a placard to explain her adultery to the populace. Madame de Renal had no experience of life. Even in the full possession of her faculties, and when fully exercising her reason, she would never have appreciated any distinction between being guilty in the eyes of God, and finding herself publicly overwhelmed with the crudest marks of universal contempt. When the awful idea of adultery, and of all the disgrace which in her view that crime brought in its train, left her some rest, she began to dream of the sweetness of living innocently with Julien as in the days that had gone by. She found herself confronted with the horrible idea that Julien loved another woman. She still saw his pallor when he had feared to lose her portrait, or to compromise her by exposing it to view. For the first time she had caught fear on that tranquil and noble visage. He had never shewn such emotion to her or her children. This additional anguish reached the maximum of unhappiness which the human soul is capable of enduring. Unconsciously, Madame de Renal uttered cries which woke up her maid. Suddenly she saw the brightness of a light appear near her bed, and recognized Elisa. "Is it you he loves?" she exclaimed in her delirium. Fortunately, the maid was so astonished by the terrible trouble in which she found her mistress that she paid no attention to this singular expression. Madame de Renal appreciated her imprudence. "I have the fever," she said to her, "and I think I am a little delirious." Completely woken up by the necessity of controlling herself, she became less unhappy. Reason regained that supreme control which the semi-somnolent state had taken away. To free herself from her maid's continual stare, she ordered her maid to read the paper, and it was as she listened to the monotonous voice of this girl, reading a long article from the _Quotidienne_ that Madame de Renal made the virtuous resolution to treat Julien with absolute coldness when she saw him again.

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301223854/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/redblack/section2/

Julien timidly walks over to the Renal home. Moved by Julien's weak frame and pale complexion, Mme. de Renal's "romantic disposition" makes her feel immediate pity for Julien. Their first encounter is tender and innocent, especially since Mme. de Renal initially thinks that Julien is a young woman. Julien is not used to being treated so well by an aristocrat and the two instantly take a liking to each other. He promises not to harm her children and, realizing that he has an advantage, kisses her hand. Mme. de Renal is shocked but does not scold Julien. He continues to make a good impression by reciting portions of the Bible in Latin from memory. M. de Renal's self-esteem is aroused by Julien's intelligence and he parades the whole town through his house to witness how great his children's tutor is. The Renals and their children accept Julien as a fixture in their home, but he continues to loathe "high society" in private. Elisa, Mme. de Renal's maid, falls in love with Julien, and it is through her maid's eyes that Mme. de Renal begins to have feelings for Julien as well. Raised in a convent, Mme. de Renal had never known love and thought that all men were like her husband and M. Valenod, only concerned with hatred and money. Convinced that Mme. de Renal is only out to humiliate him, Julien acts very cold around her. He also rejects Elisa's offer of marriage. M. Chelan urges Julien to reconsider, recognizing the Julien's lack of true devotion to the Church. He does not call Julien a hypocrite, but Julien is ashamed that someone actually loves him. After a few days, however, Julien perfects "the language of sly and prudent hypocrisy," refusing to reveal his true ambitions to the priest. Jealous of Elisa, Mme. de Renal begins to fall in love with Julien and is overjoyed when he refuses Elisa. She blushes in his presence, buys him gifts, and starts to pay more attention to her physical appearance. The Renals move out to the countryside for the spring, and Julien decides to seduce Mme. de Renal. He does not love her, but convinces himself that it would be cowardly not to hold her hand as they sit in the garden. Considering it his military "duty," Julien grabs hold of her hand--and Mme. de Renal does not resist him. The next day Julien ignores the children and further humiliates M. de Renal by securing a raise. Julien's moment of glory is short-lived. After discovering that M. de Renal is changing the bed straw, he begs Mme. de Renal to remove a portrait from under his mattress. Afraid that it is a portrait of the woman he loves, Mme. de Renal chooses not to look at what turns out to be a portrait of Napoleon. Julien is furious at himself for his near blunder. Had M. de Renal seen the portrait, Julien's hypocrisy would have been evident. That evening, Julien redoubles his efforts, passionately kissing Mme. de Renal. Invisible in the darkness of night, Julien is able to achieve this "victory" directly in front of M. de Renal.

Commentary The beginning part of this section emphasizes Mme. de Renal's purity and innocence. Unlike her husband, she is unconcerned with social rank and class, immediately calling Julien, "Sir." Stendhal's correlation of Mme. de Renal's beauty with her strong sense of morality is a hallmark of nineteenth-century romantic fiction. Despite this tenderness on the part of Stendhal, his description of Mme. de Renal's youth in a convent and the ease with which she falls in love with Julien also evokes the irony of many Enlightenment writers, especially Voltaire. Stendhal also introduces an important theme in this section: triangular desire. Elisa falls in love with Julien, while Mme. de Renal jealously falls in love because of Elisa. Julien desires Mme. de Renal, but only because she represents a conquest that he compares to military glory. Together they form a love triangle, one of many that Stendhal employs throughout the novel. For Stendhal, the love triangle meant that one could only fall in love through an intermediary figure. Indeed, Stendhal thought of himself as a scientist of love, attempting to reduce love to different formulas, levels, and stages, much like a mathematician. He often distinguished four types of love: passion- love, physical-love, vanity-love, and stylish-love. This devotion to understanding the psychology of love and its abstract analysis was a major influence for later Realist writers such as Balzac, Flaubert, and Zola. From the moment he enters the Renal home, Julien thinks of himself as Napoleon and Mme. de Renal as a battle to be won--not about love. Each advance represents an incremental increase in the intensity of their relationship but also a feeling of pride for Julien. Kissing Mme. de Renal's hand is a victory, but more importantly, an attack against the aristocracy: he is humiliating M. de Renal by seducing his wife. Julien thinks incessantly about adhering to Napoleon's military "style" and fulfilling "the destiny of Napoleon." Stendhal reinforces this symbolic closeness with the image of an eagle circling above Julien's head. The metaphor is twofold: the eagle is both the symbol of Napoleon and military glory, and a bird circling his prey. In effect, Julien's adoration of Napoleon gets him into serious trouble. M. de Renal almost discovers Julien's portrait of Napoleon, covered with inscriptions of praise written by Julien himself. After Mme. de Renal returns it to him, Julien immediately burns the portrait, establishing his conviction to succeed in French society at any cost.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/54.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_53_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 9.chapter 1

book 9, chapter 1

{"name": "Book 9, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-9-chapter-1", "summary": "The novel picks up with Perkhotin knocking at the widow Morozov's house, where Grushenka is renting a place. Here the servant Fenya tells Perkhotin that Dmitri had arrived earlier, covered in blood, and had even confessed to killing a man. More concerned than ever, Perkhotin starts to go to Fyodor Karamazov's but decides against it because he fears causing a scandal just in case Fyodor Karamazov was not murdered. Instead, he decides to ask Madame Khokhlakov what happened. Although it's late - 11 at night - Madame Khokhlakov is finally roused from her bed to receive Perkhotin. She attests that she never lent Dmitri any money and even writes a short statement to that effect. Perkhotin and Khokhlakov experience a mutual attraction, despite the extraordinary circumstances, and Perkhotin goes on his way.", "analysis": ""}

Book IX. The Preliminary Investigation Chapter I. The Beginning Of Perhotin's Official Career Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, whom we left knocking at the strong locked gates of the widow Morozov's house, ended, of course, by making himself heard. Fenya, who was still excited by the fright she had had two hours before, and too much "upset" to go to bed, was almost frightened into hysterics on hearing the furious knocking at the gate. Though she had herself seen him drive away, she fancied that it must be Dmitri Fyodorovitch knocking again, no one else could knock so savagely. She ran to the house-porter, who had already waked up and gone out to the gate, and began imploring him not to open it. But having questioned Pyotr Ilyitch, and learned that he wanted to see Fenya on very "important business," the man made up his mind at last to open. Pyotr Ilyitch was admitted into Fenya's kitchen, but the girl begged him to allow the house-porter to be present, "because of her misgivings." He began questioning her and at once learnt the most vital fact, that is, that when Dmitri Fyodorovitch had run out to look for Grushenka, he had snatched up a pestle from the mortar, and that when he returned, the pestle was not with him and his hands were smeared with blood. "And the blood was simply flowing, dripping from him, dripping!" Fenya kept exclaiming. This horrible detail was simply the product of her disordered imagination. But although not "dripping," Pyotr Ilyitch had himself seen those hands stained with blood, and had helped to wash them. Moreover, the question he had to decide was not how soon the blood had dried, but where Dmitri Fyodorovitch had run with the pestle, or rather, whether it really was to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, and how he could satisfactorily ascertain. Pyotr Ilyitch persisted in returning to this point, and though he found out nothing conclusive, yet he carried away a conviction that Dmitri Fyodorovitch could have gone nowhere but to his father's house, and that therefore something must have happened there. "And when he came back," Fenya added with excitement, "I told him the whole story, and then I began asking him, 'Why have you got blood on your hands, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?' and he answered that that was human blood, and that he had just killed some one. He confessed it all to me, and suddenly ran off like a madman. I sat down and began thinking, where's he run off to now like a madman? He'll go to Mokroe, I thought, and kill my mistress there. I ran out to beg him not to kill her. I was running to his lodgings, but I looked at Plotnikov's shop, and saw him just setting off, and there was no blood on his hands then." (Fenya had noticed this and remembered it.) Fenya's old grandmother confirmed her evidence as far as she was capable. After asking some further questions, Pyotr Ilyitch left the house, even more upset and uneasy than he had been when he entered it. The most direct and the easiest thing for him to do would have been to go straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, to find out whether anything had happened there, and if so, what; and only to go to the police captain, as Pyotr Ilyitch firmly intended doing, when he had satisfied himself of the fact. But the night was dark, Fyodor Pavlovitch's gates were strong, and he would have to knock again. His acquaintance with Fyodor Pavlovitch was of the slightest, and what if, after he had been knocking, they opened to him, and nothing had happened? Then Fyodor Pavlovitch in his jeering way would go telling the story all over the town, how a stranger, called Perhotin, had broken in upon him at midnight to ask if any one had killed him. It would make a scandal. And scandal was what Pyotr Ilyitch dreaded more than anything in the world. Yet the feeling that possessed him was so strong, that though he stamped his foot angrily and swore at himself, he set off again, not to Fyodor Pavlovitch's but to Madame Hohlakov's. He decided that if she denied having just given Dmitri Fyodorovitch three thousand roubles, he would go straight to the police captain, but if she admitted having given him the money, he would go home and let the matter rest till next morning. It is, of course, perfectly evident that there was even more likelihood of causing scandal by going at eleven o'clock at night to a fashionable lady, a complete stranger, and perhaps rousing her from her bed to ask her an amazing question, than by going to Fyodor Pavlovitch. But that is just how it is, sometimes, especially in cases like the present one, with the decisions of the most precise and phlegmatic people. Pyotr Ilyitch was by no means phlegmatic at that moment. He remembered all his life how a haunting uneasiness gradually gained possession of him, growing more and more painful and driving him on, against his will. Yet he kept cursing himself, of course, all the way for going to this lady, but "I will get to the bottom of it, I will!" he repeated for the tenth time, grinding his teeth, and he carried out his intention. It was exactly eleven o'clock when he entered Madame Hohlakov's house. He was admitted into the yard pretty quickly, but, in response to his inquiry whether the lady was still up, the porter could give no answer, except that she was usually in bed by that time. "Ask at the top of the stairs. If the lady wants to receive you, she'll receive you. If she won't, she won't." Pyotr Ilyitch went up, but did not find things so easy here. The footman was unwilling to take in his name, but finally called a maid. Pyotr Ilyitch politely but insistently begged her to inform her lady that an official, living in the town, called Perhotin, had called on particular business, and that if it were not of the greatest importance he would not have ventured to come. "Tell her in those words, in those words exactly," he asked the girl. She went away. He remained waiting in the entry. Madame Hohlakov herself was already in her bedroom, though not yet asleep. She had felt upset ever since Mitya's visit, and had a presentiment that she would not get through the night without the sick headache which always, with her, followed such excitement. She was surprised on hearing the announcement from the maid. She irritably declined to see him, however, though the unexpected visit at such an hour, of an "official living in the town," who was a total stranger, roused her feminine curiosity intensely. But this time Pyotr Ilyitch was as obstinate as a mule. He begged the maid most earnestly to take another message in these very words: "That he had come on business of the greatest importance, and that Madame Hohlakov might have cause to regret it later, if she refused to see him now." "I plunged headlong," he described it afterwards. The maid, gazing at him in amazement, went to take his message again. Madame Hohlakov was impressed. She thought a little, asked what he looked like, and learned that he was "very well dressed, young and so polite." We may note, parenthetically, that Pyotr Ilyitch was a rather good-looking young man, and well aware of the fact. Madame Hohlakov made up her mind to see him. She was in her dressing-gown and slippers, but she flung a black shawl over her shoulders. "The official" was asked to walk into the drawing-room, the very room in which Mitya had been received shortly before. The lady came to meet her visitor, with a sternly inquiring countenance, and, without asking him to sit down, began at once with the question: "What do you want?" "I have ventured to disturb you, madam, on a matter concerning our common acquaintance, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov," Perhotin began. But he had hardly uttered the name, when the lady's face showed signs of acute irritation. She almost shrieked, and interrupted him in a fury: "How much longer am I to be worried by that awful man?" she cried hysterically. "How dare you, sir, how could you venture to disturb a lady who is a stranger to you, in her own house at such an hour!... And to force yourself upon her to talk of a man who came here, to this very drawing-room, only three hours ago, to murder me, and went stamping out of the room, as no one would go out of a decent house. Let me tell you, sir, that I shall lodge a complaint against you, that I will not let it pass. Kindly leave me at once.... I am a mother.... I ... I--" "Murder! then he tried to murder you, too?" "Why, has he killed somebody else?" Madame Hohlakov asked impulsively. "If you would kindly listen, madam, for half a moment, I'll explain it all in a couple of words," answered Perhotin, firmly. "At five o'clock this afternoon Dmitri Fyodorovitch borrowed ten roubles from me, and I know for a fact he had no money. Yet at nine o'clock, he came to see me with a bundle of hundred-rouble notes in his hand, about two or three thousand roubles. His hands and face were all covered with blood, and he looked like a madman. When I asked him where he had got so much money, he answered that he had just received it from you, that you had given him a sum of three thousand to go to the gold-mines...." Madame Hohlakov's face assumed an expression of intense and painful excitement. "Good God! He must have killed his old father!" she cried, clasping her hands. "I have never given him money, never! Oh, run, run!... Don't say another word! Save the old man ... run to his father ... run!" "Excuse me, madam, then you did not give him money? You remember for a fact that you did not give him any money?" "No, I didn't, I didn't! I refused to give it him, for he could not appreciate it. He ran out in a fury, stamping. He rushed at me, but I slipped away.... And let me tell you, as I wish to hide nothing from you now, that he positively spat at me. Can you fancy that! But why are we standing? Ah, sit down." "Excuse me, I...." "Or better run, run, you must run and save the poor old man from an awful death!" "But if he has killed him already?" "Ah, good heavens, yes! Then what are we to do now? What do you think we must do now?" Meantime she had made Pyotr Ilyitch sit down and sat down herself, facing him. Briefly, but fairly clearly, Pyotr Ilyitch told her the history of the affair, that part of it at least which he had himself witnessed. He described, too, his visit to Fenya, and told her about the pestle. All these details produced an overwhelming effect on the distracted lady, who kept uttering shrieks, and covering her face with her hands.... "Would you believe it, I foresaw all this! I have that special faculty, whatever I imagine comes to pass. And how often I've looked at that awful man and always thought, that man will end by murdering me. And now it's happened ... that is, if he hasn't murdered me, but only his own father, it's only because the finger of God preserved me, and what's more, he was ashamed to murder me because, in this very place, I put the holy ikon from the relics of the holy martyr, Saint Varvara, on his neck.... And to think how near I was to death at that minute, I went close up to him and he stretched out his neck to me!... Do you know, Pyotr Ilyitch (I think you said your name was Pyotr Ilyitch), I don't believe in miracles, but that ikon and this unmistakable miracle with me now--that shakes me, and I'm ready to believe in anything you like. Have you heard about Father Zossima?... But I don't know what I'm saying ... and only fancy, with the ikon on his neck he spat at me.... He only spat, it's true, he didn't murder me and ... he dashed away! But what shall we do, what must we do now? What do you think?" Pyotr Ilyitch got up, and announced that he was going straight to the police captain, to tell him all about it, and leave him to do what he thought fit. "Oh, he's an excellent man, excellent! Mihail Makarovitch, I know him. Of course, he's the person to go to. How practical you are, Pyotr Ilyitch! How well you've thought of everything! I should never have thought of it in your place!" "Especially as I know the police captain very well, too," observed Pyotr Ilyitch, who still continued to stand, and was obviously anxious to escape as quickly as possible from the impulsive lady, who would not let him say good-by and go away. "And be sure, be sure," she prattled on, "to come back and tell me what you see there, and what you find out ... what comes to light ... how they'll try him ... and what he's condemned to.... Tell me, we have no capital punishment, have we? But be sure to come, even if it's at three o'clock at night, at four, at half-past four.... Tell them to wake me, to wake me, to shake me, if I don't get up.... But, good heavens, I shan't sleep! But wait, hadn't I better come with you?" "N--no. But if you would write three lines with your own hand, stating that you did not give Dmitri Fyodorovitch money, it might, perhaps, be of use ... in case it's needed...." "To be sure!" Madame Hohlakov skipped, delighted, to her bureau. "And you know I'm simply struck, amazed at your resourcefulness, your good sense in such affairs. Are you in the service here? I'm delighted to think that you're in the service here!" And still speaking, she scribbled on half a sheet of notepaper the following lines: I've never in my life lent to that unhappy man, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov (for, in spite of all, he is unhappy), three thousand roubles to-day. I've never given him money, never: That I swear by all that's holy! K. HOHLAKOV. "Here's the note!" she turned quickly to Pyotr Ilyitch. "Go, save him. It's a noble deed on your part!" And she made the sign of the cross three times over him. She ran out to accompany him to the passage. "How grateful I am to you! You can't think how grateful I am to you for having come to me, first. How is it I haven't met you before? I shall feel flattered at seeing you at my house in the future. How delightful it is that you are living here!... Such precision! Such practical ability!... They must appreciate you, they must understand you. If there's anything I can do, believe me ... oh, I love young people! I'm in love with young people! The younger generation are the one prop of our suffering country. Her one hope.... Oh, go, go!..." But Pyotr Ilyitch had already run away or she would not have let him go so soon. Yet Madame Hohlakov had made a rather agreeable impression on him, which had somewhat softened his anxiety at being drawn into such an unpleasant affair. Tastes differ, as we all know. "She's by no means so elderly," he thought, feeling pleased, "on the contrary I should have taken her for her daughter." As for Madame Hohlakov, she was simply enchanted by the young man. "Such sense! such exactness! in so young a man! in our day! and all that with such manners and appearance! People say the young people of to-day are no good for anything, but here's an example!" etc. So she simply forgot this "dreadful affair," and it was only as she was getting into bed, that, suddenly recalling "how near death she had been," she exclaimed: "Ah, it is awful, awful!" But she fell at once into a sound, sweet sleep. I would not, however, have dwelt on such trivial and irrelevant details, if this eccentric meeting of the young official with the by no means elderly widow had not subsequently turned out to be the foundation of the whole career of that practical and precise young man. His story is remembered to this day with amazement in our town, and I shall perhaps have something to say about it, when I have finished my long history of the Brothers Karamazov.

Book 9, Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-9-chapter-1

The novel picks up with Perkhotin knocking at the widow Morozov's house, where Grushenka is renting a place. Here the servant Fenya tells Perkhotin that Dmitri had arrived earlier, covered in blood, and had even confessed to killing a man. More concerned than ever, Perkhotin starts to go to Fyodor Karamazov's but decides against it because he fears causing a scandal just in case Fyodor Karamazov was not murdered. Instead, he decides to ask Madame Khokhlakov what happened. Although it's late - 11 at night - Madame Khokhlakov is finally roused from her bed to receive Perkhotin. She attests that she never lent Dmitri any money and even writes a short statement to that effect. Perkhotin and Khokhlakov experience a mutual attraction, despite the extraordinary circumstances, and Perkhotin goes on his way.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/23046-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Comedy of Errors/section_7_part_0.txt

The Comedy of Errors.act iv.scene ii

act iv, scene ii

{"name": "Act IV, Scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-iv-scene-ii", "summary": "At E. Antipholus's house, the women are a mess. Luciana tells Adriana about E. Antipholus's proclamations of love. Adriana wants every dirty detail of her husband's trespass. Luciana admits that S. Antipholus's words were exactly the right kind to win a girl--if a girl were to be won, of course. This continues on for a while, with Adriana declaring her hatred for E. Antipholus, even as she still prays for him. S. Dromio arrives, out of breath, and explains that Antipholus has been jailed. S. Dromio can't explain the details exactly, but h gets the bail money from Adriana and rushes off. Adriana is left to wonder at why her husband is locked up.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II. The house of _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_. _Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA._ _Adr._ Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so? Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye That he did plead in earnest? yea or no? Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily? What observation madest thou, in this case, 5 Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face? _Luc._ First he denied you had in him no right. _Adr._ He meant he did me none; the more my spite. _Luc._ Then swore he that he was a stranger here. _Adr._ And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were. 10 _Luc._ Then pleaded I for you. _Adr._ And what said he? _Luc._ That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me. _Adr._ With what persuasion did he tempt thy love? _Luc._ With words that in an honest suit might move. First he did praise my beauty, then my speech. 15 _Adr._ Didst speak him fair? _Luc._ Have patience, I beseech. _Adr._ I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still; My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will. He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere, Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; 20 Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind; Stigmatical in making, worse in mind. _Luc._ Who would be jealous, then, of such a one? No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone. _Adr._ Ah, but I think him better than I say, 25 And yet would herein others' eyes were worse. Far from her nest the lapwing cries away: My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse. _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._ _Dro. S._ Here! go; the desk, the purse! sweet, now, make haste. _Luc._ How hast thou lost thy breath? _Dro. S._ By running fast. 30 _Adr._ Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well? _Dro. S._ No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell. A devil in an everlasting garment hath him; One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel; A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough; 35 A wolf, nay, worse; a fellow all in buff; A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands; A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well; One that, before the Judgment, carries poor souls to hell. 40 _Adr._ Why, man, what is the matter? _Dro. S._ I do not know the matter: he is 'rested on the case. _Adr._ What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit. _Dro. S._ I know not at whose suit he is arrested well; But he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell. 45 Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk? _Adr._ Go fetch it, sister. [_Exit Luciana._] This I wonder at, That he, unknown to me, should be in debt. Tell me, was he arrested on a band? _Dro. S._ Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; 50 A chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring? _Adr._ What, the chain? _Dro. S._ No, no, the bell: 'tis time that I were gone: It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one. _Adr._ The hours come back! that did I never hear. 55 _Dro. S._ O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, 'a turns back for very fear. _Adr._ As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason! _Dro. S._ Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's worth to season. Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say, That Time comes stealing on by night and day? 60 If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way, Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day? _Re-enter LUCIANA with a purse._ _Adr._ Go, Dromio; there's the money, bear it straight; And bring thy master home immediately. Come, sister: I am press'd down with conceit,-- 65 Conceit, my comfort and my injury. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: IV, 2. SCENE II.] SCENE III. Pope. 2: _austerely_] _assuredly_ Heath conj. 4: _or sad or_] _sad_ Capell. _merrily_] _merry_ Collier MS. 6: _Of_] F2 F3 F4. _Oh,_ F1. 7: _you_] _you; you_ Capell. _no_] _a_ Rowe. 18: _his_] _it's_ Rowe. 22: _in mind_] F1. _the mind_ F2 F3 F4. 26: _herein_] _he in_ Hanmer. 29: SCENE IV. Pope. _sweet_] _swift_ Collier MS. 33: _hath him_] _hath him fell_ Collier MS. _hath him by the heel_ Spedding conj. 34: _One_] F2 F3 F4. _On_ F1. After this line Collier MS. inserts: _Who knows no touch of mercy, cannot feel_. 35: _fury_] Pope, ed. 2 (Theobald). _Fairie_ Ff. 37: _countermands_] _commands_ Theobald. 38: _of_] _and_ Collier MS. _alleys_] _allies_ Ff. _lands_] _lanes_ Grey conj. See note (V). 37, 38: _countermands The ... lands_] _his court maintains I' the ... lanes_ Becket conj. 42, 45: _'rested_] Theobald. _rested_ Ff. 43: _Tell_] _Well, tell_ Edd. conj. 44: _arrested well;_] F1. _arrested, well;_ F2 F3. _arrested: well:_ F4. 45: _But he's_] F3 F4. _But is_ F1 F2. _But 'a's_ Edd. conj. _can I_] F1 F2. _I can_ F3 F4. 46: _mistress, redemption_] Hanmer. _Mistris redemption_ F1 F2 F3. _Mistris Redemption_ F4. See note (VI). 48: _That_] _Thus_ F1. 49, 50: _band_] _bond_ Rowe. 50: _but on_] _but_ Pope. 54-62: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 55: _hear_] _here_ F1. 56: _'a turns_] _it turns_ Pope. _he turns_ Capell. 58: _bankrupt_] _bankrout_ Ff. _to season_] om. Pope. 61: _Time_] Rowe. _I_ Ff. _he_ Malone. _'a_ Staunton. 62: _an hour_] _any hour_ Collier MS.

Act IV, Scene ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-iv-scene-ii

At E. Antipholus's house, the women are a mess. Luciana tells Adriana about E. Antipholus's proclamations of love. Adriana wants every dirty detail of her husband's trespass. Luciana admits that S. Antipholus's words were exactly the right kind to win a girl--if a girl were to be won, of course. This continues on for a while, with Adriana declaring her hatred for E. Antipholus, even as she still prays for him. S. Dromio arrives, out of breath, and explains that Antipholus has been jailed. S. Dromio can't explain the details exactly, but h gets the bail money from Adriana and rushes off. Adriana is left to wonder at why her husband is locked up.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/chapters_31_to_34.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_5_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapters 31-34

chapters 31-34

{"name": "Chapters 31 to 34", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section6/", "summary": "Bathsheba leaves one evening soon afterward with the intention of visiting Liddy. She has written to Boldwood to refuse him and does not want to see him when he returns from his trip. Troy is in Bath and is planning to return to Weatherbury in the next day or two. On her way to Liddy's, Bathsheba runs into Boldwood, who has received her letter but will not accept her refusal. The two of them have a heated discussion, in which he reminds her of the valentine she sent, and she tries to persuade him that it meant nothing. Finally, she claims that she lacks warmth. Boldwood responds by telling her that he knows she loves Troy, and he chastises her for being \"dazzled by brass and scarlet. \" She admits that she does love Troy and has kissed him. He flies into a jealous rage, declaring, \"I pray God he may not come into my sight for I may be tempted beyond myself.\" Bathsheba fears greatly for Troy. Chapter 32 opens in the perspective of the wife of one of Bathsheba's farm laborers, a woman by the name of Maryann Money. After Bathsheba has left, Maryann sees someone take a horse from the stable. Thinking it is a thief she alerts Gabriel and Coggan, and the two set off after the rider. When they finally catch up to him or her, after a long chase, they discover it is Bathsheba, secretly following Troy to Bath. They agree not to tell anyone what they have seen, but Gabriel warns Bathsheba that women generally should not travel alone at night. The chapter ends with a summary of the events from Bathsheba's perspective, explaining that she was so frightened by Boldwood's words that she determined to warn Troy not to return to Weatherbury. The next chapter spans two weeks at the farm during the oak harvest. No news of Bathsheba comes, except when Cainy Ball, one of the farm hands, comes back from seeing a doctor in Bath. He tells a group of farm workers that he saw the mistress enter a park arm-in-arm with a soldier. That night Gabriel hears voices and realizes that Liddy and Bathsheba have returned. Boldwood is also walking nearby, and he sees Sergeant Troy return to the carriage house. Boldwood tries to bribe Troy to marry Fanny Robin and leave Bathsheba alone. Troy claims to agree to the bribe but persuades Boldwood to wait and overhear his conversation with Bathsheba first, whom he now awaits. She comes and Boldwood hears her invite Troy back to the house, and she calls him by his first name, Frank. At this, Boldwood abandons all hope, thinking she has now lost all sense of propriety. When Bathsheba has gone back to the house, Boldwood tells Troy he will now pay him to marry Bathsheba rather than Fanny, reasoning that marriage will be more honorable than the current state of affairs. At this, however, Troy brings Boldwood back to the farm and shows him a newspaper announcement revealing that he and Bathsheba are, in fact, already married. He refuses Boldwood's money but has utterly humiliated him. Boldwood wanders the fields all night after Troy locks him out of the house.", "analysis": "Commentary Aside from advancing the plot with the off-stage marriage of Bathsheba and Troy, this short section provides crucial insights into the characters of Bathsheba, Boldwood, and Troy. Having shown us the effect of a series of meetings with Troy on Bathsheba's feelings, Hardy now takes Troy away and shows us how his absence affects her. Interestingly, very little of this section is shown from her point of view. Instead, we see her behavior as it strikes people who know her only distantly, such as Maryann Money and the farm workers. Chapter 32 is a particularly good example. Maryann watches someone take the horse from the stables and has no idea that Bathsheba would act so rashly as to ride to Bath at night without telling anyone. Thus, rather than seeing the series of decisions that lead up to her strange act, we see the act from afar. Hardy's use of perspective here makes the strange irrationality of Bathsheba's actions much more clear to us than it would be if we were inside Bathsheba's consciousness. Hardy does not allow us to sympathize with her but rather asks us to evaluate her behavior; the information with which he provides us gives us little choice but to judge this once strong and independent woman as increasingly foolish. A similar transformation occurs in Boldwood, as shown in particular through his desperate dealings with Troy. Troy has some perspective and is emotionally removed enough from the situation to manipulate Boldwood and utterly humiliate the man who once was above all weakness. After showing him the wedding announcement, Troy mocks him, calling him ridiculous. This scene reveals a cruel and heartless aspect of Troy's character that makes the reader fear for Bathsheba. Cainy Ball's report about Bath is a comic scene, in which the farm laborers serve a dual role, acting both as a kind of Greek chorus, commenting on what has happened, and also as a kind of comic relief."}

BLAME--FURY The next evening Bathsheba, with the idea of getting out of the way of Mr. Boldwood in the event of his returning to answer her note in person, proceeded to fulfil an engagement made with Liddy some few hours earlier. Bathsheba's companion, as a gauge of their reconciliation, had been granted a week's holiday to visit her sister, who was married to a thriving hurdler and cattle-crib-maker living in a delightful labyrinth of hazel copse not far beyond Yalbury. The arrangement was that Miss Everdene should honour them by coming there for a day or two to inspect some ingenious contrivances which this man of the woods had introduced into his wares. Leaving her instructions with Gabriel and Maryann, that they were to see everything carefully locked up for the night, she went out of the house just at the close of a timely thunder-shower, which had refined the air, and daintily bathed the coat of the land, though all beneath was dry as ever. Freshness was exhaled in an essence from the varied contours of bank and hollow, as if the earth breathed maiden breath; and the pleased birds were hymning to the scene. Before her, among the clouds, there was a contrast in the shape of lairs of fierce light which showed themselves in the neighbourhood of a hidden sun, lingering on to the farthest north-west corner of the heavens that this midsummer season allowed. She had walked nearly two miles of her journey, watching how the day was retreating, and thinking how the time of deeds was quietly melting into the time of thought, to give place in its turn to the time of prayer and sleep, when she beheld advancing over Yalbury hill the very man she sought so anxiously to elude. Boldwood was stepping on, not with that quiet tread of reserved strength which was his customary gait, in which he always seemed to be balancing two thoughts. His manner was stunned and sluggish now. Boldwood had for the first time been awakened to woman's privileges in tergiversation even when it involves another person's possible blight. That Bathsheba was a firm and positive girl, far less inconsequent than her fellows, had been the very lung of his hope; for he had held that these qualities would lead her to adhere to a straight course for consistency's sake, and accept him, though her fancy might not flood him with the iridescent hues of uncritical love. But the argument now came back as sorry gleams from a broken mirror. The discovery was no less a scourge than a surprise. He came on looking upon the ground, and did not see Bathsheba till they were less than a stone's throw apart. He looked up at the sound of her pit-pat, and his changed appearance sufficiently denoted to her the depth and strength of the feelings paralyzed by her letter. "Oh; is it you, Mr. Boldwood?" she faltered, a guilty warmth pulsing in her face. Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a means more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter moods that they avoid the pathway of sound. Boldwood's look was unanswerable. Seeing she turned a little aside, he said, "What, are you afraid of me?" "Why should you say that?" said Bathsheba. "I fancied you looked so," said he. "And it is most strange, because of its contrast with my feeling for you." She regained self-possession, fixed her eyes calmly, and waited. "You know what that feeling is," continued Boldwood, deliberately. "A thing strong as death. No dismissal by a hasty letter affects that." "I wish you did not feel so strongly about me," she murmured. "It is generous of you, and more than I deserve, but I must not hear it now." "Hear it? What do you think I have to say, then? I am not to marry you, and that's enough. Your letter was excellently plain. I want you to hear nothing--not I." Bathsheba was unable to direct her will into any definite groove for freeing herself from this fearfully awkward position. She confusedly said, "Good evening," and was moving on. Boldwood walked up to her heavily and dully. "Bathsheba--darling--is it final indeed?" "Indeed it is." "Oh, Bathsheba--have pity upon me!" Boldwood burst out. "God's sake, yes--I am come to that low, lowest stage--to ask a woman for pity! Still, she is you--she is you." Bathsheba commanded herself well. But she could hardly get a clear voice for what came instinctively to her lips: "There is little honour to the woman in that speech." It was only whispered, for something unutterably mournful no less than distressing in this spectacle of a man showing himself to be so entirely the vane of a passion enervated the feminine instinct for punctilios. "I am beyond myself about this, and am mad," he said. "I am no stoic at all to be supplicating here; but I do supplicate to you. I wish you knew what is in me of devotion to you; but it is impossible, that. In bare human mercy to a lonely man, don't throw me off now!" "I don't throw you off--indeed, how can I? I never had you." In her noon-clear sense that she had never loved him she forgot for a moment her thoughtless angle on that day in February. "But there was a time when you turned to me, before I thought of you! I don't reproach you, for even now I feel that the ignorant and cold darkness that I should have lived in if you had not attracted me by that letter--valentine you call it--would have been worse than my knowledge of you, though it has brought this misery. But, I say, there was a time when I knew nothing of you, and cared nothing for you, and yet you drew me on. And if you say you gave me no encouragement, I cannot but contradict you." "What you call encouragement was the childish game of an idle minute. I have bitterly repented of it--ay, bitterly, and in tears. Can you still go on reminding me?" "I don't accuse you of it--I deplore it. I took for earnest what you insist was jest, and now this that I pray to be jest you say is awful, wretched earnest. Our moods meet at wrong places. I wish your feeling was more like mine, or my feeling more like yours! Oh, could I but have foreseen the torture that trifling trick was going to lead me into, how I should have cursed you; but only having been able to see it since, I cannot do that, for I love you too well! But it is weak, idle drivelling to go on like this.... Bathsheba, you are the first woman of any shade or nature that I have ever looked at to love, and it is the having been so near claiming you for my own that makes this denial so hard to bear. How nearly you promised me! But I don't speak now to move your heart, and make you grieve because of my pain; it is no use, that. I must bear it; my pain would get no less by paining you." "But I do pity you--deeply--O, so deeply!" she earnestly said. "Do no such thing--do no such thing. Your dear love, Bathsheba, is such a vast thing beside your pity, that the loss of your pity as well as your love is no great addition to my sorrow, nor does the gain of your pity make it sensibly less. O sweet--how dearly you spoke to me behind the spear-bed at the washing-pool, and in the barn at the shearing, and that dearest last time in the evening at your home! Where are your pleasant words all gone--your earnest hope to be able to love me? Where is your firm conviction that you would get to care for me very much? Really forgotten?--really?" She checked emotion, looked him quietly and clearly in the face, and said in her low, firm voice, "Mr. Boldwood, I promised you nothing. Would you have had me a woman of clay when you paid me that furthest, highest compliment a man can pay a woman--telling her he loves her? I was bound to show some feeling, if I would not be a graceless shrew. Yet each of those pleasures was just for the day--the day just for the pleasure. How was I to know that what is a pastime to all other men was death to you? Have reason, do, and think more kindly of me!" "Well, never mind arguing--never mind. One thing is sure: you were all but mine, and now you are not nearly mine. Everything is changed, and that by you alone, remember. You were nothing to me once, and I was contented; you are now nothing to me again, and how different the second nothing is from the first! Would to God you had never taken me up, since it was only to throw me down!" Bathsheba, in spite of her mettle, began to feel unmistakable signs that she was inherently the weaker vessel. She strove miserably against this femininity which would insist upon supplying unbidden emotions in stronger and stronger current. She had tried to elude agitation by fixing her mind on the trees, sky, any trivial object before her eyes, whilst his reproaches fell, but ingenuity could not save her now. "I did not take you up--surely I did not!" she answered as heroically as she could. "But don't be in this mood with me. I can endure being told I am in the wrong, if you will only tell it me gently! O sir, will you not kindly forgive me, and look at it cheerfully?" "Cheerfully! Can a man fooled to utter heart-burning find a reason for being merry? If I have lost, how can I be as if I had won? Heavens you must be heartless quite! Had I known what a fearfully bitter sweet this was to be, how I would have avoided you, and never seen you, and been deaf of you. I tell you all this, but what do you care! You don't care." She returned silent and weak denials to his charges, and swayed her head desperately, as if to thrust away the words as they came showering about her ears from the lips of the trembling man in the climax of life, with his bronzed Roman face and fine frame. "Dearest, dearest, I am wavering even now between the two opposites of recklessly renouncing you, and labouring humbly for you again. Forget that you have said No, and let it be as it was! Say, Bathsheba, that you only wrote that refusal to me in fun--come, say it to me!" "It would be untrue, and painful to both of us. You overrate my capacity for love. I don't possess half the warmth of nature you believe me to have. An unprotected childhood in a cold world has beaten gentleness out of me." He immediately said with more resentment: "That may be true, somewhat; but ah, Miss Everdene, it won't do as a reason! You are not the cold woman you would have me believe. No, no! It isn't because you have no feeling in you that you don't love me. You naturally would have me think so--you would hide from me that you have a burning heart like mine. You have love enough, but it is turned into a new channel. I know where." The swift music of her heart became hubbub now, and she throbbed to extremity. He was coming to Troy. He did then know what had occurred! And the name fell from his lips the next moment. "Why did Troy not leave my treasure alone?" he asked, fiercely. "When I had no thought of injuring him, why did he force himself upon your notice! Before he worried you your inclination was to have me; when next I should have come to you your answer would have been Yes. Can you deny it--I ask, can you deny it?" She delayed the reply, but was too honest to withhold it. "I cannot," she whispered. "I know you cannot. But he stole in in my absence and robbed me. Why didn't he win you away before, when nobody would have been grieved?--when nobody would have been set tale-bearing. Now the people sneer at me--the very hills and sky seem to laugh at me till I blush shamefully for my folly. I have lost my respect, my good name, my standing--lost it, never to get it again. Go and marry your man--go on!" "Oh sir--Mr. Boldwood!" "You may as well. I have no further claim upon you. As for me, I had better go somewhere alone, and hide--and pray. I loved a woman once. I am now ashamed. When I am dead they'll say, miserable love-sick man that he was. Heaven--heaven--if I had got jilted secretly, and the dishonour not known, and my position kept! But no matter, it is gone, and the woman not gained. Shame upon him--shame!" His unreasonable anger terrified her, and she glided from him, without obviously moving, as she said, "I am only a girl--do not speak to me so!" "All the time you knew--how very well you knew--that your new freak was my misery. Dazzled by brass and scarlet--Oh, Bathsheba--this is woman's folly indeed!" She fired up at once. "You are taking too much upon yourself!" she said, vehemently. "Everybody is upon me--everybody. It is unmanly to attack a woman so! I have nobody in the world to fight my battles for me; but no mercy is shown. Yet if a thousand of you sneer and say things against me, I WILL NOT be put down!" "You'll chatter with him doubtless about me. Say to him, 'Boldwood would have died for me.' Yes, and you have given way to him, knowing him to be not the man for you. He has kissed you--claimed you as his. Do you hear--he has kissed you. Deny it!" The most tragic woman is cowed by a tragic man, and although Boldwood was, in vehemence and glow, nearly her own self rendered into another sex, Bathsheba's cheek quivered. She gasped, "Leave me, sir--leave me! I am nothing to you. Let me go on!" "Deny that he has kissed you." "I shall not." "Ha--then he has!" came hoarsely from the farmer. "He has," she said, slowly, and, in spite of her fear, defiantly. "I am not ashamed to speak the truth." "Then curse him; and curse him!" said Boldwood, breaking into a whispered fury. "Whilst I would have given worlds to touch your hand, you have let a rake come in without right or ceremony and--kiss you! Heaven's mercy--kiss you! ... Ah, a time of his life shall come when he will have to repent, and think wretchedly of the pain he has caused another man; and then may he ache, and wish, and curse, and yearn--as I do now!" "Don't, don't, oh, don't pray down evil upon him!" she implored in a miserable cry. "Anything but that--anything. Oh, be kind to him, sir, for I love him true!" Boldwood's ideas had reached that point of fusion at which outline and consistency entirely disappear. The impending night appeared to concentrate in his eye. He did not hear her at all now. "I'll punish him--by my soul, that will I! I'll meet him, soldier or no, and I'll horsewhip the untimely stripling for this reckless theft of my one delight. If he were a hundred men I'd horsewhip him--" He dropped his voice suddenly and unnaturally. "Bathsheba, sweet, lost coquette, pardon me! I've been blaming you, threatening you, behaving like a churl to you, when he's the greatest sinner. He stole your dear heart away with his unfathomable lies! ... It is a fortunate thing for him that he's gone back to his regiment--that he's away up the country, and not here! I hope he may not return here just yet. I pray God he may not come into my sight, for I may be tempted beyond myself. Oh, Bathsheba, keep him away--yes, keep him away from me!" For a moment Boldwood stood so inertly after this that his soul seemed to have been entirely exhaled with the breath of his passionate words. He turned his face away, and withdrew, and his form was soon covered over by the twilight as his footsteps mixed in with the low hiss of the leafy trees. Bathsheba, who had been standing motionless as a model all this latter time, flung her hands to her face, and wildly attempted to ponder on the exhibition which had just passed away. Such astounding wells of fevered feeling in a still man like Mr. Boldwood were incomprehensible, dreadful. Instead of being a man trained to repression he was--what she had seen him. The force of the farmer's threats lay in their relation to a circumstance known at present only to herself: her lover was coming back to Weatherbury in the course of the very next day or two. Troy had not returned to his distant barracks as Boldwood and others supposed, but had merely gone to visit some acquaintance in Bath, and had yet a week or more remaining to his furlough. She felt wretchedly certain that if he revisited her just at this nick of time, and came into contact with Boldwood, a fierce quarrel would be the consequence. She panted with solicitude when she thought of possible injury to Troy. The least spark would kindle the farmer's swift feelings of rage and jealousy; he would lose his self-mastery as he had this evening; Troy's blitheness might become aggressive; it might take the direction of derision, and Boldwood's anger might then take the direction of revenge. With almost a morbid dread of being thought a gushing girl, this guileless woman too well concealed from the world under a manner of carelessness the warm depths of her strong emotions. But now there was no reserve. In her distraction, instead of advancing further she walked up and down, beating the air with her fingers, pressing on her brow, and sobbing brokenly to herself. Then she sat down on a heap of stones by the wayside to think. There she remained long. Above the dark margin of the earth appeared foreshores and promontories of coppery cloud, bounding a green and pellucid expanse in the western sky. Amaranthine glosses came over them then, and the unresting world wheeled her round to a contrasting prospect eastward, in the shape of indecisive and palpitating stars. She gazed upon their silent throes amid the shades of space, but realised none at all. Her troubled spirit was far away with Troy. NIGHT--HORSES TRAMPING The village of Weatherbury was quiet as the graveyard in its midst, and the living were lying well-nigh as still as the dead. The church clock struck eleven. The air was so empty of other sounds that the whirr of the clock-work immediately before the strokes was distinct, and so was also the click of the same at their close. The notes flew forth with the usual blind obtuseness of inanimate things--flapping and rebounding among walls, undulating against the scattered clouds, spreading through their interstices into unexplored miles of space. Bathsheba's crannied and mouldy halls were to-night occupied only by Maryann, Liddy being, as was stated, with her sister, whom Bathsheba had set out to visit. A few minutes after eleven had struck, Maryann turned in her bed with a sense of being disturbed. She was totally unconscious of the nature of the interruption to her sleep. It led to a dream, and the dream to an awakening, with an uneasy sensation that something had happened. She left her bed and looked out of the window. The paddock abutted on this end of the building, and in the paddock she could just discern by the uncertain gray a moving figure approaching the horse that was feeding there. The figure seized the horse by the forelock, and led it to the corner of the field. Here she could see some object which circumstances proved to be a vehicle, for after a few minutes spent apparently in harnessing, she heard the trot of the horse down the road, mingled with the sound of light wheels. Two varieties only of humanity could have entered the paddock with the ghostlike glide of that mysterious figure. They were a woman and a gipsy man. A woman was out of the question in such an occupation at this hour, and the comer could be no less than a thief, who might probably have known the weakness of the household on this particular night, and have chosen it on that account for his daring attempt. Moreover, to raise suspicion to conviction itself, there were gipsies in Weatherbury Bottom. Maryann, who had been afraid to shout in the robber's presence, having seen him depart had no fear. She hastily slipped on her clothes, stumped down the disjointed staircase with its hundred creaks, ran to Coggan's, the nearest house, and raised an alarm. Coggan called Gabriel, who now again lodged in his house as at first, and together they went to the paddock. Beyond all doubt the horse was gone. "Hark!" said Gabriel. They listened. Distinct upon the stagnant air came the sounds of a trotting horse passing up Longpuddle Lane--just beyond the gipsies' encampment in Weatherbury Bottom. "That's our Dainty--I'll swear to her step," said Jan. "Mighty me! Won't mis'ess storm and call us stupids when she comes back!" moaned Maryann. "How I wish it had happened when she was at home, and none of us had been answerable!" "We must ride after," said Gabriel, decisively. "I'll be responsible to Miss Everdene for what we do. Yes, we'll follow." "Faith, I don't see how," said Coggan. "All our horses are too heavy for that trick except little Poppet, and what's she between two of us?--If we only had that pair over the hedge we might do something." "Which pair?" "Mr. Boldwood's Tidy and Moll." "Then wait here till I come hither again," said Gabriel. He ran down the hill towards Farmer Boldwood's. "Farmer Boldwood is not at home," said Maryann. "All the better," said Coggan. "I know what he's gone for." Less than five minutes brought up Oak again, running at the same pace, with two halters dangling from his hand. "Where did you find 'em?" said Coggan, turning round and leaping upon the hedge without waiting for an answer. "Under the eaves. I knew where they were kept," said Gabriel, following him. "Coggan, you can ride bare-backed? there's no time to look for saddles." "Like a hero!" said Jan. "Maryann, you go to bed," Gabriel shouted to her from the top of the hedge. Springing down into Boldwood's pastures, each pocketed his halter to hide it from the horses, who, seeing the men empty-handed, docilely allowed themselves to be seized by the mane, when the halters were dexterously slipped on. Having neither bit nor bridle, Oak and Coggan extemporized the former by passing the rope in each case through the animal's mouth and looping it on the other side. Oak vaulted astride, and Coggan clambered up by aid of the bank, when they ascended to the gate and galloped off in the direction taken by Bathsheba's horse and the robber. Whose vehicle the horse had been harnessed to was a matter of some uncertainty. Weatherbury Bottom was reached in three or four minutes. They scanned the shady green patch by the roadside. The gipsies were gone. "The villains!" said Gabriel. "Which way have they gone, I wonder?" "Straight on, as sure as God made little apples," said Jan. "Very well; we are better mounted, and must overtake em", said Oak. "Now on at full speed!" No sound of the rider in their van could now be discovered. The road-metal grew softer and more clayey as Weatherbury was left behind, and the late rain had wetted its surface to a somewhat plastic, but not muddy state. They came to cross-roads. Coggan suddenly pulled up Moll and slipped off. "What's the matter?" said Gabriel. "We must try to track 'em, since we can't hear 'em," said Jan, fumbling in his pockets. He struck a light, and held the match to the ground. The rain had been heavier here, and all foot and horse tracks made previous to the storm had been abraded and blurred by the drops, and they were now so many little scoops of water, which reflected the flame of the match like eyes. One set of tracks was fresh and had no water in them; one pair of ruts was also empty, and not small canals, like the others. The footprints forming this recent impression were full of information as to pace; they were in equidistant pairs, three or four feet apart, the right and left foot of each pair being exactly opposite one another. "Straight on!" Jan exclaimed. "Tracks like that mean a stiff gallop. No wonder we don't hear him. And the horse is harnessed--look at the ruts. Ay, that's our mare sure enough!" "How do you know?" "Old Jimmy Harris only shoed her last week, and I'd swear to his make among ten thousand." "The rest of the gipsies must ha' gone on earlier, or some other way," said Oak. "You saw there were no other tracks?" "True." They rode along silently for a long weary time. Coggan carried an old pinchbeck repeater which he had inherited from some genius in his family; and it now struck one. He lighted another match, and examined the ground again. "'Tis a canter now," he said, throwing away the light. "A twisty, rickety pace for a gig. The fact is, they over-drove her at starting; we shall catch 'em yet." Again they hastened on, and entered Blackmore Vale. Coggan's watch struck one. When they looked again the hoof-marks were so spaced as to form a sort of zigzag if united, like the lamps along a street. "That's a trot, I know," said Gabriel. "Only a trot now," said Coggan, cheerfully. "We shall overtake him in time." They pushed rapidly on for yet two or three miles. "Ah! a moment," said Jan. "Let's see how she was driven up this hill. 'Twill help us." A light was promptly struck upon his gaiters as before, and the examination made. "Hurrah!" said Coggan. "She walked up here--and well she might. We shall get them in two miles, for a crown." They rode three, and listened. No sound was to be heard save a millpond trickling hoarsely through a hatch, and suggesting gloomy possibilities of drowning by jumping in. Gabriel dismounted when they came to a turning. The tracks were absolutely the only guide as to the direction that they now had, and great caution was necessary to avoid confusing them with some others which had made their appearance lately. "What does this mean?--though I guess," said Gabriel, looking up at Coggan as he moved the match over the ground about the turning. Coggan, who, no less than the panting horses, had latterly shown signs of weariness, again scrutinized the mystic characters. This time only three were of the regular horseshoe shape. Every fourth was a dot. He screwed up his face and emitted a long "Whew-w-w!" "Lame," said Oak. "Yes. Dainty is lamed; the near-foot-afore," said Coggan slowly, staring still at the footprints. "We'll push on," said Gabriel, remounting his humid steed. Although the road along its greater part had been as good as any turnpike-road in the country, it was nominally only a byway. The last turning had brought them into the high road leading to Bath. Coggan recollected himself. "We shall have him now!" he exclaimed. "Where?" "Sherton Turnpike. The keeper of that gate is the sleepiest man between here and London--Dan Randall, that's his name--knowed en for years, when he was at Casterbridge gate. Between the lameness and the gate 'tis a done job." They now advanced with extreme caution. Nothing was said until, against a shady background of foliage, five white bars were visible, crossing their route a little way ahead. "Hush--we are almost close!" said Gabriel. "Amble on upon the grass," said Coggan. The white bars were blotted out in the midst by a dark shape in front of them. The silence of this lonely time was pierced by an exclamation from that quarter. "Hoy-a-hoy! Gate!" It appeared that there had been a previous call which they had not noticed, for on their close approach the door of the turnpike-house opened, and the keeper came out half-dressed, with a candle in his hand. The rays illumined the whole group. "Keep the gate close!" shouted Gabriel. "He has stolen the horse!" "Who?" said the turnpike-man. Gabriel looked at the driver of the gig, and saw a woman--Bathsheba, his mistress. On hearing his voice she had turned her face away from the light. Coggan had, however, caught sight of her in the meanwhile. "Why, 'tis mistress--I'll take my oath!" he said, amazed. Bathsheba it certainly was, and she had by this time done the trick she could do so well in crises not of love, namely, mask a surprise by coolness of manner. "Well, Gabriel," she inquired quietly, "where are you going?" "We thought--" began Gabriel. "I am driving to Bath," she said, taking for her own use the assurance that Gabriel lacked. "An important matter made it necessary for me to give up my visit to Liddy, and go off at once. What, then, were you following me?" "We thought the horse was stole." "Well--what a thing! How very foolish of you not to know that I had taken the trap and horse. I could neither wake Maryann nor get into the house, though I hammered for ten minutes against her window-sill. Fortunately, I could get the key of the coach-house, so I troubled no one further. Didn't you think it might be me?" "Why should we, miss?" "Perhaps not. Why, those are never Farmer Boldwood's horses! Goodness mercy! what have you been doing--bringing trouble upon me in this way? What! mustn't a lady move an inch from her door without being dogged like a thief?" "But how was we to know, if you left no account of your doings?" expostulated Coggan, "and ladies don't drive at these hours, miss, as a jineral rule of society." "I did leave an account--and you would have seen it in the morning. I wrote in chalk on the coach-house doors that I had come back for the horse and gig, and driven off; that I could arouse nobody, and should return soon." "But you'll consider, ma'am, that we couldn't see that till it got daylight." "True," she said, and though vexed at first she had too much sense to blame them long or seriously for a devotion to her that was as valuable as it was rare. She added with a very pretty grace, "Well, I really thank you heartily for taking all this trouble; but I wish you had borrowed anybody's horses but Mr. Boldwood's." "Dainty is lame, miss," said Coggan. "Can ye go on?" "It was only a stone in her shoe. I got down and pulled it out a hundred yards back. I can manage very well, thank you. I shall be in Bath by daylight. Will you now return, please?" She turned her head--the gateman's candle shimmering upon her quick, clear eyes as she did so--passed through the gate, and was soon wrapped in the embowering shades of mysterious summer boughs. Coggan and Gabriel put about their horses, and, fanned by the velvety air of this July night, retraced the road by which they had come. "A strange vagary, this of hers, isn't it, Oak?" said Coggan, curiously. "Yes," said Gabriel, shortly. "She won't be in Bath by no daylight!" "Coggan, suppose we keep this night's work as quiet as we can?" "I am of one and the same mind." "Very well. We shall be home by three o'clock or so, and can creep into the parish like lambs." Bathsheba's perturbed meditations by the roadside had ultimately evolved a conclusion that there were only two remedies for the present desperate state of affairs. The first was merely to keep Troy away from Weatherbury till Boldwood's indignation had cooled; the second to listen to Oak's entreaties, and Boldwood's denunciations, and give up Troy altogether. Alas! Could she give up this new love--induce him to renounce her by saying she did not like him--could no more speak to him, and beg him, for her good, to end his furlough in Bath, and see her and Weatherbury no more? It was a picture full of misery, but for a while she contemplated it firmly, allowing herself, nevertheless, as girls will, to dwell upon the happy life she would have enjoyed had Troy been Boldwood, and the path of love the path of duty--inflicting upon herself gratuitous tortures by imagining him the lover of another woman after forgetting her; for she had penetrated Troy's nature so far as to estimate his tendencies pretty accurately, but unfortunately loved him no less in thinking that he might soon cease to love her--indeed, considerably more. She jumped to her feet. She would see him at once. Yes, she would implore him by word of mouth to assist her in this dilemma. A letter to keep him away could not reach him in time, even if he should be disposed to listen to it. Was Bathsheba altogether blind to the obvious fact that the support of a lover's arms is not of a kind best calculated to assist a resolve to renounce him? Or was she sophistically sensible, with a thrill of pleasure, that by adopting this course for getting rid of him she was ensuring a meeting with him, at any rate, once more? It was now dark, and the hour must have been nearly ten. The only way to accomplish her purpose was to give up her idea of visiting Liddy at Yalbury, return to Weatherbury Farm, put the horse into the gig, and drive at once to Bath. The scheme seemed at first impossible: the journey was a fearfully heavy one, even for a strong horse, at her own estimate; and she much underrated the distance. It was most venturesome for a woman, at night, and alone. But could she go on to Liddy's and leave things to take their course? No, no; anything but that. Bathsheba was full of a stimulating turbulence, beside which caution vainly prayed for a hearing. She turned back towards the village. Her walk was slow, for she wished not to enter Weatherbury till the cottagers were in bed, and, particularly, till Boldwood was secure. Her plan was now to drive to Bath during the night, see Sergeant Troy in the morning before he set out to come to her, bid him farewell, and dismiss him: then to rest the horse thoroughly (herself to weep the while, she thought), starting early the next morning on her return journey. By this arrangement she could trot Dainty gently all the day, reach Liddy at Yalbury in the evening, and come home to Weatherbury with her whenever they chose--so nobody would know she had been to Bath at all. Such was Bathsheba's scheme. But in her topographical ignorance as a late comer to the place, she misreckoned the distance of her journey as not much more than half what it really was. This idea she proceeded to carry out, with what initial success we have already seen. IN THE SUN--A HARBINGER A week passed, and there were no tidings of Bathsheba; nor was there any explanation of her Gilpin's rig. Then a note came for Maryann, stating that the business which had called her mistress to Bath still detained her there; but that she hoped to return in the course of another week. Another week passed. The oat-harvest began, and all the men were a-field under a monochromatic Lammas sky, amid the trembling air and short shadows of noon. Indoors nothing was to be heard save the droning of blue-bottle flies; out-of-doors the whetting of scythes and the hiss of tressy oat-ears rubbing together as their perpendicular stalks of amber-yellow fell heavily to each swath. Every drop of moisture not in the men's bottles and flagons in the form of cider was raining as perspiration from their foreheads and cheeks. Drought was everywhere else. They were about to withdraw for a while into the charitable shade of a tree in the fence, when Coggan saw a figure in a blue coat and brass buttons running to them across the field. "I wonder who that is?" he said. "I hope nothing is wrong about mistress," said Maryann, who with some other women was tying the bundles (oats being always sheafed on this farm), "but an unlucky token came to me indoors this morning. I went to unlock the door and dropped the key, and it fell upon the stone floor and broke into two pieces. Breaking a key is a dreadful bodement. I wish mis'ess was home." "'Tis Cain Ball," said Gabriel, pausing from whetting his reaphook. Oak was not bound by his agreement to assist in the corn-field; but the harvest month is an anxious time for a farmer, and the corn was Bathsheba's, so he lent a hand. "He's dressed up in his best clothes," said Matthew Moon. "He hev been away from home for a few days, since he's had that felon upon his finger; for 'a said, since I can't work I'll have a hollerday." "A good time for one--a' excellent time," said Joseph Poorgrass, straightening his back; for he, like some of the others, had a way of resting a while from his labour on such hot days for reasons preternaturally small; of which Cain Ball's advent on a week-day in his Sunday-clothes was one of the first magnitude. "Twas a bad leg allowed me to read the _Pilgrim's Progress_, and Mark Clark learnt All-Fours in a whitlow." "Ay, and my father put his arm out of joint to have time to go courting," said Jan Coggan, in an eclipsing tone, wiping his face with his shirt-sleeve and thrusting back his hat upon the nape of his neck. By this time Cainy was nearing the group of harvesters, and was perceived to be carrying a large slice of bread and ham in one hand, from which he took mouthfuls as he ran, the other being wrapped in a bandage. When he came close, his mouth assumed the bell shape, and he began to cough violently. "Now, Cainy!" said Gabriel, sternly. "How many more times must I tell you to keep from running so fast when you be eating? You'll choke yourself some day, that's what you'll do, Cain Ball." "Hok-hok-hok!" replied Cain. "A crumb of my victuals went the wrong way--hok-hok! That's what 'tis, Mister Oak! And I've been visiting to Bath because I had a felon on my thumb; yes, and I've seen--ahok-hok!" Directly Cain mentioned Bath, they all threw down their hooks and forks and drew round him. Unfortunately the erratic crumb did not improve his narrative powers, and a supplementary hindrance was that of a sneeze, jerking from his pocket his rather large watch, which dangled in front of the young man pendulum-wise. "Yes," he continued, directing his thoughts to Bath and letting his eyes follow, "I've seed the world at last--yes--and I've seed our mis'ess--ahok-hok-hok!" "Bother the boy!" said Gabriel. "Something is always going the wrong way down your throat, so that you can't tell what's necessary to be told." "Ahok! there! Please, Mister Oak, a gnat have just fleed into my stomach and brought the cough on again!" "Yes, that's just it. Your mouth is always open, you young rascal!" "'Tis terrible bad to have a gnat fly down yer throat, pore boy!" said Matthew Moon. "Well, at Bath you saw--" prompted Gabriel. "I saw our mistress," continued the junior shepherd, "and a sojer, walking along. And bymeby they got closer and closer, and then they went arm-in-crook, like courting complete--hok-hok! like courting complete--hok!--courting complete--" Losing the thread of his narrative at this point simultaneously with his loss of breath, their informant looked up and down the field apparently for some clue to it. "Well, I see our mis'ess and a soldier--a-ha-a-wk!" "Damn the boy!" said Gabriel. "'Tis only my manner, Mister Oak, if ye'll excuse it," said Cain Ball, looking reproachfully at Oak, with eyes drenched in their own dew. "Here's some cider for him--that'll cure his throat," said Jan Coggan, lifting a flagon of cider, pulling out the cork, and applying the hole to Cainy's mouth; Joseph Poorgrass in the meantime beginning to think apprehensively of the serious consequences that would follow Cainy Ball's strangulation in his cough, and the history of his Bath adventures dying with him. "For my poor self, I always say 'please God' afore I do anything," said Joseph, in an unboastful voice; "and so should you, Cain Ball. 'Tis a great safeguard, and might perhaps save you from being choked to death some day." Mr. Coggan poured the liquor with unstinted liberality at the suffering Cain's circular mouth; half of it running down the side of the flagon, and half of what reached his mouth running down outside his throat, and half of what ran in going the wrong way, and being coughed and sneezed around the persons of the gathered reapers in the form of a cider fog, which for a moment hung in the sunny air like a small exhalation. "There's a great clumsy sneeze! Why can't ye have better manners, you young dog!" said Coggan, withdrawing the flagon. "The cider went up my nose!" cried Cainy, as soon as he could speak; "and now 'tis gone down my neck, and into my poor dumb felon, and over my shiny buttons and all my best cloze!" "The poor lad's cough is terrible unfortunate," said Matthew Moon. "And a great history on hand, too. Bump his back, shepherd." "'Tis my nater," mourned Cain. "Mother says I always was so excitable when my feelings were worked up to a point!" "True, true," said Joseph Poorgrass. "The Balls were always a very excitable family. I knowed the boy's grandfather--a truly nervous and modest man, even to genteel refinery. 'Twas blush, blush with him, almost as much as 'tis with me--not but that 'tis a fault in me!" "Not at all, Master Poorgrass," said Coggan. "'Tis a very noble quality in ye." "Heh-heh! well, I wish to noise nothing abroad--nothing at all," murmured Poorgrass, diffidently. "But we be born to things--that's true. Yet I would rather my trifle were hid; though, perhaps, a high nater is a little high, and at my birth all things were possible to my Maker, and he may have begrudged no gifts.... But under your bushel, Joseph! under your bushel with 'ee! A strange desire, neighbours, this desire to hide, and no praise due. Yet there is a Sermon on the Mount with a calendar of the blessed at the head, and certain meek men may be named therein." "Cainy's grandfather was a very clever man," said Matthew Moon. "Invented a' apple-tree out of his own head, which is called by his name to this day--the Early Ball. You know 'em, Jan? A Quarrenden grafted on a Tom Putt, and a Rathe-ripe upon top o' that again. 'Tis trew 'a used to bide about in a public-house wi' a 'ooman in a way he had no business to by rights, but there--'a were a clever man in the sense of the term." "Now then," said Gabriel, impatiently, "what did you see, Cain?" "I seed our mis'ess go into a sort of a park place, where there's seats, and shrubs and flowers, arm-in-crook with a sojer," continued Cainy, firmly, and with a dim sense that his words were very effective as regarded Gabriel's emotions. "And I think the sojer was Sergeant Troy. And they sat there together for more than half-an-hour, talking moving things, and she once was crying a'most to death. And when they came out her eyes were shining and she was as white as a lily; and they looked into one another's faces, as far-gone friendly as a man and woman can be." Gabriel's features seemed to get thinner. "Well, what did you see besides?" "Oh, all sorts." "White as a lily? You are sure 'twas she?" "Yes." "Well, what besides?" "Great glass windows to the shops, and great clouds in the sky, full of rain, and old wooden trees in the country round." "You stun-poll! What will ye say next?" said Coggan. "Let en alone," interposed Joseph Poorgrass. "The boy's meaning is that the sky and the earth in the kingdom of Bath is not altogether different from ours here. 'Tis for our good to gain knowledge of strange cities, and as such the boy's words should be suffered, so to speak it." "And the people of Bath," continued Cain, "never need to light their fires except as a luxury, for the water springs up out of the earth ready boiled for use." "'Tis true as the light," testified Matthew Moon. "I've heard other navigators say the same thing." "They drink nothing else there," said Cain, "and seem to enjoy it, to see how they swaller it down." "Well, it seems a barbarian practice enough to us, but I daresay the natives think nothing o' it," said Matthew. "And don't victuals spring up as well as drink?" asked Coggan, twirling his eye. "No--I own to a blot there in Bath--a true blot. God didn't provide 'em with victuals as well as drink, and 'twas a drawback I couldn't get over at all." "Well, 'tis a curious place, to say the least," observed Moon; "and it must be a curious people that live therein." "Miss Everdene and the soldier were walking about together, you say?" said Gabriel, returning to the group. "Ay, and she wore a beautiful gold-colour silk gown, trimmed with black lace, that would have stood alone 'ithout legs inside if required. 'Twas a very winsome sight; and her hair was brushed splendid. And when the sun shone upon the bright gown and his red coat--my! how handsome they looked. You could see 'em all the length of the street." "And what then?" murmured Gabriel. "And then I went into Griffin's to hae my boots hobbed, and then I went to Riggs's batty-cake shop, and asked 'em for a penneth of the cheapest and nicest stales, that were all but blue-mouldy, but not quite. And whilst I was chawing 'em down I walked on and seed a clock with a face as big as a baking trendle--" "But that's nothing to do with mistress!" "I'm coming to that, if you'll leave me alone, Mister Oak!" remonstrated Cainy. "If you excites me, perhaps you'll bring on my cough, and then I shan't be able to tell ye nothing." "Yes--let him tell it his own way," said Coggan. Gabriel settled into a despairing attitude of patience, and Cainy went on:-- "And there were great large houses, and more people all the week long than at Weatherbury club-walking on White Tuesdays. And I went to grand churches and chapels. And how the parson would pray! Yes; he would kneel down and put up his hands together, and make the holy gold rings on his fingers gleam and twinkle in yer eyes, that he'd earned by praying so excellent well!--Ah yes, I wish I lived there." "Our poor Parson Thirdly can't get no money to buy such rings," said Matthew Moon, thoughtfully. "And as good a man as ever walked. I don't believe poor Thirdly have a single one, even of humblest tin or copper. Such a great ornament as they'd be to him on a dull afternoon, when he's up in the pulpit lighted by the wax candles! But 'tis impossible, poor man. Ah, to think how unequal things be." "Perhaps he's made of different stuff than to wear 'em," said Gabriel, grimly. "Well, that's enough of this. Go on, Cainy--quick." "Oh--and the new style of parsons wear moustaches and long beards," continued the illustrious traveller, "and look like Moses and Aaron complete, and make we fokes in the congregation feel all over like the children of Israel." "A very right feeling--very," said Joseph Poorgrass. "And there's two religions going on in the nation now--High Church and High Chapel. And, thinks I, I'll play fair; so I went to High Church in the morning, and High Chapel in the afternoon." "A right and proper boy," said Joseph Poorgrass. "Well, at High Church they pray singing, and worship all the colours of the rainbow; and at High Chapel they pray preaching, and worship drab and whitewash only. And then--I didn't see no more of Miss Everdene at all." "Why didn't you say so afore, then?" exclaimed Oak, with much disappointment. "Ah," said Matthew Moon, "she'll wish her cake dough if so be she's over intimate with that man." "She's not over intimate with him," said Gabriel, indignantly. "She would know better," said Coggan. "Our mis'ess has too much sense under they knots of black hair to do such a mad thing." "You see, he's not a coarse, ignorant man, for he was well brought up," said Matthew, dubiously. "'Twas only wildness that made him a soldier, and maids rather like your man of sin." "Now, Cain Ball," said Gabriel restlessly, "can you swear in the most awful form that the woman you saw was Miss Everdene?" "Cain Ball, you be no longer a babe and suckling," said Joseph in the sepulchral tone the circumstances demanded, "and you know what taking an oath is. 'Tis a horrible testament mind ye, which you say and seal with your blood-stone, and the prophet Matthew tells us that on whomsoever it shall fall it will grind him to powder. Now, before all the work-folk here assembled, can you swear to your words as the shepherd asks ye?" "Please no, Mister Oak!" said Cainy, looking from one to the other with great uneasiness at the spiritual magnitude of the position. "I don't mind saying 'tis true, but I don't like to say 'tis damn true, if that's what you mane." "Cain, Cain, how can you!" asked Joseph sternly. "You be asked to swear in a holy manner, and you swear like wicked Shimei, the son of Gera, who cursed as he came. Young man, fie!" "No, I don't! 'Tis you want to squander a pore boy's soul, Joseph Poorgrass--that's what 'tis!" said Cain, beginning to cry. "All I mane is that in common truth 'twas Miss Everdene and Sergeant Troy, but in the horrible so-help-me truth that ye want to make of it perhaps 'twas somebody else!" "There's no getting at the rights of it," said Gabriel, turning to his work. "Cain Ball, you'll come to a bit of bread!" groaned Joseph Poorgrass. Then the reapers' hooks were flourished again, and the old sounds went on. Gabriel, without making any pretence of being lively, did nothing to show that he was particularly dull. However, Coggan knew pretty nearly how the land lay, and when they were in a nook together he said-- "Don't take on about her, Gabriel. What difference does it make whose sweetheart she is, since she can't be yours?" "That's the very thing I say to myself," said Gabriel. HOME AGAIN--A TRICKSTER That same evening at dusk Gabriel was leaning over Coggan's garden-gate, taking an up-and-down survey before retiring to rest. A vehicle of some kind was softly creeping along the grassy margin of the lane. From it spread the tones of two women talking. The tones were natural and not at all suppressed. Oak instantly knew the voices to be those of Bathsheba and Liddy. The carriage came opposite and passed by. It was Miss Everdene's gig, and Liddy and her mistress were the only occupants of the seat. Liddy was asking questions about the city of Bath, and her companion was answering them listlessly and unconcernedly. Both Bathsheba and the horse seemed weary. The exquisite relief of finding that she was here again, safe and sound, overpowered all reflection, and Oak could only luxuriate in the sense of it. All grave reports were forgotten. He lingered and lingered on, till there was no difference between the eastern and western expanses of sky, and the timid hares began to limp courageously round the dim hillocks. Gabriel might have been there an additional half-hour when a dark form walked slowly by. "Good-night, Gabriel," the passer said. It was Boldwood. "Good-night, sir," said Gabriel. Boldwood likewise vanished up the road, and Oak shortly afterwards turned indoors to bed. Farmer Boldwood went on towards Miss Everdene's house. He reached the front, and approaching the entrance, saw a light in the parlour. The blind was not drawn down, and inside the room was Bathsheba, looking over some papers or letters. Her back was towards Boldwood. He went to the door, knocked, and waited with tense muscles and an aching brow. Boldwood had not been outside his garden since his meeting with Bathsheba in the road to Yalbury. Silent and alone, he had remained in moody meditation on woman's ways, deeming as essentials of the whole sex the accidents of the single one of their number he had ever closely beheld. By degrees a more charitable temper had pervaded him, and this was the reason of his sally to-night. He had come to apologize and beg forgiveness of Bathsheba with something like a sense of shame at his violence, having but just now learnt that she had returned--only from a visit to Liddy, as he supposed, the Bath escapade being quite unknown to him. He inquired for Miss Everdene. Liddy's manner was odd, but he did not notice it. She went in, leaving him standing there, and in her absence the blind of the room containing Bathsheba was pulled down. Boldwood augured ill from that sign. Liddy came out. "My mistress cannot see you, sir," she said. The farmer instantly went out by the gate. He was unforgiven--that was the issue of it all. He had seen her who was to him simultaneously a delight and a torture, sitting in the room he had shared with her as a peculiarly privileged guest only a little earlier in the summer, and she had denied him an entrance there now. Boldwood did not hurry homeward. It was ten o'clock at least, when, walking deliberately through the lower part of Weatherbury, he heard the carrier's spring van entering the village. The van ran to and from a town in a northern direction, and it was owned and driven by a Weatherbury man, at the door of whose house it now pulled up. The lamp fixed to the head of the hood illuminated a scarlet and gilded form, who was the first to alight. "Ah!" said Boldwood to himself, "come to see her again." Troy entered the carrier's house, which had been the place of his lodging on his last visit to his native place. Boldwood was moved by a sudden determination. He hastened home. In ten minutes he was back again, and made as if he were going to call upon Troy at the carrier's. But as he approached, some one opened the door and came out. He heard this person say "Good-night" to the inmates, and the voice was Troy's. This was strange, coming so immediately after his arrival. Boldwood, however, hastened up to him. Troy had what appeared to be a carpet-bag in his hand--the same that he had brought with him. It seemed as if he were going to leave again this very night. Troy turned up the hill and quickened his pace. Boldwood stepped forward. "Sergeant Troy?" "Yes--I'm Sergeant Troy." "Just arrived from up the country, I think?" "Just arrived from Bath." "I am William Boldwood." "Indeed." The tone in which this word was uttered was all that had been wanted to bring Boldwood to the point. "I wish to speak a word with you," he said. "What about?" "About her who lives just ahead there--and about a woman you have wronged." "I wonder at your impertinence," said Troy, moving on. "Now look here," said Boldwood, standing in front of him, "wonder or not, you are going to hold a conversation with me." Troy heard the dull determination in Boldwood's voice, looked at his stalwart frame, then at the thick cudgel he carried in his hand. He remembered it was past ten o'clock. It seemed worth while to be civil to Boldwood. "Very well, I'll listen with pleasure," said Troy, placing his bag on the ground, "only speak low, for somebody or other may overhear us in the farmhouse there." "Well then--I know a good deal concerning your Fanny Robin's attachment to you. I may say, too, that I believe I am the only person in the village, excepting Gabriel Oak, who does know it. You ought to marry her." "I suppose I ought. Indeed, I wish to, but I cannot." "Why?" Troy was about to utter something hastily; he then checked himself and said, "I am too poor." His voice was changed. Previously it had had a devil-may-care tone. It was the voice of a trickster now. Boldwood's present mood was not critical enough to notice tones. He continued, "I may as well speak plainly; and understand, I don't wish to enter into the questions of right or wrong, woman's honour and shame, or to express any opinion on your conduct. I intend a business transaction with you." "I see," said Troy. "Suppose we sit down here." An old tree trunk lay under the hedge immediately opposite, and they sat down. "I was engaged to be married to Miss Everdene," said Boldwood, "but you came and--" "Not engaged," said Troy. "As good as engaged." "If I had not turned up she might have become engaged to you." "Hang might!" "Would, then." "If you had not come I should certainly--yes, CERTAINLY--have been accepted by this time. If you had not seen her you might have been married to Fanny. Well, there's too much difference between Miss Everdene's station and your own for this flirtation with her ever to benefit you by ending in marriage. So all I ask is, don't molest her any more. Marry Fanny. I'll make it worth your while." "How will you?" "I'll pay you well now, I'll settle a sum of money upon her, and I'll see that you don't suffer from poverty in the future. I'll put it clearly. Bathsheba is only playing with you: you are too poor for her as I said; so give up wasting your time about a great match you'll never make for a moderate and rightful match you may make to-morrow; take up your carpet-bag, turn about, leave Weatherbury now, this night, and you shall take fifty pounds with you. Fanny shall have fifty to enable her to prepare for the wedding, when you have told me where she is living, and she shall have five hundred paid down on her wedding-day." In making this statement Boldwood's voice revealed only too clearly a consciousness of the weakness of his position, his aims, and his method. His manner had lapsed quite from that of the firm and dignified Boldwood of former times; and such a scheme as he had now engaged in he would have condemned as childishly imbecile only a few months ago. We discern a grand force in the lover which he lacks whilst a free man; but there is a breadth of vision in the free man which in the lover we vainly seek. Where there is much bias there must be some narrowness, and love, though added emotion, is subtracted capacity. Boldwood exemplified this to an abnormal degree: he knew nothing of Fanny Robin's circumstances or whereabouts, he knew nothing of Troy's possibilities, yet that was what he said. "I like Fanny best," said Troy; "and if, as you say, Miss Everdene is out of my reach, why I have all to gain by accepting your money, and marrying Fan. But she's only a servant." "Never mind--do you agree to my arrangement?" "I do." "Ah!" said Boldwood, in a more elastic voice. "Oh, Troy, if you like her best, why then did you step in here and injure my happiness?" "I love Fanny best now," said Troy. "But Bathsh--Miss Everdene inflamed me, and displaced Fanny for a time. It is over now." "Why should it be over so soon? And why then did you come here again?" "There are weighty reasons. Fifty pounds at once, you said!" "I did," said Boldwood, "and here they are--fifty sovereigns." He handed Troy a small packet. "You have everything ready--it seems that you calculated on my accepting them," said the sergeant, taking the packet. "I thought you might accept them," said Boldwood. "You've only my word that the programme shall be adhered to, whilst I at any rate have fifty pounds." "I had thought of that, and I have considered that if I can't appeal to your honour I can trust to your--well, shrewdness we'll call it--not to lose five hundred pounds in prospect, and also make a bitter enemy of a man who is willing to be an extremely useful friend." "Stop, listen!" said Troy in a whisper. A light pit-pat was audible upon the road just above them. "By George--'tis she," he continued. "I must go on and meet her." "She--who?" "Bathsheba." "Bathsheba--out alone at this time o' night!" said Boldwood in amazement, and starting up. "Why must you meet her?" "She was expecting me to-night--and I must now speak to her, and wish her good-bye, according to your wish." "I don't see the necessity of speaking." "It can do no harm--and she'll be wandering about looking for me if I don't. You shall hear all I say to her. It will help you in your love-making when I am gone." "Your tone is mocking." "Oh no. And remember this, if she does not know what has become of me, she will think more about me than if I tell her flatly I have come to give her up." "Will you confine your words to that one point?--Shall I hear every word you say?" "Every word. Now sit still there, and hold my carpet bag for me, and mark what you hear." The light footstep came closer, halting occasionally, as if the walker listened for a sound. Troy whistled a double note in a soft, fluty tone. "Come to that, is it!" murmured Boldwood, uneasily. "You promised silence," said Troy. "I promise again." Troy stepped forward. "Frank, dearest, is that you?" The tones were Bathsheba's. "O God!" said Boldwood. "Yes," said Troy to her. "How late you are," she continued, tenderly. "Did you come by the carrier? I listened and heard his wheels entering the village, but it was some time ago, and I had almost given you up, Frank." "I was sure to come," said Frank. "You knew I should, did you not?" "Well, I thought you would," she said, playfully; "and, Frank, it is so lucky! There's not a soul in my house but me to-night. I've packed them all off so nobody on earth will know of your visit to your lady's bower. Liddy wanted to go to her grandfather's to tell him about her holiday, and I said she might stay with them till to-morrow--when you'll be gone again." "Capital," said Troy. "But, dear me, I had better go back for my bag, because my slippers and brush and comb are in it; you run home whilst I fetch it, and I'll promise to be in your parlour in ten minutes." "Yes." She turned and tripped up the hill again. During the progress of this dialogue there was a nervous twitching of Boldwood's tightly closed lips, and his face became bathed in a clammy dew. He now started forward towards Troy. Troy turned to him and took up the bag. "Shall I tell her I have come to give her up and cannot marry her?" said the soldier, mockingly. "No, no; wait a minute. I want to say more to you--more to you!" said Boldwood, in a hoarse whisper. "Now," said Troy, "you see my dilemma. Perhaps I am a bad man--the victim of my impulses--led away to do what I ought to leave undone. I can't, however, marry them both. And I have two reasons for choosing Fanny. First, I like her best upon the whole, and second, you make it worth my while." At the same instant Boldwood sprang upon him, and held him by the neck. Troy felt Boldwood's grasp slowly tightening. The move was absolutely unexpected. "A moment," he gasped. "You are injuring her you love!" "Well, what do you mean?" said the farmer. "Give me breath," said Troy. Boldwood loosened his hand, saying, "By Heaven, I've a mind to kill you!" "And ruin her." "Save her." "Oh, how can she be saved now, unless I marry her?" Boldwood groaned. He reluctantly released the soldier, and flung him back against the hedge. "Devil, you torture me!" said he. Troy rebounded like a ball, and was about to make a dash at the farmer; but he checked himself, saying lightly-- "It is not worth while to measure my strength with you. Indeed it is a barbarous way of settling a quarrel. I shall shortly leave the army because of the same conviction. Now after that revelation of how the land lies with Bathsheba, 'twould be a mistake to kill me, would it not?" "'Twould be a mistake to kill you," repeated Boldwood, mechanically, with a bowed head. "Better kill yourself." "Far better." "I'm glad you see it." "Troy, make her your wife, and don't act upon what I arranged just now. The alternative is dreadful, but take Bathsheba; I give her up! She must love you indeed to sell soul and body to you so utterly as she has done. Wretched woman--deluded woman--you are, Bathsheba!" "But about Fanny?" "Bathsheba is a woman well to do," continued Boldwood, in nervous anxiety, "and, Troy, she will make a good wife; and, indeed, she is worth your hastening on your marriage with her!" "But she has a will--not to say a temper, and I shall be a mere slave to her. I could do anything with poor Fanny Robin." "Troy," said Boldwood, imploringly, "I'll do anything for you, only don't desert her; pray don't desert her, Troy." "Which, poor Fanny?" "No; Bathsheba Everdene. Love her best! Love her tenderly! How shall I get you to see how advantageous it will be to you to secure her at once?" "I don't wish to secure her in any new way." Boldwood's arm moved spasmodically towards Troy's person again. He repressed the instinct, and his form drooped as with pain. Troy went on-- "I shall soon purchase my discharge, and then--" "But I wish you to hasten on this marriage! It will be better for you both. You love each other, and you must let me help you to do it." "How?" "Why, by settling the five hundred on Bathsheba instead of Fanny, to enable you to marry at once. No; she wouldn't have it of me. I'll pay it down to you on the wedding-day." Troy paused in secret amazement at Boldwood's wild infatuation. He carelessly said, "And am I to have anything now?" "Yes, if you wish to. But I have not much additional money with me. I did not expect this; but all I have is yours." Boldwood, more like a somnambulist than a wakeful man, pulled out the large canvas bag he carried by way of a purse, and searched it. "I have twenty-one pounds more with me," he said. "Two notes and a sovereign. But before I leave you I must have a paper signed--" "Pay me the money, and we'll go straight to her parlour, and make any arrangement you please to secure my compliance with your wishes. But she must know nothing of this cash business." "Nothing, nothing," said Boldwood, hastily. "Here is the sum, and if you'll come to my house we'll write out the agreement for the remainder, and the terms also." "First we'll call upon her." "But why? Come with me to-night, and go with me to-morrow to the surrogate's." "But she must be consulted; at any rate informed." "Very well; go on." They went up the hill to Bathsheba's house. When they stood at the entrance, Troy said, "Wait here a moment." Opening the door, he glided inside, leaving the door ajar. Boldwood waited. In two minutes a light appeared in the passage. Boldwood then saw that the chain had been fastened across the door. Troy appeared inside, carrying a bedroom candlestick. "What, did you think I should break in?" said Boldwood, contemptuously. "Oh, no, it is merely my humour to secure things. Will you read this a moment? I'll hold the light." Troy handed a folded newspaper through the slit between door and doorpost, and put the candle close. "That's the paragraph," he said, placing his finger on a line. Boldwood looked and read-- MARRIAGES. On the 17th inst., at St. Ambrose's Church, Bath, by the Rev. G. Mincing, B.A., Francis Troy, only son of the late Edward Troy, Esq., M.D., of Weatherbury, and sergeant with Dragoon Guards, to Bathsheba, only surviving daughter of the late Mr. John Everdene, of Casterbridge. "This may be called Fort meeting Feeble, hey, Boldwood?" said Troy. A low gurgle of derisive laughter followed the words. The paper fell from Boldwood's hands. Troy continued-- "Fifty pounds to marry Fanny. Good. Twenty-one pounds not to marry Fanny, but Bathsheba. Good. Finale: already Bathsheba's husband. Now, Boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends interference between a man and his wife. And another word. Bad as I am, I am not such a villain as to make the marriage or misery of any woman a matter of huckster and sale. Fanny has long ago left me. I don't know where she is. I have searched everywhere. Another word yet. You say you love Bathsheba; yet on the merest apparent evidence you instantly believe in her dishonour. A fig for such love! Now that I've taught you a lesson, take your money back again." "I will not; I will not!" said Boldwood, in a hiss. "Anyhow I won't have it," said Troy, contemptuously. He wrapped the packet of gold in the notes, and threw the whole into the road. Boldwood shook his clenched fist at him. "You juggler of Satan! You black hound! But I'll punish you yet; mark me, I'll punish you yet!" Another peal of laughter. Troy then closed the door, and locked himself in. Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood's dark form might have been seen walking about the hills and downs of Weatherbury like an unhappy Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron.

Chapters 31 to 34

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section6/

Bathsheba leaves one evening soon afterward with the intention of visiting Liddy. She has written to Boldwood to refuse him and does not want to see him when he returns from his trip. Troy is in Bath and is planning to return to Weatherbury in the next day or two. On her way to Liddy's, Bathsheba runs into Boldwood, who has received her letter but will not accept her refusal. The two of them have a heated discussion, in which he reminds her of the valentine she sent, and she tries to persuade him that it meant nothing. Finally, she claims that she lacks warmth. Boldwood responds by telling her that he knows she loves Troy, and he chastises her for being "dazzled by brass and scarlet. " She admits that she does love Troy and has kissed him. He flies into a jealous rage, declaring, "I pray God he may not come into my sight for I may be tempted beyond myself." Bathsheba fears greatly for Troy. Chapter 32 opens in the perspective of the wife of one of Bathsheba's farm laborers, a woman by the name of Maryann Money. After Bathsheba has left, Maryann sees someone take a horse from the stable. Thinking it is a thief she alerts Gabriel and Coggan, and the two set off after the rider. When they finally catch up to him or her, after a long chase, they discover it is Bathsheba, secretly following Troy to Bath. They agree not to tell anyone what they have seen, but Gabriel warns Bathsheba that women generally should not travel alone at night. The chapter ends with a summary of the events from Bathsheba's perspective, explaining that she was so frightened by Boldwood's words that she determined to warn Troy not to return to Weatherbury. The next chapter spans two weeks at the farm during the oak harvest. No news of Bathsheba comes, except when Cainy Ball, one of the farm hands, comes back from seeing a doctor in Bath. He tells a group of farm workers that he saw the mistress enter a park arm-in-arm with a soldier. That night Gabriel hears voices and realizes that Liddy and Bathsheba have returned. Boldwood is also walking nearby, and he sees Sergeant Troy return to the carriage house. Boldwood tries to bribe Troy to marry Fanny Robin and leave Bathsheba alone. Troy claims to agree to the bribe but persuades Boldwood to wait and overhear his conversation with Bathsheba first, whom he now awaits. She comes and Boldwood hears her invite Troy back to the house, and she calls him by his first name, Frank. At this, Boldwood abandons all hope, thinking she has now lost all sense of propriety. When Bathsheba has gone back to the house, Boldwood tells Troy he will now pay him to marry Bathsheba rather than Fanny, reasoning that marriage will be more honorable than the current state of affairs. At this, however, Troy brings Boldwood back to the farm and shows him a newspaper announcement revealing that he and Bathsheba are, in fact, already married. He refuses Boldwood's money but has utterly humiliated him. Boldwood wanders the fields all night after Troy locks him out of the house.

Commentary Aside from advancing the plot with the off-stage marriage of Bathsheba and Troy, this short section provides crucial insights into the characters of Bathsheba, Boldwood, and Troy. Having shown us the effect of a series of meetings with Troy on Bathsheba's feelings, Hardy now takes Troy away and shows us how his absence affects her. Interestingly, very little of this section is shown from her point of view. Instead, we see her behavior as it strikes people who know her only distantly, such as Maryann Money and the farm workers. Chapter 32 is a particularly good example. Maryann watches someone take the horse from the stables and has no idea that Bathsheba would act so rashly as to ride to Bath at night without telling anyone. Thus, rather than seeing the series of decisions that lead up to her strange act, we see the act from afar. Hardy's use of perspective here makes the strange irrationality of Bathsheba's actions much more clear to us than it would be if we were inside Bathsheba's consciousness. Hardy does not allow us to sympathize with her but rather asks us to evaluate her behavior; the information with which he provides us gives us little choice but to judge this once strong and independent woman as increasingly foolish. A similar transformation occurs in Boldwood, as shown in particular through his desperate dealings with Troy. Troy has some perspective and is emotionally removed enough from the situation to manipulate Boldwood and utterly humiliate the man who once was above all weakness. After showing him the wedding announcement, Troy mocks him, calling him ridiculous. This scene reveals a cruel and heartless aspect of Troy's character that makes the reader fear for Bathsheba. Cainy Ball's report about Bath is a comic scene, in which the farm laborers serve a dual role, acting both as a kind of Greek chorus, commenting on what has happened, and also as a kind of comic relief.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_20_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 21

chapter 21

{"name": "Chapter 21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim30.asp", "summary": "Marlow starts the second part of Jim's story with a description of Patusan, an extremely isolated island in Malaya that is controlled by warring forces. Patusan has a trading post owned by Stein and presently managed by Cornelius, a cunning, dishonest, and wretched man. Stein wants to send Jim to Patusan to replace Cornelius. When Marlow tells Jim the plan, he does not express his feelings, but it is quite clear that he likes the idea. Marlow then flashes forward two years. He goes to visit Jim in Patusan and is delighted to see how well his friend is doing as the resident manager of the outpost. It is obvious that Jim feels successful; he has mastered his self-defeating romanticism.", "analysis": "Notes The choice of Patusan as Jim's place of rehabilitation is significant. It is an island so remote that most merchants do not even know about it. It offers the perfect setting for Jim to be able to live without fear of discovery; here there will be no mention of the Patna. The description of Patusan is beautiful. It is a small island divided by a valley separating two hills facing each other. The fissure between the hills symbolizes the split in Jim's being, his romantic side vs. his real side. The setting of the Patusan isle also has a symbolic meaning. The fissured hill with the moon floating out of the chasm is the symbol of Jim's fate; he is to be lonely and separated not only from his own kind but also from his own self. But he will leave his earthly failings behind and start afresh in this unearthly place."}

'I don't suppose any of you have ever heard of Patusan?' Marlow resumed, after a silence occupied in the careful lighting of a cigar. 'It does not matter; there's many a heavenly body in the lot crowding upon us of a night that mankind had never heard of, it being outside the sphere of its activities and of no earthly importance to anybody but to the astronomers who are paid to talk learnedly about its composition, weight, path--the irregularities of its conduct, the aberrations of its light--a sort of scientific scandal-mongering. Thus with Patusan. It was referred to knowingly in the inner government circles in Batavia, especially as to its irregularities and aberrations, and it was known by name to some few, very few, in the mercantile world. Nobody, however, had been there, and I suspect no one desired to go there in person, just as an astronomer, I should fancy, would strongly object to being transported into a distant heavenly body, where, parted from his earthly emoluments, he would be bewildered by the view of an unfamiliar heavens. However, neither heavenly bodies nor astronomers have anything to do with Patusan. It was Jim who went there. I only meant you to understand that had Stein arranged to send him into a star of the fifth magnitude the change could not have been greater. He left his earthly failings behind him and what sort of reputation he had, and there was a totally new set of conditions for his imaginative faculty to work upon. Entirely new, entirely remarkable. And he got hold of them in a remarkable way. 'Stein was the man who knew more about Patusan than anybody else. More than was known in the government circles I suspect. I have no doubt he had been there, either in his butterfly-hunting days or later on, when he tried in his incorrigible way to season with a pinch of romance the fattening dishes of his commercial kitchen. There were very few places in the Archipelago he had not seen in the original dusk of their being, before light (and even electric light) had been carried into them for the sake of better morality and--and--well--the greater profit, too. It was at breakfast of the morning following our talk about Jim that he mentioned the place, after I had quoted poor Brierly's remark: "Let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there." He looked up at me with interested attention, as though I had been a rare insect. "This could be done, too," he remarked, sipping his coffee. "Bury him in some sort," I explained. "One doesn't like to do it of course, but it would be the best thing, seeing what he is." "Yes; he is young," Stein mused. "The youngest human being now in existence," I affirmed. "Schon. There's Patusan," he went on in the same tone. . . . "And the woman is dead now," he added incomprehensibly. 'Of course I don't know that story; I can only guess that once before Patusan had been used as a grave for some sin, transgression, or misfortune. It is impossible to suspect Stein. The only woman that had ever existed for him was the Malay girl he called "My wife the princess," or, more rarely, in moments of expansion, "the mother of my Emma." Who was the woman he had mentioned in connection with Patusan I can't say; but from his allusions I understand she had been an educated and very good-looking Dutch-Malay girl, with a tragic or perhaps only a pitiful history, whose most painful part no doubt was her marriage with a Malacca Portuguese who had been clerk in some commercial house in the Dutch colonies. I gathered from Stein that this man was an unsatisfactory person in more ways than one, all being more or less indefinite and offensive. It was solely for his wife's sake that Stein had appointed him manager of Stein & Co.'s trading post in Patusan; but commercially the arrangement was not a success, at any rate for the firm, and now the woman had died, Stein was disposed to try another agent there. The Portuguese, whose name was Cornelius, considered himself a very deserving but ill-used person, entitled by his abilities to a better position. This man Jim would have to relieve. "But I don't think he will go away from the place," remarked Stein. "That has nothing to do with me. It was only for the sake of the woman that I . . . But as I think there is a daughter left, I shall let him, if he likes to stay, keep the old house." 'Patusan is a remote district of a native-ruled state, and the chief settlement bears the same name. At a point on the river about forty miles from the sea, where the first houses come into view, there can be seen rising above the level of the forests the summits of two steep hills very close together, and separated by what looks like a deep fissure, the cleavage of some mighty stroke. As a matter of fact, the valley between is nothing but a narrow ravine; the appearance from the settlement is of one irregularly conical hill split in two, and with the two halves leaning slightly apart. On the third day after the full, the moon, as seen from the open space in front of Jim's house (he had a very fine house in the native style when I visited him), rose exactly behind these hills, its diffused light at first throwing the two masses into intensely black relief, and then the nearly perfect disc, glowing ruddily, appeared, gliding upwards between the sides of the chasm, till it floated away above the summits, as if escaping from a yawning grave in gentle triumph. "Wonderful effect," said Jim by my side. "Worth seeing. Is it not?" 'And this question was put with a note of personal pride that made me smile, as though he had had a hand in regulating that unique spectacle. He had regulated so many things in Patusan--things that would have appeared as much beyond his control as the motions of the moon and the stars. 'It was inconceivable. That was the distinctive quality of the part into which Stein and I had tumbled him unwittingly, with no other notion than to get him out of the way; out of his own way, be it understood. That was our main purpose, though, I own, I might have had another motive which had influenced me a little. I was about to go home for a time; and it may be I desired, more than I was aware of myself, to dispose of him--to dispose of him, you understand--before I left. I was going home, and he had come to me from there, with his miserable trouble and his shadowy claim, like a man panting under a burden in a mist. I cannot say I had ever seen him distinctly--not even to this day, after I had my last view of him; but it seemed to me that the less I understood the more I was bound to him in the name of that doubt which is the inseparable part of our knowledge. I did not know so much more about myself. And then, I repeat, I was going home--to that home distant enough for all its hearthstones to be like one hearthstone, by which the humblest of us has the right to sit. We wander in our thousands over the face of the earth, the illustrious and the obscure, earning beyond the seas our fame, our money, or only a crust of bread; but it seems to me that for each of us going home must be like going to render an account. We return to face our superiors, our kindred, our friends--those whom we obey, and those whom we love; but even they who have neither, the most free, lonely, irresponsible and bereft of ties,--even those for whom home holds no dear face, no familiar voice,--even they have to meet the spirit that dwells within the land, under its sky, in its air, in its valleys, and on its rises, in its fields, in its waters and its trees--a mute friend, judge, and inspirer. Say what you like, to get its joy, to breathe its peace, to face its truth, one must return with a clear conscience. All this may seem to you sheer sentimentalism; and indeed very few of us have the will or the capacity to look consciously under the surface of familiar emotions. There are the girls we love, the men we look up to, the tenderness, the friendships, the opportunities, the pleasures! But the fact remains that you must touch your reward with clean hands, lest it turn to dead leaves, to thorns, in your grasp. I think it is the lonely, without a fireside or an affection they may call their own, those who return not to a dwelling but to the land itself, to meet its disembodied, eternal, and unchangeable spirit--it is those who understand best its severity, its saving power, the grace of its secular right to our fidelity, to our obedience. Yes! few of us understand, but we all feel it though, and I say _all_ without exception, because those who do not feel do not count. Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life. I don't know how much Jim understood; but I know he felt, he felt confusedly but powerfully, the demand of some such truth or some such illusion--I don't care how you call it, there is so little difference, and the difference means so little. The thing is that in virtue of his feeling he mattered. He would never go home now. Not he. Never. Had he been capable of picturesque manifestations he would have shuddered at the thought and made you shudder too. But he was not of that sort, though he was expressive enough in his way. Before the idea of going home he would grow desperately stiff and immovable, with lowered chin and pouted lips, and with those candid blue eyes of his glowering darkly under a frown, as if before something unbearable, as if before something revolting. There was imagination in that hard skull of his, over which the thick clustering hair fitted like a cap. As to me, I have no imagination (I would be more certain about him today, if I had), and I do not mean to imply that I figured to myself the spirit of the land uprising above the white cliffs of Dover, to ask me what I--returning with no bones broken, so to speak--had done with my very young brother. I could not make such a mistake. I knew very well he was of those about whom there is no inquiry; I had seen better men go out, disappear, vanish utterly, without provoking a sound of curiosity or sorrow. The spirit of the land, as becomes the ruler of great enterprises, is careless of innumerable lives. Woe to the stragglers! We exist only in so far as we hang together. He had straggled in a way; he had not hung on; but he was aware of it with an intensity that made him touching, just as a man's more intense life makes his death more touching than the death of a tree. I happened to be handy, and I happened to be touched. That's all there is to it. I was concerned as to the way he would go out. It would have hurt me if, for instance, he had taken to drink. The earth is so small that I was afraid of, some day, being waylaid by a blear-eyed, swollen-faced, besmirched loafer, with no soles to his canvas shoes, and with a flutter of rags about the elbows, who, on the strength of old acquaintance, would ask for a loan of five dollars. You know the awful jaunty bearing of these scarecrows coming to you from a decent past, the rasping careless voice, the half-averted impudent glances--those meetings more trying to a man who believes in the solidarity of our lives than the sight of an impenitent death-bed to a priest. That, to tell you the truth, was the only danger I could see for him and for me; but I also mistrusted my want of imagination. It might even come to something worse, in some way it was beyond my powers of fancy to foresee. He wouldn't let me forget how imaginative he was, and your imaginative people swing farther in any direction, as if given a longer scope of cable in the uneasy anchorage of life. They do. They take to drink too. It may be I was belittling him by such a fear. How could I tell? Even Stein could say no more than that he was romantic. I only knew he was one of us. And what business had he to be romantic? I am telling you so much about my own instinctive feelings and bemused reflections because there remains so little to be told of him. He existed for me, and after all it is only through me that he exists for you. I've led him out by the hand; I have paraded him before you. Were my commonplace fears unjust? I won't say--not even now. You may be able to tell better, since the proverb has it that the onlookers see most of the game. At any rate, they were superfluous. He did not go out, not at all; on the contrary, he came on wonderfully, came on straight as a die and in excellent form, which showed that he could stay as well as spurt. I ought to be delighted, for it is a victory in which I had taken my part; but I am not so pleased as I would have expected to be. I ask myself whether his rush had really carried him out of that mist in which he loomed interesting if not very big, with floating outlines--a straggler yearning inconsolably for his humble place in the ranks. And besides, the last word is not said,--probably shall never be said. Are not our lives too short for that full utterance which through all our stammerings is of course our only and abiding intention? I have given up expecting those last words, whose ring, if they could only be pronounced, would shake both heaven and earth. There is never time to say our last word--the last word of our love, of our desire, faith, remorse, submissions, revolt. The heaven and the earth must not be shaken, I suppose--at least, not by us who know so many truths about either. My last words about Jim shall be few. I affirm he had achieved greatness; but the thing would be dwarfed in the telling, or rather in the hearing. Frankly, it is not my words that I mistrust but your minds. I could be eloquent were I not afraid you fellows had starved your imaginations to feed your bodies. I do not mean to be offensive; it is respectable to have no illusions--and safe--and profitable--and dull. Yet you, too, in your time must have known the intensity of life, that light of glamour created in the shock of trifles, as amazing as the glow of sparks struck from a cold stone--and as short-lived, alas!'

Chapter 21

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim30.asp

Marlow starts the second part of Jim's story with a description of Patusan, an extremely isolated island in Malaya that is controlled by warring forces. Patusan has a trading post owned by Stein and presently managed by Cornelius, a cunning, dishonest, and wretched man. Stein wants to send Jim to Patusan to replace Cornelius. When Marlow tells Jim the plan, he does not express his feelings, but it is quite clear that he likes the idea. Marlow then flashes forward two years. He goes to visit Jim in Patusan and is delighted to see how well his friend is doing as the resident manager of the outpost. It is obvious that Jim feels successful; he has mastered his self-defeating romanticism.

Notes The choice of Patusan as Jim's place of rehabilitation is significant. It is an island so remote that most merchants do not even know about it. It offers the perfect setting for Jim to be able to live without fear of discovery; here there will be no mention of the Patna. The description of Patusan is beautiful. It is a small island divided by a valley separating two hills facing each other. The fissure between the hills symbolizes the split in Jim's being, his romantic side vs. his real side. The setting of the Patusan isle also has a symbolic meaning. The fissured hill with the moon floating out of the chasm is the symbol of Jim's fate; he is to be lonely and separated not only from his own kind but also from his own self. But he will leave his earthly failings behind and start afresh in this unearthly place.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/07.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_2_part_1.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 7

chapter 7

{"name": "CHAPTER 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD17.asp", "summary": "On the day of her departure, Tess dresses in her best clothes at the insistence of her mother, who is still dreaming about her daughter marrying Alec. Joan is delighted with Tess's appearance and feels confident that it will be difficult for Alec to ignore her beauty. Tess's younger brothers and sisters are jubilant about the thought of their sister marrying a gentleman. When Tess is ready to leave, Joan begins to worry about sending her daughter away. She walks with Tess for awhile, and some of the children follow along. As she approaches the cart that will take her luggage, Tess bids her family a quick good- bye. She then looks up and sees Alec, who has come for her. When she climbs up beside him, she can still see her family in the distance. As she thinks about their needs, Tess knows that she is doing the correct thing by going to Trantridge. It is now her family that is uncertain; they are unhappy and tearful about her departure. For the first time, Joan is apprehensive about sending her away with a stranger and regrets not having made inquiries about him.", "analysis": "Notes Joan is fully aware of her family's plight in life. She also knows that Tess' rustic beauty is the only thing to save them from poverty. When Tess tells her mother about the D'Urberville's son, Joan thinks that Alec must have great admiration for her daughter. She, therefore, insists that Tess dress in her best clothes to go to Trantridge in order to impress Alec further. She wants her daughter to wed this wealthy young man, for matrimony is the most convenient way of gaining wealth and status. A D'Urberville marriage would benefit the whole family. Unfortunately, Joan is not sending Tess away to a marriage to Alec; instead, she her daughter will soon endure a seduction by this cruel man. It is important to note Joan's misgivings during the chapter. At first she thinks it is wonderful that Tess is going to Trantridge. Then she is saddened by the thought of losing her daughter. Finally, she feels guilty and nervous about sending Tess away with a stranger that she knows nothing about. Joan's misgivings are well founded and serve as a flashback to the feelings Tess has had upon meeting Alec. Joan's feelings also foreshadow the future trouble that Alec will cause"}

On the morning appointed for her departure Tess was awake before dawn--at the marginal minute of the dark when the grove is still mute, save for one prophetic bird who sings with a clear-voiced conviction that he at least knows the correct time of day, the rest preserving silence as if equally convinced that he is mistaken. She remained upstairs packing till breakfast-time, and then came down in her ordinary week-day clothes, her Sunday apparel being carefully folded in her box. Her mother expostulated. "You will never set out to see your folks without dressing up more the dand than that?" "But I am going to work!" said Tess. "Well, yes," said Mrs Durbeyfield; and in a private tone, "at first there mid be a little pretence o't ... But I think it will be wiser of 'ee to put your best side outward," she added. "Very well; I suppose you know best," replied Tess with calm abandonment. And to please her parent the girl put herself quite in Joan's hands, saying serenely--"Do what you like with me, mother." Mrs Durbeyfield was only too delighted at this tractability. First she fetched a great basin, and washed Tess's hair with such thoroughness that when dried and brushed it looked twice as much as at other times. She tied it with a broader pink ribbon than usual. Then she put upon her the white frock that Tess had worn at the club-walking, the airy fulness of which, supplementing her enlarged _coiffure_, imparted to her developing figure an amplitude which belied her age, and might cause her to be estimated as a woman when she was not much more than a child. "I declare there's a hole in my stocking-heel!" said Tess. "Never mind holes in your stockings--they don't speak! When I was a maid, so long as I had a pretty bonnet the devil might ha' found me in heels." Her mother's pride in the girl's appearance led her to step back, like a painter from his easel, and survey her work as a whole. "You must zee yourself!" she cried. "It is much better than you was t'other day." As the looking-glass was only large enough to reflect a very small portion of Tess's person at one time, Mrs Durbeyfield hung a black cloak outside the casement, and so made a large reflector of the panes, as it is the wont of bedecking cottagers to do. After this she went downstairs to her husband, who was sitting in the lower room. "I'll tell 'ee what 'tis, Durbeyfield," said she exultingly; "he'll never have the heart not to love her. But whatever you do, don't zay too much to Tess of his fancy for her, and this chance she has got. She is such an odd maid that it mid zet her against him, or against going there, even now. If all goes well, I shall certainly be for making some return to pa'son at Stagfoot Lane for telling us--dear, good man!" However, as the moment for the girl's setting out drew nigh, when the first excitement of the dressing had passed off, a slight misgiving found place in Joan Durbeyfield's mind. It prompted the matron to say that she would walk a little way--as far as to the point where the acclivity from the valley began its first steep ascent to the outer world. At the top Tess was going to be met with the spring-cart sent by the Stoke-d'Urbervilles, and her box had already been wheeled ahead towards this summit by a lad with trucks, to be in readiness. Seeing their mother put on her bonnet, the younger children clamoured to go with her. "I do want to walk a little-ways wi' Sissy, now she's going to marry our gentleman-cousin, and wear fine cloze!" "Now," said Tess, flushing and turning quickly, "I'll hear no more o' that! Mother, how could you ever put such stuff into their heads?" "Going to work, my dears, for our rich relation, and help get enough money for a new horse," said Mrs Durbeyfield pacifically. "Goodbye, father," said Tess, with a lumpy throat. "Goodbye, my maid," said Sir John, raising his head from his breast as he suspended his nap, induced by a slight excess this morning in honour of the occasion. "Well, I hope my young friend will like such a comely sample of his own blood. And tell'n, Tess, that being sunk, quite, from our former grandeur, I'll sell him the title--yes, sell it--and at no onreasonable figure." "Not for less than a thousand pound!" cried Lady Durbeyfield. "Tell'n--I'll take a thousand pound. Well, I'll take less, when I come to think o't. He'll adorn it better than a poor lammicken feller like myself can. Tell'n he shall hae it for a hundred. But I won't stand upon trifles--tell'n he shall hae it for fifty--for twenty pound! Yes, twenty pound--that's the lowest. Dammy, family honour is family honour, and I won't take a penny less!" Tess's eyes were too full and her voice too choked to utter the sentiments that were in her. She turned quickly, and went out. So the girls and their mother all walked together, a child on each side of Tess, holding her hand and looking at her meditatively from time to time, as at one who was about to do great things; her mother just behind with the smallest; the group forming a picture of honest beauty flanked by innocence, and backed by simple-souled vanity. They followed the way till they reached the beginning of the ascent, on the crest of which the vehicle from Trantridge was to receive her, this limit having been fixed to save the horse the labour of the last slope. Far away behind the first hills the cliff-like dwellings of Shaston broke the line of the ridge. Nobody was visible in the elevated road which skirted the ascent save the lad whom they had sent on before them, sitting on the handle of the barrow that contained all Tess's worldly possessions. "Bide here a bit, and the cart will soon come, no doubt," said Mrs Durbeyfield. "Yes, I see it yonder!" It had come--appearing suddenly from behind the forehead of the nearest upland, and stopping beside the boy with the barrow. Her mother and the children thereupon decided to go no farther, and bidding them a hasty goodbye, Tess bent her steps up the hill. They saw her white shape draw near to the spring-cart, on which her box was already placed. But before she had quite reached it another vehicle shot out from a clump of trees on the summit, came round the bend of the road there, passed the luggage-cart, and halted beside Tess, who looked up as if in great surprise. Her mother perceived, for the first time, that the second vehicle was not a humble conveyance like the first, but a spick-and-span gig or dog-cart, highly varnished and equipped. The driver was a young man of three- or four-and-twenty, with a cigar between his teeth; wearing a dandy cap, drab jacket, breeches of the same hue, white neckcloth, stick-up collar, and brown driving-gloves--in short, he was the handsome, horsey young buck who had visited Joan a week or two before to get her answer about Tess. Mrs Durbeyfield clapped her hands like a child. Then she looked down, then stared again. Could she be deceived as to the meaning of this? "Is dat the gentleman-kinsman who'll make Sissy a lady?" asked the youngest child. Meanwhile the muslined form of Tess could be seen standing still, undecided, beside this turn-out, whose owner was talking to her. Her seeming indecision was, in fact, more than indecision: it was misgiving. She would have preferred the humble cart. The young man dismounted, and appeared to urge her to ascend. She turned her face down the hill to her relatives, and regarded the little group. Something seemed to quicken her to a determination; possibly the thought that she had killed Prince. She suddenly stepped up; he mounted beside her, and immediately whipped on the horse. In a moment they had passed the slow cart with the box, and disappeared behind the shoulder of the hill. Directly Tess was out of sight, and the interest of the matter as a drama was at an end, the little ones' eyes filled with tears. The youngest child said, "I wish poor, poor Tess wasn't gone away to be a lady!" and, lowering the corners of his lips, burst out crying. The new point of view was infectious, and the next child did likewise, and then the next, till the whole three of them wailed loud. There were tears also in Joan Durbeyfield's eyes as she turned to go home. But by the time she had got back to the village she was passively trusting to the favour of accident. However, in bed that night she sighed, and her husband asked her what was the matter. "Oh, I don't know exactly," she said. "I was thinking that perhaps it would ha' been better if Tess had not gone." "Oughtn't ye to have thought of that before?" "Well, 'tis a chance for the maid--Still, if 'twere the doing again, I wouldn't let her go till I had found out whether the gentleman is really a good-hearted young man and choice over her as his kinswoman." "Yes, you ought, perhaps, to ha' done that," snored Sir John. Joan Durbeyfield always managed to find consolation somewhere: "Well, as one of the genuine stock, she ought to make her way with 'en, if she plays her trump card aright. And if he don't marry her afore he will after. For that he's all afire wi' love for her any eye can see." "What's her trump card? Her d'Urberville blood, you mean?" "No, stupid; her face--as 'twas mine."

CHAPTER 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD17.asp

On the day of her departure, Tess dresses in her best clothes at the insistence of her mother, who is still dreaming about her daughter marrying Alec. Joan is delighted with Tess's appearance and feels confident that it will be difficult for Alec to ignore her beauty. Tess's younger brothers and sisters are jubilant about the thought of their sister marrying a gentleman. When Tess is ready to leave, Joan begins to worry about sending her daughter away. She walks with Tess for awhile, and some of the children follow along. As she approaches the cart that will take her luggage, Tess bids her family a quick good- bye. She then looks up and sees Alec, who has come for her. When she climbs up beside him, she can still see her family in the distance. As she thinks about their needs, Tess knows that she is doing the correct thing by going to Trantridge. It is now her family that is uncertain; they are unhappy and tearful about her departure. For the first time, Joan is apprehensive about sending her away with a stranger and regrets not having made inquiries about him.

Notes Joan is fully aware of her family's plight in life. She also knows that Tess' rustic beauty is the only thing to save them from poverty. When Tess tells her mother about the D'Urberville's son, Joan thinks that Alec must have great admiration for her daughter. She, therefore, insists that Tess dress in her best clothes to go to Trantridge in order to impress Alec further. She wants her daughter to wed this wealthy young man, for matrimony is the most convenient way of gaining wealth and status. A D'Urberville marriage would benefit the whole family. Unfortunately, Joan is not sending Tess away to a marriage to Alec; instead, she her daughter will soon endure a seduction by this cruel man. It is important to note Joan's misgivings during the chapter. At first she thinks it is wonderful that Tess is going to Trantridge. Then she is saddened by the thought of losing her daughter. Finally, she feels guilty and nervous about sending Tess away with a stranger that she knows nothing about. Joan's misgivings are well founded and serve as a flashback to the feelings Tess has had upon meeting Alec. Joan's feelings also foreshadow the future trouble that Alec will cause

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_4_part_3.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xxvii

chapter xxvii

{"name": "Chapter XXVII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase4-chapter25-34", "summary": "When Angel returns to the dairy, Tess is waking up from the afternoon nap, required during the long summer working hours. Struck by her beauty, he asks her to marry him. She becomes visibly agitated, tells him that she loves him, but that it's out of the question for her to marry him: \"Oh, Mr. Clare--I cannot be your wife\". He dismisses her answer and tells her to take her time but never lets up in persuading her otherwise. Despite her protests, Tess knows that that she cannot ultimately refuse him", "analysis": ""}

An up-hill and down-hill ride of twenty-odd miles through a garish mid-day atmosphere brought him in the afternoon to a detached knoll a mile or two west of Talbothays, whence he again looked into that green trough of sappiness and humidity, the valley of the Var or Froom. Immediately he began to descend from the upland to the fat alluvial soil below, the atmosphere grew heavier; the languid perfume of the summer fruits, the mists, the hay, the flowers, formed therein a vast pool of odour which at this hour seemed to make the animals, the very bees and butterflies drowsy. Clare was now so familiar with the spot that he knew the individual cows by their names when, a long distance off, he saw them dotted about the meads. It was with a sense of luxury that he recognized his power of viewing life here from its inner side, in a way that had been quite foreign to him in his student-days; and, much as he loved his parents, he could not help being aware that to come here, as now, after an experience of home-life, affected him like throwing off splints and bandages; even the one customary curb on the humours of English rural societies being absent in this place, Talbothays having no resident landlord. Not a human being was out of doors at the dairy. The denizens were all enjoying the usual afternoon nap of an hour or so which the exceedingly early hours kept in summer-time rendered a necessity. At the door the wood-hooped pails, sodden and bleached by infinite scrubbings, hung like hats on a stand upon the forked and peeled limb of an oak fixed there for that purpose; all of them ready and dry for the evening milking. Angel entered, and went through the silent passages of the house to the back quarters, where he listened for a moment. Sustained snores came from the cart-house, where some of the men were lying down; the grunt and squeal of sweltering pigs arose from the still further distance. The large-leaved rhubarb and cabbage plants slept too, their broad limp surfaces hanging in the sun like half-closed umbrellas. He unbridled and fed his horse, and as he re-entered the house the clock struck three. Three was the afternoon skimming-hour; and, with the stroke, Clare heard the creaking of the floor-boards above, and then the touch of a descending foot on the stairs. It was Tess's, who in another moment came down before his eyes. She had not heard him enter, and hardly realized his presence there. She was yawning, and he saw the red interior of her mouth as if it had been a snake's. She had stretched one arm so high above her coiled-up cable of hair that he could see its satin delicacy above the sunburn; her face was flushed with sleep, and her eyelids hung heavy over their pupils. The brim-fulness of her nature breathed from her. It was a moment when a woman's soul is more incarnate than at any other time; when the most spiritual beauty bespeaks itself flesh; and sex takes the outside place in the presentation. Then those eyes flashed brightly through their filmy heaviness, before the remainder of her face was well awake. With an oddly compounded look of gladness, shyness, and surprise, she exclaimed--"O Mr Clare! How you frightened me--I--" There had not at first been time for her to think of the changed relations which his declaration had introduced; but the full sense of the matter rose up in her face when she encountered Clare's tender look as he stepped forward to the bottom stair. "Dear, darling Tessy!" he whispered, putting his arm round her, and his face to her flushed cheek. "Don't, for Heaven's sake, Mister me any more. I have hastened back so soon because of you!" Tess's excitable heart beat against his by way of reply; and there they stood upon the red-brick floor of the entry, the sun slanting in by the window upon his back, as he held her tightly to his breast; upon her inclining face, upon the blue veins of her temple, upon her naked arm, and her neck, and into the depths of her hair. Having been lying down in her clothes she was warm as a sunned cat. At first she would not look straight up at him, but her eyes soon lifted, and his plumbed the deepness of the ever-varying pupils, with their radiating fibrils of blue, and black, and gray, and violet, while she regarded him as Eve at her second waking might have regarded Adam. "I've got to go a-skimming," she pleaded, "and I have on'y old Deb to help me to-day. Mrs Crick is gone to market with Mr Crick, and Retty is not well, and the others are gone out somewhere, and won't be home till milking." As they retreated to the milk-house Deborah Fyander appeared on the stairs. "I have come back, Deborah," said Mr Clare, upwards. "So I can help Tess with the skimming; and, as you are very tired, I am sure, you needn't come down till milking-time." Possibly the Talbothays milk was not very thoroughly skimmed that afternoon. Tess was in a dream wherein familiar objects appeared as having light and shade and position, but no particular outline. Every time she held the skimmer under the pump to cool it for the work her hand trembled, the ardour of his affection being so palpable that she seemed to flinch under it like a plant in too burning a sun. Then he pressed her again to his side, and when she had done running her forefinger round the leads to cut off the cream-edge, he cleaned it in nature's way; for the unconstrained manners of Talbothays dairy came convenient now. "I may as well say it now as later, dearest," he resumed gently. "I wish to ask you something of a very practical nature, which I have been thinking of ever since that day last week in the meads. I shall soon want to marry, and, being a farmer, you see I shall require for my wife a woman who knows all about the management of farms. Will you be that woman, Tessy?" He put it that way that she might not think he had yielded to an impulse of which his head would disapprove. She turned quite careworn. She had bowed to the inevitable result of proximity, the necessity of loving him; but she had not calculated upon this sudden corollary, which, indeed, Clare had put before her without quite meaning himself to do it so soon. With pain that was like the bitterness of dissolution she murmured the words of her indispensable and sworn answer as an honourable woman. "O Mr Clare--I cannot be your wife--I cannot be!" The sound of her own decision seemed to break Tess's very heart, and she bowed her face in her grief. "But, Tess!" he said, amazed at her reply, and holding her still more greedily close. "Do you say no? Surely you love me?" "O yes, yes! And I would rather be yours than anybody's in the world," returned the sweet and honest voice of the distressed girl. "But I CANNOT marry you!" "Tess," he said, holding her at arm's length, "you are engaged to marry some one else!" "No, no!" "Then why do you refuse me?" "I don't want to marry! I have not thought of doing it. I cannot! I only want to love you." "But why?" Driven to subterfuge, she stammered-- "Your father is a parson, and your mother wouldn' like you to marry such as me. She will want you to marry a lady." "Nonsense--I have spoken to them both. That was partly why I went home." "I feel I cannot--never, never!" she echoed. "Is it too sudden to be asked thus, my Pretty?" "Yes--I did not expect it." "If you will let it pass, please, Tessy, I will give you time," he said. "It was very abrupt to come home and speak to you all at once. I'll not allude to it again for a while." She again took up the shining skimmer, held it beneath the pump, and began anew. But she could not, as at other times, hit the exact under-surface of the cream with the delicate dexterity required, try as she might; sometimes she was cutting down into the milk, sometimes in the air. She could hardly see, her eyes having filled with two blurring tears drawn forth by a grief which, to this her best friend and dear advocate, she could never explain. "I can't skim--I can't!" she said, turning away from him. Not to agitate and hinder her longer, the considerate Clare began talking in a more general way: You quite misapprehend my parents. They are the most simple-mannered people alive, and quite unambitious. They are two of the few remaining Evangelical school. Tessy, are you an Evangelical?" "I don't know." "You go to church very regularly, and our parson here is not very High, they tell me." Tess's ideas on the views of the parish clergyman, whom she heard every week, seemed to be rather more vague than Clare's, who had never heard him at all. "I wish I could fix my mind on what I hear there more firmly than I do," she remarked as a safe generality. "It is often a great sorrow to me." She spoke so unaffectedly that Angel was sure in his heart that his father could not object to her on religious grounds, even though she did not know whether her principles were High, Low or Broad. He himself knew that, in reality, the confused beliefs which she held, apparently imbibed in childhood, were, if anything, Tractarian as to phraseology, and Pantheistic as to essence. Confused or otherwise, to disturb them was his last desire: Leave thou thy sister, when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views; Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse A life that leads melodious days. He had occasionally thought the counsel less honest than musical; but he gladly conformed to it now. He spoke further of the incidents of his visit, of his father's mode of life, of his zeal for his principles; she grew serener, and the undulations disappeared from her skimming; as she finished one lead after another he followed her, and drew the plugs for letting down the milk. "I fancied you looked a little downcast when you came in," she ventured to observe, anxious to keep away from the subject of herself. "Yes--well, my father had been talking a good deal to me of his troubles and difficulties, and the subject always tends to depress me. He is so zealous that he gets many snubs and buffetings from people of a different way of thinking from himself, and I don't like to hear of such humiliations to a man of his age, the more particularly as I don't think earnestness does any good when carried so far. He has been telling me of a very unpleasant scene in which he took part quite recently. He went as the deputy of some missionary society to preach in the neighbourhood of Trantridge, a place forty miles from here, and made it his business to expostulate with a lax young cynic he met with somewhere about there--son of some landowner up that way--and who has a mother afflicted with blindness. My father addressed himself to the gentleman point-blank, and there was quite a disturbance. It was very foolish of my father, I must say, to intrude his conversation upon a stranger when the probabilities were so obvious that it would be useless. But whatever he thinks to be his duty, that he'll do, in season or out of season; and, of course, he makes many enemies, not only among the absolutely vicious, but among the easy-going, who hate being bothered. He says he glories in what happened, and that good may be done indirectly; but I wish he would not wear himself out now he is getting old, and would leave such pigs to their wallowing." Tess's look had grown hard and worn, and her ripe mouth tragical; but she no longer showed any tremulousness. Clare's revived thoughts of his father prevented his noticing her particularly; and so they went on down the white row of liquid rectangles till they had finished and drained them off, when the other maids returned, and took their pails, and Deb came to scald out the leads for the new milk. As Tess withdrew to go afield to the cows he said to her softly-- "And my question, Tessy?" "O no--no!" replied she with grave hopelessness, as one who had heard anew the turmoil of her own past in the allusion to Alec d'Urberville. "It CAN'T be!" She went out towards the mead, joining the other milkmaids with a bound, as if trying to make the open air drive away her sad constraint. All the girls drew onward to the spot where the cows were grazing in the farther mead, the bevy advancing with the bold grace of wild animals--the reckless, unchastened motion of women accustomed to unlimited space--in which they abandoned themselves to the air as a swimmer to the wave. It seemed natural enough to him now that Tess was again in sight to choose a mate from unconstrained Nature, and not from the abodes of Art.

Chapter XXVII

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase4-chapter25-34

When Angel returns to the dairy, Tess is waking up from the afternoon nap, required during the long summer working hours. Struck by her beauty, he asks her to marry him. She becomes visibly agitated, tells him that she loves him, but that it's out of the question for her to marry him: "Oh, Mr. Clare--I cannot be your wife". He dismisses her answer and tells her to take her time but never lets up in persuading her otherwise. Despite her protests, Tess knows that that she cannot ultimately refuse him

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_4_to_5.txt

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Lord Jim.chapters 4-5

chapters 4-5

{"name": "Chapters 4-5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-4-5", "summary": "The narrative jumps ahead a month or so, creating suspense regarding actually occurred on the Patna. Jim is now being questioned about the incident, via the official Inquiry of a police court in an unnamed English port town. He experiences an intense distance between the \"facts\" pursued by the assessors--one with \"thoughtful blue eyes\" and the other \"heavy, scornful\"--and his actual experience. Jim believes there was a collision with a \"water-logged wreck,\" which created a \"big hole below the waterline\" . Jim says he was fearful of a great mob panic and certain the steamer would sink like a \"lump of lead,\" and he now attempts to justify his actions and emotions at the time of the incident. For the reader, the real story is still cloaked in narrative mystery. As Jim scans the audience from the witness box, his eyes meet those of another man--who proves to be Marlow. The narrative cuts to Marlow on a \"verandah draped in motionless foliage and crowned with flowers\" . He now lifts the thread of the preceding narrative by remarking, \"My eyes met his for the first time at that inquiry,\" and he points out the notoriety of the affair, how it had been the subject of much talk . Near the harbor office, he sees the four men involved in the incident along the quay--his \"first view\" of Jim. In the hospital visiting one of his men, Marlow realizes that one of the castaways from the Patna is a patient, a man with a \"drooping white moustache\" . Tempted by the possibility of a firsthand account of the affair, Marlow inquires gently. The man asserts, \"I saw her go down.\" He seems delusional with his visions of reptiles filling up the ship. Marlow concludes that the man's account is not material to the inquiry.", "analysis": "The narrative has jumped ahead in time and, while creating dramatic suspense, it also marks the beginning of Conrad's inventive \"piecing together\" of the story of Jim. As the storyline leaps from the moment of strange vibration beneath the steamship to Jim's place on the witness stand, and then as he is questioned about the occurrence, the reader wonders what happened on the ship. Did Jim prove his mettle, and what was the fate of the hundreds of Muslim passengers on board? Despite the reader's position as inquirer, the narrator's perspective is omniscient, since the reader is told what is actually going on in Jim's mind as he offers his testimony about the facts. The disparity Jim experiences between the facts that the inquiry requires him to tell and his memory of the actual experience is crucial, and this difference is a fundamental problem that obsessively characterizes much of Conrad's work. Slim, cold facts can seldom provide more than a skeletal frame for any story or event or person. The rest of the picture is far more ambiguous and flexible, involving emotions, memory, and perception. These items can have a distorting effect on the facts, but they lend fullness to the understanding. Conrad apparently suggests that despite the risk of distortion, relaying the depth of experience is perhaps the best way to convey human truths. The narrative experiences a profound shift in perspective from the moment Jim looks out from his witness box, and at this point Marlow appears in the reader's eye. The change happens at the moment their eyes first touch. Jim, the reader learns, has experienced a feeling of kindred spirit or of some kind of intelligent and understanding communion, as though he knows Marlow already. This moment of recognition foreshadows the close relationship that will form between them, and it reinforces the repeated statement to be made by Marlow that Jim \"is one of us.\" The glimpse of solidarity at that moment is important to Jim, whose mental state is not unlike that of a \"prisoner\" or a \"wayfarer lost in a wilderness.\" Though the reader is in suspense regarding the fate of the ship and its passengers, as well as how Jim has come to be in the witness box, the reader is led to a sense of trust in Marlow, precisely because of Jim's initial impression. From there, Marlow becomes the teller of the story, sitting at a verandah before an audience, relating how Jim's eyes first met his during the inquiry. Marlow's perspective on Jim is both sympathetic and critical. When the novel shifts entirely into Marlow's voice, we infer that it is really Conrad's in a new guise, providing a kind of border-sphere around Jim's story."}

A month or so afterwards, when Jim, in answer to pointed questions, tried to tell honestly the truth of this experience, he said, speaking of the ship: 'She went over whatever it was as easy as a snake crawling over a stick.' The illustration was good: the questions were aiming at facts, and the official Inquiry was being held in the police court of an Eastern port. He stood elevated in the witness-box, with burning cheeks in a cool lofty room: the big framework of punkahs moved gently to and fro high above his head, and from below many eyes were looking at him out of dark faces, out of white faces, out of red faces, out of faces attentive, spellbound, as if all these people sitting in orderly rows upon narrow benches had been enslaved by the fascination of his voice. It was very loud, it rang startling in his own ears, it was the only sound audible in the world, for the terribly distinct questions that extorted his answers seemed to shape themselves in anguish and pain within his breast,--came to him poignant and silent like the terrible questioning of one's conscience. Outside the court the sun blazed--within was the wind of great punkahs that made you shiver, the shame that made you burn, the attentive eyes whose glance stabbed. The face of the presiding magistrate, clean shaved and impassible, looked at him deadly pale between the red faces of the two nautical assessors. The light of a broad window under the ceiling fell from above on the heads and shoulders of the three men, and they were fiercely distinct in the half-light of the big court-room where the audience seemed composed of staring shadows. They wanted facts. Facts! They demanded facts from him, as if facts could explain anything! 'After you had concluded you had collided with something floating awash, say a water-logged wreck, you were ordered by your captain to go forward and ascertain if there was any damage done. Did you think it likely from the force of the blow?' asked the assessor sitting to the left. He had a thin horseshoe beard, salient cheek-bones, and with both elbows on the desk clasped his rugged hands before his face, looking at Jim with thoughtful blue eyes; the other, a heavy, scornful man, thrown back in his seat, his left arm extended full length, drummed delicately with his finger-tips on a blotting-pad: in the middle the magistrate upright in the roomy arm-chair, his head inclined slightly on the shoulder, had his arms crossed on his breast and a few flowers in a glass vase by the side of his inkstand. 'I did not,' said Jim. 'I was told to call no one and to make no noise for fear of creating a panic. I thought the precaution reasonable. I took one of the lamps that were hung under the awnings and went forward. After opening the forepeak hatch I heard splashing in there. I lowered then the lamp the whole drift of its lanyard, and saw that the forepeak was more than half full of water already. I knew then there must be a big hole below the water-line.' He paused. 'Yes,' said the big assessor, with a dreamy smile at the blotting-pad; his fingers played incessantly, touching the paper without noise. 'I did not think of danger just then. I might have been a little startled: all this happened in such a quiet way and so very suddenly. I knew there was no other bulkhead in the ship but the collision bulkhead separating the forepeak from the forehold. I went back to tell the captain. I came upon the second engineer getting up at the foot of the bridge-ladder: he seemed dazed, and told me he thought his left arm was broken; he had slipped on the top step when getting down while I was forward. He exclaimed, "My God! That rotten bulkhead'll give way in a minute, and the damned thing will go down under us like a lump of lead." He pushed me away with his right arm and ran before me up the ladder, shouting as he climbed. His left arm hung by his side. I followed up in time to see the captain rush at him and knock him down flat on his back. He did not strike him again: he stood bending over him and speaking angrily but quite low. I fancy he was asking him why the devil he didn't go and stop the engines, instead of making a row about it on deck. I heard him say, "Get up! Run! fly!" He swore also. The engineer slid down the starboard ladder and bolted round the skylight to the engine-room companion which was on the port side. He moaned as he ran. . . .' He spoke slowly; he remembered swiftly and with extreme vividness; he could have reproduced like an echo the moaning of the engineer for the better information of these men who wanted facts. After his first feeling of revolt he had come round to the view that only a meticulous precision of statement would bring out the true horror behind the appalling face of things. The facts those men were so eager to know had been visible, tangible, open to the senses, occupying their place in space and time, requiring for their existence a fourteen-hundred-ton steamer and twenty-seven minutes by the watch; they made a whole that had features, shades of expression, a complicated aspect that could be remembered by the eye, and something else besides, something invisible, a directing spirit of perdition that dwelt within, like a malevolent soul in a detestable body. He was anxious to make this clear. This had not been a common affair, everything in it had been of the utmost importance, and fortunately he remembered everything. He wanted to go on talking for truth's sake, perhaps for his own sake also; and while his utterance was deliberate, his mind positively flew round and round the serried circle of facts that had surged up all about him to cut him off from the rest of his kind: it was like a creature that, finding itself imprisoned within an enclosure of high stakes, dashes round and round, distracted in the night, trying to find a weak spot, a crevice, a place to scale, some opening through which it may squeeze itself and escape. This awful activity of mind made him hesitate at times in his speech. . . . 'The captain kept on moving here and there on the bridge; he seemed calm enough, only he stumbled several times; and once as I stood speaking to him he walked right into me as though he had been stone-blind. He made no definite answer to what I had to tell. He mumbled to himself; all I heard of it were a few words that sounded like "confounded steam!" and "infernal steam!"--something about steam. I thought . . .' He was becoming irrelevant; a question to the point cut short his speech, like a pang of pain, and he felt extremely discouraged and weary. He was coming to that, he was coming to that--and now, checked brutally, he had to answer by yes or no. He answered truthfully by a curt 'Yes, I did'; and fair of face, big of frame, with young, gloomy eyes, he held his shoulders upright above the box while his soul writhed within him. He was made to answer another question so much to the point and so useless, then waited again. His mouth was tastelessly dry, as though he had been eating dust, then salt and bitter as after a drink of sea-water. He wiped his damp forehead, passed his tongue over parched lips, felt a shiver run down his back. The big assessor had dropped his eyelids, and drummed on without a sound, careless and mournful; the eyes of the other above the sunburnt, clasped fingers seemed to glow with kindliness; the magistrate had swayed forward; his pale face hovered near the flowers, and then dropping sideways over the arm of his chair, he rested his temple in the palm of his hand. The wind of the punkahs eddied down on the heads, on the dark-faced natives wound about in voluminous draperies, on the Europeans sitting together very hot and in drill suits that seemed to fit them as close as their skins, and holding their round pith hats on their knees; while gliding along the walls the court peons, buttoned tight in long white coats, flitted rapidly to and fro, running on bare toes, red-sashed, red turban on head, as noiseless as ghosts, and on the alert like so many retrievers. Jim's eyes, wandering in the intervals of his answers, rested upon a white man who sat apart from the others, with his face worn and clouded, but with quiet eyes that glanced straight, interested and clear. Jim answered another question and was tempted to cry out, 'What's the good of this! what's the good!' He tapped with his foot slightly, bit his lip, and looked away over the heads. He met the eyes of the white man. The glance directed at him was not the fascinated stare of the others. It was an act of intelligent volition. Jim between two questions forgot himself so far as to find leisure for a thought. This fellow--ran the thought--looks at me as though he could see somebody or something past my shoulder. He had come across that man before--in the street perhaps. He was positive he had never spoken to him. For days, for many days, he had spoken to no one, but had held silent, incoherent, and endless converse with himself, like a prisoner alone in his cell or like a wayfarer lost in a wilderness. At present he was answering questions that did not matter though they had a purpose, but he doubted whether he would ever again speak out as long as he lived. The sound of his own truthful statements confirmed his deliberate opinion that speech was of no use to him any longer. That man there seemed to be aware of his hopeless difficulty. Jim looked at him, then turned away resolutely, as after a final parting. And later on, many times, in distant parts of the world, Marlow showed himself willing to remember Jim, to remember him at length, in detail and audibly. Perhaps it would be after dinner, on a verandah draped in motionless foliage and crowned with flowers, in the deep dusk speckled by fiery cigar-ends. The elongated bulk of each cane-chair harboured a silent listener. Now and then a small red glow would move abruptly, and expanding light up the fingers of a languid hand, part of a face in profound repose, or flash a crimson gleam into a pair of pensive eyes overshadowed by a fragment of an unruffled forehead; and with the very first word uttered Marlow's body, extended at rest in the seat, would become very still, as though his spirit had winged its way back into the lapse of time and were speaking through his lips from the past. 'Oh yes. I attended the inquiry,' he would say, 'and to this day I haven't left off wondering why I went. I am willing to believe each of us has a guardian angel, if you fellows will concede to me that each of us has a familiar devil as well. I want you to own up, because I don't like to feel exceptional in any way, and I know I have him--the devil, I mean. I haven't seen him, of course, but I go upon circumstantial evidence. He is there right enough, and, being malicious, he lets me in for that kind of thing. What kind of thing, you ask? Why, the inquiry thing, the yellow-dog thing--you wouldn't think a mangy, native tyke would be allowed to trip up people in the verandah of a magistrate's court, would you?--the kind of thing that by devious, unexpected, truly diabolical ways causes me to run up against men with soft spots, with hard spots, with hidden plague spots, by Jove! and loosens their tongues at the sight of me for their infernal confidences; as though, forsooth, I had no confidences to make to myself, as though--God help me!--I didn't have enough confidential information about myself to harrow my own soul till the end of my appointed time. And what I have done to be thus favoured I want to know. I declare I am as full of my own concerns as the next man, and I have as much memory as the average pilgrim in this valley, so you see I am not particularly fit to be a receptacle of confessions. Then why? Can't tell--unless it be to make time pass away after dinner. Charley, my dear chap, your dinner was extremely good, and in consequence these men here look upon a quiet rubber as a tumultuous occupation. They wallow in your good chairs and think to themselves, "Hang exertion. Let that Marlow talk." 'Talk? So be it. And it's easy enough to talk of Master Jim, after a good spread, two hundred feet above the sea-level, with a box of decent cigars handy, on a blessed evening of freshness and starlight that would make the best of us forget we are only on sufferance here and got to pick our way in cross lights, watching every precious minute and every irremediable step, trusting we shall manage yet to go out decently in the end--but not so sure of it after all--and with dashed little help to expect from those we touch elbows with right and left. Of course there are men here and there to whom the whole of life is like an after-dinner hour with a cigar; easy, pleasant, empty, perhaps enlivened by some fable of strife to be forgotten before the end is told--before the end is told--even if there happens to be any end to it. 'My eyes met his for the first time at that inquiry. You must know that everybody connected in any way with the sea was there, because the affair had been notorious for days, ever since that mysterious cable message came from Aden to start us all cackling. I say mysterious, because it was so in a sense though it contained a naked fact, about as naked and ugly as a fact can well be. The whole waterside talked of nothing else. First thing in the morning as I was dressing in my state-room, I would hear through the bulkhead my Parsee Dubash jabbering about the Patna with the steward, while he drank a cup of tea, by favour, in the pantry. No sooner on shore I would meet some acquaintance, and the first remark would be, "Did you ever hear of anything to beat this?" and according to his kind the man would smile cynically, or look sad, or let out a swear or two. Complete strangers would accost each other familiarly, just for the sake of easing their minds on the subject: every confounded loafer in the town came in for a harvest of drinks over this affair: you heard of it in the harbour office, at every ship-broker's, at your agent's, from whites, from natives, from half-castes, from the very boatmen squatting half naked on the stone steps as you went up--by Jove! There was some indignation, not a few jokes, and no end of discussions as to what had become of them, you know. This went on for a couple of weeks or more, and the opinion that whatever was mysterious in this affair would turn out to be tragic as well, began to prevail, when one fine morning, as I was standing in the shade by the steps of the harbour office, I perceived four men walking towards me along the quay. I wondered for a while where that queer lot had sprung from, and suddenly, I may say, I shouted to myself, "Here they are!" 'There they were, sure enough, three of them as large as life, and one much larger of girth than any living man has a right to be, just landed with a good breakfast inside of them from an outward-bound Dale Line steamer that had come in about an hour after sunrise. There could be no mistake; I spotted the jolly skipper of the Patna at the first glance: the fattest man in the whole blessed tropical belt clear round that good old earth of ours. Moreover, nine months or so before, I had come across him in Samarang. His steamer was loading in the Roads, and he was abusing the tyrannical institutions of the German empire, and soaking himself in beer all day long and day after day in De Jongh's back-shop, till De Jongh, who charged a guilder for every bottle without as much as the quiver of an eyelid, would beckon me aside, and, with his little leathery face all puckered up, declare confidentially, "Business is business, but this man, captain, he make me very sick. Tfui!" 'I was looking at him from the shade. He was hurrying on a little in advance, and the sunlight beating on him brought out his bulk in a startling way. He made me think of a trained baby elephant walking on hind-legs. He was extravagantly gorgeous too--got up in a soiled sleeping-suit, bright green and deep orange vertical stripes, with a pair of ragged straw slippers on his bare feet, and somebody's cast-off pith hat, very dirty and two sizes too small for him, tied up with a manilla rope-yarn on the top of his big head. You understand a man like that hasn't the ghost of a chance when it comes to borrowing clothes. Very well. On he came in hot haste, without a look right or left, passed within three feet of me, and in the innocence of his heart went on pelting upstairs into the harbour office to make his deposition, or report, or whatever you like to call it. 'It appears he addressed himself in the first instance to the principal shipping-master. Archie Ruthvel had just come in, and, as his story goes, was about to begin his arduous day by giving a dressing-down to his chief clerk. Some of you might have known him--an obliging little Portuguese half-caste with a miserably skinny neck, and always on the hop to get something from the shipmasters in the way of eatables--a piece of salt pork, a bag of biscuits, a few potatoes, or what not. One voyage, I recollect, I tipped him a live sheep out of the remnant of my sea-stock: not that I wanted him to do anything for me--he couldn't, you know--but because his childlike belief in the sacred right to perquisites quite touched my heart. It was so strong as to be almost beautiful. The race--the two races rather--and the climate . . . However, never mind. I know where I have a friend for life. 'Well, Ruthvel says he was giving him a severe lecture--on official morality, I suppose--when he heard a kind of subdued commotion at his back, and turning his head he saw, in his own words, something round and enormous, resembling a sixteen-hundred-weight sugar-hogshead wrapped in striped flannelette, up-ended in the middle of the large floor space in the office. He declares he was so taken aback that for quite an appreciable time he did not realise the thing was alive, and sat still wondering for what purpose and by what means that object had been transported in front of his desk. The archway from the ante-room was crowded with punkah-pullers, sweepers, police peons, the coxswain and crew of the harbour steam-launch, all craning their necks and almost climbing on each other's backs. Quite a riot. By that time the fellow had managed to tug and jerk his hat clear of his head, and advanced with slight bows at Ruthvel, who told me the sight was so discomposing that for some time he listened, quite unable to make out what that apparition wanted. It spoke in a voice harsh and lugubrious but intrepid, and little by little it dawned upon Archie that this was a development of the Patna case. He says that as soon as he understood who it was before him he felt quite unwell--Archie is so sympathetic and easily upset--but pulled himself together and shouted "Stop! I can't listen to you. You must go to the Master Attendant. I can't possibly listen to you. Captain Elliot is the man you want to see. This way, this way." He jumped up, ran round that long counter, pulled, shoved: the other let him, surprised but obedient at first, and only at the door of the private office some sort of animal instinct made him hang back and snort like a frightened bullock. "Look here! what's up? Let go! Look here!" Archie flung open the door without knocking. "The master of the Patna, sir," he shouts. "Go in, captain." He saw the old man lift his head from some writing so sharp that his nose-nippers fell off, banged the door to, and fled to his desk, where he had some papers waiting for his signature: but he says the row that burst out in there was so awful that he couldn't collect his senses sufficiently to remember the spelling of his own name. Archie's the most sensitive shipping-master in the two hemispheres. He declares he felt as though he had thrown a man to a hungry lion. No doubt the noise was great. I heard it down below, and I have every reason to believe it was heard clear across the Esplanade as far as the band-stand. Old father Elliot had a great stock of words and could shout--and didn't mind who he shouted at either. He would have shouted at the Viceroy himself. As he used to tell me: "I am as high as I can get; my pension is safe. I've a few pounds laid by, and if they don't like my notions of duty I would just as soon go home as not. I am an old man, and I have always spoken my mind. All I care for now is to see my girls married before I die." He was a little crazy on that point. His three daughters were awfully nice, though they resembled him amazingly, and on the mornings he woke up with a gloomy view of their matrimonial prospects the office would read it in his eye and tremble, because, they said, he was sure to have somebody for breakfast. However, that morning he did not eat the renegade, but, if I may be allowed to carry on the metaphor, chewed him up very small, so to speak, and--ah! ejected him again. 'Thus in a very few moments I saw his monstrous bulk descend in haste and stand still on the outer steps. He had stopped close to me for the purpose of profound meditation: his large purple cheeks quivered. He was biting his thumb, and after a while noticed me with a sidelong vexed look. The other three chaps that had landed with him made a little group waiting at some distance. There was a sallow-faced, mean little chap with his arm in a sling, and a long individual in a blue flannel coat, as dry as a chip and no stouter than a broomstick, with drooping grey moustaches, who looked about him with an air of jaunty imbecility. The third was an upstanding, broad-shouldered youth, with his hands in his pockets, turning his back on the other two who appeared to be talking together earnestly. He stared across the empty Esplanade. A ramshackle gharry, all dust and venetian blinds, pulled up short opposite the group, and the driver, throwing up his right foot over his knee, gave himself up to the critical examination of his toes. The young chap, making no movement, not even stirring his head, just stared into the sunshine. This was my first view of Jim. He looked as unconcerned and unapproachable as only the young can look. There he stood, clean-limbed, clean-faced, firm on his feet, as promising a boy as the sun ever shone on; and, looking at him, knowing all he knew and a little more too, I was as angry as though I had detected him trying to get something out of me by false pretences. He had no business to look so sound. I thought to myself--well, if this sort can go wrong like that . . . and I felt as though I could fling down my hat and dance on it from sheer mortification, as I once saw the skipper of an Italian barque do because his duffer of a mate got into a mess with his anchors when making a flying moor in a roadstead full of ships. I asked myself, seeing him there apparently so much at ease--is he silly? is he callous? He seemed ready to start whistling a tune. And note, I did not care a rap about the behaviour of the other two. Their persons somehow fitted the tale that was public property, and was going to be the subject of an official inquiry. "That old mad rogue upstairs called me a hound," said the captain of the Patna. I can't tell whether he recognised me--I rather think he did; but at any rate our glances met. He glared--I smiled; hound was the very mildest epithet that had reached me through the open window. "Did he?" I said from some strange inability to hold my tongue. He nodded, bit his thumb again, swore under his breath: then lifting his head and looking at me with sullen and passionate impudence--"Bah! the Pacific is big, my friendt. You damned Englishmen can do your worst; I know where there's plenty room for a man like me: I am well aguaindt in Apia, in Honolulu, in . . ." He paused reflectively, while without effort I could depict to myself the sort of people he was "aguaindt" with in those places. I won't make a secret of it that I had been "aguaindt" with not a few of that sort myself. There are times when a man must act as though life were equally sweet in any company. I've known such a time, and, what's more, I shan't now pretend to pull a long face over my necessity, because a good many of that bad company from want of moral--moral--what shall I say?--posture, or from some other equally profound cause, were twice as instructive and twenty times more amusing than the usual respectable thief of commerce you fellows ask to sit at your table without any real necessity--from habit, from cowardice, from good-nature, from a hundred sneaking and inadequate reasons. '"You Englishmen are all rogues," went on my patriotic Flensborg or Stettin Australian. I really don't recollect now what decent little port on the shores of the Baltic was defiled by being the nest of that precious bird. "What are you to shout? Eh? You tell me? You no better than other people, and that old rogue he make Gottam fuss with me." His thick carcass trembled on its legs that were like a pair of pillars; it trembled from head to foot. "That's what you English always make--make a tam' fuss--for any little thing, because I was not born in your tam' country. Take away my certificate. Take it. I don't want the certificate. A man like me don't want your verfluchte certificate. I shpit on it." He spat. "I vill an Amerigan citizen begome," he cried, fretting and fuming and shuffling his feet as if to free his ankles from some invisible and mysterious grasp that would not let him get away from that spot. He made himself so warm that the top of his bullet head positively smoked. Nothing mysterious prevented me from going away: curiosity is the most obvious of sentiments, and it held me there to see the effect of a full information upon that young fellow who, hands in pockets, and turning his back upon the sidewalk, gazed across the grass-plots of the Esplanade at the yellow portico of the Malabar Hotel with the air of a man about to go for a walk as soon as his friend is ready. That's how he looked, and it was odious. I waited to see him overwhelmed, confounded, pierced through and through, squirming like an impaled beetle--and I was half afraid to see it too--if you understand what I mean. Nothing more awful than to watch a man who has been found out, not in a crime but in a more than criminal weakness. The commonest sort of fortitude prevents us from becoming criminals in a legal sense; it is from weakness unknown, but perhaps suspected, as in some parts of the world you suspect a deadly snake in every bush--from weakness that may lie hidden, watched or unwatched, prayed against or manfully scorned, repressed or maybe ignored more than half a lifetime, not one of us is safe. We are snared into doing things for which we get called names, and things for which we get hanged, and yet the spirit may well survive--survive the condemnation, survive the halter, by Jove! And there are things--they look small enough sometimes too--by which some of us are totally and completely undone. I watched the youngster there. I liked his appearance; I knew his appearance; he came from the right place; he was one of us. He stood there for all the parentage of his kind, for men and women by no means clever or amusing, but whose very existence is based upon honest faith, and upon the instinct of courage. I don't mean military courage, or civil courage, or any special kind of courage. I mean just that inborn ability to look temptations straight in the face--a readiness unintellectual enough, goodness knows, but without pose--a power of resistance, don't you see, ungracious if you like, but priceless--an unthinking and blessed stiffness before the outward and inward terrors, before the might of nature and the seductive corruption of men--backed by a faith invulnerable to the strength of facts, to the contagion of example, to the solicitation of ideas. Hang ideas! They are tramps, vagabonds, knocking at the back-door of your mind, each taking a little of your substance, each carrying away some crumb of that belief in a few simple notions you must cling to if you want to live decently and would like to die easy! 'This has nothing to do with Jim, directly; only he was outwardly so typical of that good, stupid kind we like to feel marching right and left of us in life, of the kind that is not disturbed by the vagaries of intelligence and the perversions of--of nerves, let us say. He was the kind of fellow you would, on the strength of his looks, leave in charge of the deck--figuratively and professionally speaking. I say I would, and I ought to know. Haven't I turned out youngsters enough in my time, for the service of the Red Rag, to the craft of the sea, to the craft whose whole secret could be expressed in one short sentence, and yet must be driven afresh every day into young heads till it becomes the component part of every waking thought--till it is present in every dream of their young sleep! The sea has been good to me, but when I remember all these boys that passed through my hands, some grown up now and some drowned by this time, but all good stuff for the sea, I don't think I have done badly by it either. Were I to go home to-morrow, I bet that before two days passed over my head some sunburnt young chief mate would overtake me at some dock gateway or other, and a fresh deep voice speaking above my hat would ask: "Don't you remember me, sir? Why! little So-and-so. Such and such a ship. It was my first voyage." And I would remember a bewildered little shaver, no higher than the back of this chair, with a mother and perhaps a big sister on the quay, very quiet but too upset to wave their handkerchiefs at the ship that glides out gently between the pier-heads; or perhaps some decent middle-aged father who had come early with his boy to see him off, and stays all the morning, because he is interested in the windlass apparently, and stays too long, and has got to scramble ashore at last with no time at all to say good-bye. The mud pilot on the poop sings out to me in a drawl, "Hold her with the check line for a moment, Mister Mate. There's a gentleman wants to get ashore. . . . Up with you, sir. Nearly got carried off to Talcahuano, didn't you? Now's your time; easy does it. . . . All right. Slack away again forward there." The tugs, smoking like the pit of perdition, get hold and churn the old river into fury; the gentleman ashore is dusting his knees--the benevolent steward has shied his umbrella after him. All very proper. He has offered his bit of sacrifice to the sea, and now he may go home pretending he thinks nothing of it; and the little willing victim shall be very sea-sick before next morning. By-and-by, when he has learned all the little mysteries and the one great secret of the craft, he shall be fit to live or die as the sea may decree; and the man who had taken a hand in this fool game, in which the sea wins every toss, will be pleased to have his back slapped by a heavy young hand, and to hear a cheery sea-puppy voice: "Do you remember me, sir? The little So-and-so." 'I tell you this is good; it tells you that once in your life at least you had gone the right way to work. I have been thus slapped, and I have winced, for the slap was heavy, and I have glowed all day long and gone to bed feeling less lonely in the world by virtue of that hearty thump. Don't I remember the little So-and-so's! I tell you I ought to know the right kind of looks. I would have trusted the deck to that youngster on the strength of a single glance, and gone to sleep with both eyes--and, by Jove! it wouldn't have been safe. There are depths of horror in that thought. He looked as genuine as a new sovereign, but there was some infernal alloy in his metal. How much? The least thing--the least drop of something rare and accursed; the least drop!--but he made you--standing there with his don't-care-hang air--he made you wonder whether perchance he were nothing more rare than brass. 'I couldn't believe it. I tell you I wanted to see him squirm for the honour of the craft. The other two no-account chaps spotted their captain, and began to move slowly towards us. They chatted together as they strolled, and I did not care any more than if they had not been visible to the naked eye. They grinned at each other--might have been exchanging jokes, for all I know. I saw that with one of them it was a case of a broken arm; and as to the long individual with grey moustaches he was the chief engineer, and in various ways a pretty notorious personality. They were nobodies. They approached. The skipper gazed in an inanimate way between his feet: he seemed to be swollen to an unnatural size by some awful disease, by the mysterious action of an unknown poison. He lifted his head, saw the two before him waiting, opened his mouth with an extraordinary, sneering contortion of his puffed face--to speak to them, I suppose--and then a thought seemed to strike him. His thick, purplish lips came together without a sound, he went off in a resolute waddle to the gharry and began to jerk at the door-handle with such a blind brutality of impatience that I expected to see the whole concern overturned on its side, pony and all. The driver, shaken out of his meditation over the sole of his foot, displayed at once all the signs of intense terror, and held with both hands, looking round from his box at this vast carcass forcing its way into his conveyance. The little machine shook and rocked tumultuously, and the crimson nape of that lowered neck, the size of those straining thighs, the immense heaving of that dingy, striped green-and-orange back, the whole burrowing effort of that gaudy and sordid mass, troubled one's sense of probability with a droll and fearsome effect, like one of those grotesque and distinct visions that scare and fascinate one in a fever. He disappeared. I half expected the roof to split in two, the little box on wheels to burst open in the manner of a ripe cotton-pod--but it only sank with a click of flattened springs, and suddenly one venetian blind rattled down. His shoulders reappeared, jammed in the small opening; his head hung out, distended and tossing like a captive balloon, perspiring, furious, spluttering. He reached for the gharry-wallah with vicious flourishes of a fist as dumpy and red as a lump of raw meat. He roared at him to be off, to go on. Where? Into the Pacific, perhaps. The driver lashed; the pony snorted, reared once, and darted off at a gallop. Where? To Apia? To Honolulu? He had 6000 miles of tropical belt to disport himself in, and I did not hear the precise address. A snorting pony snatched him into "Ewigkeit" in the twinkling of an eye, and I never saw him again; and, what's more, I don't know of anybody that ever had a glimpse of him after he departed from my knowledge sitting inside a ramshackle little gharry that fled round the corner in a white smother of dust. He departed, disappeared, vanished, absconded; and absurdly enough it looked as though he had taken that gharry with him, for never again did I come across a sorrel pony with a slit ear and a lackadaisical Tamil driver afflicted by a sore foot. The Pacific is indeed big; but whether he found a place for a display of his talents in it or not, the fact remains he had flown into space like a witch on a broomstick. The little chap with his arm in a sling started to run after the carriage, bleating, "Captain! I say, Captain! I sa-a-ay!"--but after a few steps stopped short, hung his head, and walked back slowly. At the sharp rattle of the wheels the young fellow spun round where he stood. He made no other movement, no gesture, no sign, and remained facing in the new direction after the gharry had swung out of sight. 'All this happened in much less time than it takes to tell, since I am trying to interpret for you into slow speech the instantaneous effect of visual impressions. Next moment the half-caste clerk, sent by Archie to look a little after the poor castaways of the Patna, came upon the scene. He ran out eager and bareheaded, looking right and left, and very full of his mission. It was doomed to be a failure as far as the principal person was concerned, but he approached the others with fussy importance, and, almost immediately, found himself involved in a violent altercation with the chap that carried his arm in a sling, and who turned out to be extremely anxious for a row. He wasn't going to be ordered about--"not he, b'gosh." He wouldn't be terrified with a pack of lies by a cocky half-bred little quill-driver. He was not going to be bullied by "no object of that sort," if the story were true "ever so"! He bawled his wish, his desire, his determination to go to bed. "If you weren't a God-forsaken Portuguee," I heard him yell, "you would know that the hospital is the right place for me." He pushed the fist of his sound arm under the other's nose; a crowd began to collect; the half-caste, flustered, but doing his best to appear dignified, tried to explain his intentions. I went away without waiting to see the end. 'But it so happened that I had a man in the hospital at the time, and going there to see about him the day before the opening of the Inquiry, I saw in the white men's ward that little chap tossing on his back, with his arm in splints, and quite light-headed. To my great surprise the other one, the long individual with drooping white moustache, had also found his way there. I remembered I had seen him slinking away during the quarrel, in a half prance, half shuffle, and trying very hard not to look scared. He was no stranger to the port, it seems, and in his distress was able to make tracks straight for Mariani's billiard-room and grog-shop near the bazaar. That unspeakable vagabond, Mariani, who had known the man and had ministered to his vices in one or two other places, kissed the ground, in a manner of speaking, before him, and shut him up with a supply of bottles in an upstairs room of his infamous hovel. It appears he was under some hazy apprehension as to his personal safety, and wished to be concealed. However, Mariani told me a long time after (when he came on board one day to dun my steward for the price of some cigars) that he would have done more for him without asking any questions, from gratitude for some unholy favour received very many years ago--as far as I could make out. He thumped twice his brawny chest, rolled enormous black-and-white eyes glistening with tears: "Antonio never forget--Antonio never forget!" What was the precise nature of the immoral obligation I never learned, but be it what it may, he had every facility given him to remain under lock and key, with a chair, a table, a mattress in a corner, and a litter of fallen plaster on the floor, in an irrational state of funk, and keeping up his pecker with such tonics as Mariani dispensed. This lasted till the evening of the third day, when, after letting out a few horrible screams, he found himself compelled to seek safety in flight from a legion of centipedes. He burst the door open, made one leap for dear life down the crazy little stairway, landed bodily on Mariani's stomach, picked himself up, and bolted like a rabbit into the streets. The police plucked him off a garbage-heap in the early morning. At first he had a notion they were carrying him off to be hanged, and fought for liberty like a hero, but when I sat down by his bed he had been very quiet for two days. His lean bronzed head, with white moustaches, looked fine and calm on the pillow, like the head of a war-worn soldier with a child-like soul, had it not been for a hint of spectral alarm that lurked in the blank glitter of his glance, resembling a nondescript form of a terror crouching silently behind a pane of glass. He was so extremely calm, that I began to indulge in the eccentric hope of hearing something explanatory of the famous affair from his point of view. Why I longed to go grubbing into the deplorable details of an occurrence which, after all, concerned me no more than as a member of an obscure body of men held together by a community of inglorious toil and by fidelity to a certain standard of conduct, I can't explain. You may call it an unhealthy curiosity if you like; but I have a distinct notion I wished to find something. Perhaps, unconsciously, I hoped I would find that something, some profound and redeeming cause, some merciful explanation, some convincing shadow of an excuse. I see well enough now that I hoped for the impossible--for the laying of what is the most obstinate ghost of man's creation, of the uneasy doubt uprising like a mist, secret and gnawing like a worm, and more chilling than the certitude of death--the doubt of the sovereign power enthroned in a fixed standard of conduct. It is the hardest thing to stumble against; it is the thing that breeds yelling panics and good little quiet villainies; it's the true shadow of calamity. Did I believe in a miracle? and why did I desire it so ardently? Was it for my own sake that I wished to find some shadow of an excuse for that young fellow whom I had never seen before, but whose appearance alone added a touch of personal concern to the thoughts suggested by the knowledge of his weakness--made it a thing of mystery and terror--like a hint of a destructive fate ready for us all whose youth--in its day--had resembled his youth? I fear that such was the secret motive of my prying. I was, and no mistake, looking for a miracle. The only thing that at this distance of time strikes me as miraculous is the extent of my imbecility. I positively hoped to obtain from that battered and shady invalid some exorcism against the ghost of doubt. I must have been pretty desperate too, for, without loss of time, after a few indifferent and friendly sentences which he answered with languid readiness, just as any decent sick man would do, I produced the word Patna wrapped up in a delicate question as in a wisp of floss silk. I was delicate selfishly; I did not want to startle him; I had no solicitude for him; I was not furious with him and sorry for him: his experience was of no importance, his redemption would have had no point for me. He had grown old in minor iniquities, and could no longer inspire aversion or pity. He repeated Patna? interrogatively, seemed to make a short effort of memory, and said: "Quite right. I am an old stager out here. I saw her go down." I made ready to vent my indignation at such a stupid lie, when he added smoothly, "She was full of reptiles." 'This made me pause. What did he mean? The unsteady phantom of terror behind his glassy eyes seemed to stand still and look into mine wistfully. "They turned me out of my bunk in the middle watch to look at her sinking," he pursued in a reflective tone. His voice sounded alarmingly strong all at once. I was sorry for my folly. There was no snowy-winged coif of a nursing sister to be seen flitting in the perspective of the ward; but away in the middle of a long row of empty iron bedsteads an accident case from some ship in the Roads sat up brown and gaunt with a white bandage set rakishly on the forehead. Suddenly my interesting invalid shot out an arm thin like a tentacle and clawed my shoulder. "Only my eyes were good enough to see. I am famous for my eyesight. That's why they called me, I expect. None of them was quick enough to see her go, but they saw that she was gone right enough, and sang out together--like this." . . . A wolfish howl searched the very recesses of my soul. "Oh! make 'im dry up," whined the accident case irritably. "You don't believe me, I suppose," went on the other, with an air of ineffable conceit. "I tell you there are no such eyes as mine this side of the Persian Gulf. Look under the bed." 'Of course I stooped instantly. I defy anybody not to have done so. "What can you see?" he asked. "Nothing," I said, feeling awfully ashamed of myself. He scrutinised my face with wild and withering contempt. "Just so," he said, "but if I were to look I could see--there's no eyes like mine, I tell you." Again he clawed, pulling at me downwards in his eagerness to relieve himself by a confidential communication. "Millions of pink toads. There's no eyes like mine. Millions of pink toads. It's worse than seeing a ship sink. I could look at sinking ships and smoke my pipe all day long. Why don't they give me back my pipe? I would get a smoke while I watched these toads. The ship was full of them. They've got to be watched, you know." He winked facetiously. The perspiration dripped on him off my head, my drill coat clung to my wet back: the afternoon breeze swept impetuously over the row of bedsteads, the stiff folds of curtains stirred perpendicularly, rattling on brass rods, the covers of empty beds blew about noiselessly near the bare floor all along the line, and I shivered to the very marrow. The soft wind of the tropics played in that naked ward as bleak as a winter's gale in an old barn at home. "Don't you let him start his hollering, mister," hailed from afar the accident case in a distressed angry shout that came ringing between the walls like a quavering call down a tunnel. The clawing hand hauled at my shoulder; he leered at me knowingly. "The ship was full of them, you know, and we had to clear out on the strict Q.T.," he whispered with extreme rapidity. "All pink. All pink--as big as mastiffs, with an eye on the top of the head and claws all round their ugly mouths. Ough! Ough!" Quick jerks as of galvanic shocks disclosed under the flat coverlet the outlines of meagre and agitated legs; he let go my shoulder and reached after something in the air; his body trembled tensely like a released harp-string; and while I looked down, the spectral horror in him broke through his glassy gaze. Instantly his face of an old soldier, with its noble and calm outlines, became decomposed before my eyes by the corruption of stealthy cunning, of an abominable caution and of desperate fear. He restrained a cry--"Ssh! what are they doing now down there?" he asked, pointing to the floor with fantastic precautions of voice and gesture, whose meaning, borne upon my mind in a lurid flash, made me very sick of my cleverness. "They are all asleep," I answered, watching him narrowly. That was it. That's what he wanted to hear; these were the exact words that could calm him. He drew a long breath. "Ssh! Quiet, steady. I am an old stager out here. I know them brutes. Bash in the head of the first that stirs. There's too many of them, and she won't swim more than ten minutes." He panted again. "Hurry up," he yelled suddenly, and went on in a steady scream: "They are all awake--millions of them. They are trampling on me! Wait! Oh, wait! I'll smash them in heaps like flies. Wait for me! Help! H-e-elp!" An interminable and sustained howl completed my discomfiture. I saw in the distance the accident case raise deplorably both his hands to his bandaged head; a dresser, aproned to the chin showed himself in the vista of the ward, as if seen in the small end of a telescope. I confessed myself fairly routed, and without more ado, stepping out through one of the long windows, escaped into the outside gallery. The howl pursued me like a vengeance. I turned into a deserted landing, and suddenly all became very still and quiet around me, and I descended the bare and shiny staircase in a silence that enabled me to compose my distracted thoughts. Down below I met one of the resident surgeons who was crossing the courtyard and stopped me. "Been to see your man, Captain? I think we may let him go to-morrow. These fools have no notion of taking care of themselves, though. I say, we've got the chief engineer of that pilgrim ship here. A curious case. D.T.'s of the worst kind. He has been drinking hard in that Greek's or Italian's grog-shop for three days. What can you expect? Four bottles of that kind of brandy a day, I am told. Wonderful, if true. Sheeted with boiler-iron inside I should think. The head, ah! the head, of course, gone, but the curious part is there's some sort of method in his raving. I am trying to find out. Most unusual--that thread of logic in such a delirium. Traditionally he ought to see snakes, but he doesn't. Good old tradition's at a discount nowadays. Eh! His--er--visions are batrachian. Ha! ha! No, seriously, I never remember being so interested in a case of jim-jams before. He ought to be dead, don't you know, after such a festive experiment. Oh! he is a tough object. Four-and-twenty years of the tropics too. You ought really to take a peep at him. Noble-looking old boozer. Most extraordinary man I ever met--medically, of course. Won't you?" 'I have been all along exhibiting the usual polite signs of interest, but now assuming an air of regret I murmured of want of time, and shook hands in a hurry. "I say," he cried after me; "he can't attend that inquiry. Is his evidence material, you think?" '"Not in the least," I called back from the gateway.'

Chapters 4-5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-4-5

The narrative jumps ahead a month or so, creating suspense regarding actually occurred on the Patna. Jim is now being questioned about the incident, via the official Inquiry of a police court in an unnamed English port town. He experiences an intense distance between the "facts" pursued by the assessors--one with "thoughtful blue eyes" and the other "heavy, scornful"--and his actual experience. Jim believes there was a collision with a "water-logged wreck," which created a "big hole below the waterline" . Jim says he was fearful of a great mob panic and certain the steamer would sink like a "lump of lead," and he now attempts to justify his actions and emotions at the time of the incident. For the reader, the real story is still cloaked in narrative mystery. As Jim scans the audience from the witness box, his eyes meet those of another man--who proves to be Marlow. The narrative cuts to Marlow on a "verandah draped in motionless foliage and crowned with flowers" . He now lifts the thread of the preceding narrative by remarking, "My eyes met his for the first time at that inquiry," and he points out the notoriety of the affair, how it had been the subject of much talk . Near the harbor office, he sees the four men involved in the incident along the quay--his "first view" of Jim. In the hospital visiting one of his men, Marlow realizes that one of the castaways from the Patna is a patient, a man with a "drooping white moustache" . Tempted by the possibility of a firsthand account of the affair, Marlow inquires gently. The man asserts, "I saw her go down." He seems delusional with his visions of reptiles filling up the ship. Marlow concludes that the man's account is not material to the inquiry.

The narrative has jumped ahead in time and, while creating dramatic suspense, it also marks the beginning of Conrad's inventive "piecing together" of the story of Jim. As the storyline leaps from the moment of strange vibration beneath the steamship to Jim's place on the witness stand, and then as he is questioned about the occurrence, the reader wonders what happened on the ship. Did Jim prove his mettle, and what was the fate of the hundreds of Muslim passengers on board? Despite the reader's position as inquirer, the narrator's perspective is omniscient, since the reader is told what is actually going on in Jim's mind as he offers his testimony about the facts. The disparity Jim experiences between the facts that the inquiry requires him to tell and his memory of the actual experience is crucial, and this difference is a fundamental problem that obsessively characterizes much of Conrad's work. Slim, cold facts can seldom provide more than a skeletal frame for any story or event or person. The rest of the picture is far more ambiguous and flexible, involving emotions, memory, and perception. These items can have a distorting effect on the facts, but they lend fullness to the understanding. Conrad apparently suggests that despite the risk of distortion, relaying the depth of experience is perhaps the best way to convey human truths. The narrative experiences a profound shift in perspective from the moment Jim looks out from his witness box, and at this point Marlow appears in the reader's eye. The change happens at the moment their eyes first touch. Jim, the reader learns, has experienced a feeling of kindred spirit or of some kind of intelligent and understanding communion, as though he knows Marlow already. This moment of recognition foreshadows the close relationship that will form between them, and it reinforces the repeated statement to be made by Marlow that Jim "is one of us." The glimpse of solidarity at that moment is important to Jim, whose mental state is not unlike that of a "prisoner" or a "wayfarer lost in a wilderness." Though the reader is in suspense regarding the fate of the ship and its passengers, as well as how Jim has come to be in the witness box, the reader is led to a sense of trust in Marlow, precisely because of Jim's initial impression. From there, Marlow becomes the teller of the story, sitting at a verandah before an audience, relating how Jim's eyes first met his during the inquiry. Marlow's perspective on Jim is both sympathetic and critical. When the novel shifts entirely into Marlow's voice, we infer that it is really Conrad's in a new guise, providing a kind of border-sphere around Jim's story.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/91.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_90_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 12.chapter 12

book 12, chapter 12

{"name": "Book 12, Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-12", "summary": "In this portion of his speech, Fetyukovich sets out to establish a plausible explanation for Smerdyakov as Fyodor's murderer. After dismissing Grigory's testimony , Fetyukovich proceeds to tell the court about his own impressions on meeting Smerdyakov. In contrast to the prosecutor's description of Smerdyakov as a weak, bullied man, Fetyukovich paints a picture of him as a wily, spiteful man who knew exactly what he was doing when he set up Dmitri. Fetyukovich then points out that Smerdyakov had plenty of time to commit Fyodor's murder between the time Dmitri attacked Grigory and the time Grigory fully recovered consciousness. At this point Fetyukovich takes on a \"heartfelt\" voice, in contrast to the calm, sensible way he had proceeded thus far.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XII. And There Was No Murder Either "Allow me, gentlemen of the jury, to remind you that a man's life is at stake and that you must be careful. We have heard the prosecutor himself admit that until to-day he hesitated to accuse the prisoner of a full and conscious premeditation of the crime; he hesitated till he saw that fatal drunken letter which was produced in court to-day. 'All was done as written.' But, I repeat again, he was running to her, to seek her, solely to find out where she was. That's a fact that can't be disputed. Had she been at home, he would not have run away, but would have remained at her side, and so would not have done what he promised in the letter. He ran unexpectedly and accidentally, and by that time very likely he did not even remember his drunken letter. 'He snatched up the pestle,' they say, and you will remember how a whole edifice of psychology was built on that pestle--why he was bound to look at that pestle as a weapon, to snatch it up, and so on, and so on. A very commonplace idea occurs to me at this point: What if that pestle had not been in sight, had not been lying on the shelf from which it was snatched by the prisoner, but had been put away in a cupboard? It would not have caught the prisoner's eye, and he would have run away without a weapon, with empty hands, and then he would certainly not have killed any one. How then can I look upon the pestle as a proof of premeditation? "Yes, but he talked in the taverns of murdering his father, and two days before, on the evening when he wrote his drunken letter, he was quiet and only quarreled with a shopman in the tavern, because a Karamazov could not help quarreling, forsooth! But my answer to that is, that, if he was planning such a murder in accordance with his letter, he certainly would not have quarreled even with a shopman, and probably would not have gone into the tavern at all, because a person plotting such a crime seeks quiet and retirement, seeks to efface himself, to avoid being seen and heard, and that not from calculation, but from instinct. Gentlemen of the jury, the psychological method is a two-edged weapon, and we, too, can use it. As for all this shouting in taverns throughout the month, don't we often hear children, or drunkards coming out of taverns shout, 'I'll kill you'? but they don't murder any one. And that fatal letter--isn't that simply drunken irritability, too? Isn't that simply the shout of the brawler outside the tavern, 'I'll kill you! I'll kill the lot of you!' Why not, why could it not be that? What reason have we to call that letter 'fatal' rather than absurd? Because his father has been found murdered, because a witness saw the prisoner running out of the garden with a weapon in his hand, and was knocked down by him: therefore, we are told, everything was done as he had planned in writing, and the letter was not 'absurd,' but 'fatal.' "Now, thank God! we've come to the real point: 'since he was in the garden, he must have murdered him.' In those few words: 'since he _was_, then he _must_' lies the whole case for the prosecution. He was there, so he must have. And what if there is no _must_ about it, even if he was there? Oh, I admit that the chain of evidence--the coincidences--are really suggestive. But examine all these facts separately, regardless of their connection. Why, for instance, does the prosecution refuse to admit the truth of the prisoner's statement that he ran away from his father's window? Remember the sarcasms in which the prosecutor indulged at the expense of the respectful and 'pious' sentiments which suddenly came over the murderer. But what if there were something of the sort, a feeling of religious awe, if not of filial respect? 'My mother must have been praying for me at that moment,' were the prisoner's words at the preliminary inquiry, and so he ran away as soon as he convinced himself that Madame Svyetlov was not in his father's house. 'But he could not convince himself by looking through the window,' the prosecutor objects. But why couldn't he? Why? The window opened at the signals given by the prisoner. Some word might have been uttered by Fyodor Pavlovitch, some exclamation which showed the prisoner that she was not there. Why should we assume everything as we imagine it, as we make up our minds to imagine it? A thousand things may happen in reality which elude the subtlest imagination. " 'Yes, but Grigory saw the door open and so the prisoner certainly was in the house, therefore he killed him.' Now about that door, gentlemen of the jury.... Observe that we have only the statement of one witness as to that door, and he was at the time in such a condition, that-- But supposing the door was open; supposing the prisoner has lied in denying it, from an instinct of self-defense, natural in his position; supposing he did go into the house--well, what then? How does it follow that because he was there he committed the murder? He might have dashed in, run through the rooms; might have pushed his father away; might have struck him; but as soon as he had made sure Madame Svyetlov was not there, he may have run away rejoicing that she was not there and that he had not killed his father. And it was perhaps just because he had escaped from the temptation to kill his father, because he had a clear conscience and was rejoicing at not having killed him, that he was capable of a pure feeling, the feeling of pity and compassion, and leapt off the fence a minute later to the assistance of Grigory after he had, in his excitement, knocked him down. "With terrible eloquence the prosecutor has described to us the dreadful state of the prisoner's mind at Mokroe when love again lay before him calling him to new life, while love was impossible for him because he had his father's bloodstained corpse behind him and beyond that corpse--retribution. And yet the prosecutor allowed him love, which he explained, according to his method, talking about his drunken condition, about a criminal being taken to execution, about it being still far off, and so on and so on. But again I ask, Mr. Prosecutor, have you not invented a new personality? Is the prisoner so coarse and heartless as to be able to think at that moment of love and of dodges to escape punishment, if his hands were really stained with his father's blood? No, no, no! As soon as it was made plain to him that she loved him and called him to her side, promising him new happiness, oh! then, I protest he must have felt the impulse to suicide doubled, trebled, and must have killed himself, if he had his father's murder on his conscience. Oh, no! he would not have forgotten where his pistols lay! I know the prisoner: the savage, stony heartlessness ascribed to him by the prosecutor is inconsistent with his character. He would have killed himself, that's certain. He did not kill himself just because 'his mother's prayers had saved him,' and he was innocent of his father's blood. He was troubled, he was grieving that night at Mokroe only about old Grigory and praying to God that the old man would recover, that his blow had not been fatal, and that he would not have to suffer for it. Why not accept such an interpretation of the facts? What trustworthy proof have we that the prisoner is lying? "But we shall be told at once again, 'There is his father's corpse! If he ran away without murdering him, who did murder him?' Here, I repeat, you have the whole logic of the prosecution. Who murdered him, if not he? There's no one to put in his place. "Gentlemen of the jury, is that really so? Is it positively, actually true that there is no one else at all? We've heard the prosecutor count on his fingers all the persons who were in that house that night. They were five in number; three of them, I agree, could not have been responsible--the murdered man himself, old Grigory, and his wife. There are left then the prisoner and Smerdyakov, and the prosecutor dramatically exclaims that the prisoner pointed to Smerdyakov because he had no one else to fix on, that had there been a sixth person, even a phantom of a sixth person, he would have abandoned the charge against Smerdyakov at once in shame and have accused that other. But, gentlemen of the jury, why may I not draw the very opposite conclusion? There are two persons--the prisoner and Smerdyakov. Why can I not say that you accuse my client, simply because you have no one else to accuse? And you have no one else only because you have determined to exclude Smerdyakov from all suspicion. "It's true, indeed, Smerdyakov is accused only by the prisoner, his two brothers, and Madame Svyetlov. But there are others who accuse him: there are vague rumors of a question, of a suspicion, an obscure report, a feeling of expectation. Finally, we have the evidence of a combination of facts very suggestive, though, I admit, inconclusive. In the first place we have precisely on the day of the catastrophe that fit, for the genuineness of which the prosecutor, for some reason, has felt obliged to make a careful defense. Then Smerdyakov's sudden suicide on the eve of the trial. Then the equally startling evidence given in court to-day by the elder of the prisoner's brothers, who had believed in his guilt, but has to-day produced a bundle of notes and proclaimed Smerdyakov as the murderer. Oh, I fully share the court's and the prosecutor's conviction that Ivan Karamazov is suffering from brain fever, that his statement may really be a desperate effort, planned in delirium, to save his brother by throwing the guilt on the dead man. But again Smerdyakov's name is pronounced, again there is a suggestion of mystery. There is something unexplained, incomplete. And perhaps it may one day be explained. But we won't go into that now. Of that later. "The court has resolved to go on with the trial, but, meantime, I might make a few remarks about the character-sketch of Smerdyakov drawn with subtlety and talent by the prosecutor. But while I admire his talent I cannot agree with him. I have visited Smerdyakov, I have seen him and talked to him, and he made a very different impression on me. He was weak in health, it is true; but in character, in spirit, he was by no means the weak man the prosecutor has made him out to be. I found in him no trace of the timidity on which the prosecutor so insisted. There was no simplicity about him, either. I found in him, on the contrary, an extreme mistrustfulness concealed under a mask of _naivete_, and an intelligence of considerable range. The prosecutor was too simple in taking him for weak-minded. He made a very definite impression on me: I left him with the conviction that he was a distinctly spiteful creature, excessively ambitious, vindictive, and intensely envious. I made some inquiries: he resented his parentage, was ashamed of it, and would clench his teeth when he remembered that he was the son of 'stinking Lizaveta.' He was disrespectful to the servant Grigory and his wife, who had cared for him in his childhood. He cursed and jeered at Russia. He dreamed of going to France and becoming a Frenchman. He used often to say that he hadn't the means to do so. I fancy he loved no one but himself and had a strangely high opinion of himself. His conception of culture was limited to good clothes, clean shirt-fronts and polished boots. Believing himself to be the illegitimate son of Fyodor Pavlovitch (there is evidence of this), he might well have resented his position, compared with that of his master's legitimate sons. They had everything, he nothing. They had all the rights, they had the inheritance, while he was only the cook. He told me himself that he had helped Fyodor Pavlovitch to put the notes in the envelope. The destination of that sum--a sum which would have made his career--must have been hateful to him. Moreover, he saw three thousand roubles in new rainbow-colored notes. (I asked him about that on purpose.) Oh, beware of showing an ambitious and envious man a large sum of money at once! And it was the first time he had seen so much money in the hands of one man. The sight of the rainbow-colored notes may have made a morbid impression on his imagination, but with no immediate results. "The talented prosecutor, with extraordinary subtlety, sketched for us all the arguments for and against the hypothesis of Smerdyakov's guilt, and asked us in particular what motive he had in feigning a fit. But he may not have been feigning at all, the fit may have happened quite naturally, but it may have passed off quite naturally, and the sick man may have recovered, not completely perhaps, but still regaining consciousness, as happens with epileptics. "The prosecutor asks at what moment could Smerdyakov have committed the murder. But it is very easy to point out that moment. He might have waked up from deep sleep (for he was only asleep--an epileptic fit is always followed by a deep sleep) at that moment when the old Grigory shouted at the top of his voice 'Parricide!' That shout in the dark and stillness may have waked Smerdyakov whose sleep may have been less sound at the moment: he might naturally have waked up an hour before. "Getting out of bed, he goes almost unconsciously and with no definite motive towards the sound to see what's the matter. His head is still clouded with his attack, his faculties are half asleep; but, once in the garden, he walks to the lighted windows and he hears terrible news from his master, who would be, of course, glad to see him. His mind sets to work at once. He hears all the details from his frightened master, and gradually in his disordered brain there shapes itself an idea--terrible, but seductive and irresistibly logical. To kill the old man, take the three thousand, and throw all the blame on to his young master. A terrible lust of money, of booty, might seize upon him as he realized his security from detection. Oh! these sudden and irresistible impulses come so often when there is a favorable opportunity, and especially with murderers who have had no idea of committing a murder beforehand. And Smerdyakov may have gone in and carried out his plan. With what weapon? Why, with any stone picked up in the garden. But what for, with what object? Why, the three thousand which means a career for him. Oh, I am not contradicting myself--the money may have existed. And perhaps Smerdyakov alone knew where to find it, where his master kept it. And the covering of the money--the torn envelope on the floor? "Just now, when the prosecutor was explaining his subtle theory that only an inexperienced thief like Karamazov would have left the envelope on the floor, and not one like Smerdyakov, who would have avoided leaving a piece of evidence against himself, I thought as I listened that I was hearing something very familiar, and, would you believe it, I have heard that very argument, that very conjecture, of how Karamazov would have behaved, precisely two days before, from Smerdyakov himself. What's more, it struck me at the time. I fancied that there was an artificial simplicity about him; that he was in a hurry to suggest this idea to me that I might fancy it was my own. He insinuated it, as it were. Did he not insinuate the same idea at the inquiry and suggest it to the talented prosecutor? "I shall be asked, 'What about the old woman, Grigory's wife? She heard the sick man moaning close by, all night.' Yes, she heard it, but that evidence is extremely unreliable. I knew a lady who complained bitterly that she had been kept awake all night by a dog in the yard. Yet the poor beast, it appeared, had only yelped once or twice in the night. And that's natural. If any one is asleep and hears a groan he wakes up, annoyed at being waked, but instantly falls asleep again. Two hours later, again a groan, he wakes up and falls asleep again; and the same thing again two hours later--three times altogether in the night. Next morning the sleeper wakes up and complains that some one has been groaning all night and keeping him awake. And it is bound to seem so to him: the intervals of two hours of sleep he does not remember, he only remembers the moments of waking, so he feels he has been waked up all night. "But why, why, asks the prosecutor, did not Smerdyakov confess in his last letter? Why did his conscience prompt him to one step and not to both? But, excuse me, conscience implies penitence, and the suicide may not have felt penitence, but only despair. Despair and penitence are two very different things. Despair may be vindictive and irreconcilable, and the suicide, laying his hands on himself, may well have felt redoubled hatred for those whom he had envied all his life. "Gentlemen of the jury, beware of a miscarriage of justice! What is there unlikely in all I have put before you just now? Find the error in my reasoning; find the impossibility, the absurdity. And if there is but a shade of possibility, but a shade of probability in my propositions, do not condemn him. And is there only a shade? I swear by all that is sacred, I fully believe in the explanation of the murder I have just put forward. What troubles me and makes me indignant is that of all the mass of facts heaped up by the prosecution against the prisoner, there is not a single one certain and irrefutable. And yet the unhappy man is to be ruined by the accumulation of these facts. Yes, the accumulated effect is awful: the blood, the blood dripping from his fingers, the bloodstained shirt, the dark night resounding with the shout 'Parricide!' and the old man falling with a broken head. And then the mass of phrases, statements, gestures, shouts! Oh! this has so much influence, it can so bias the mind; but, gentlemen of the jury, can it bias your minds? Remember, you have been given absolute power to bind and to loose, but the greater the power, the more terrible its responsibility. "I do not draw back one iota from what I have said just now, but suppose for one moment I agreed with the prosecution that my luckless client had stained his hands with his father's blood. This is only hypothesis, I repeat; I never for one instant doubt of his innocence. But, so be it, I assume that my client is guilty of parricide. Even so, hear what I have to say. I have it in my heart to say something more to you, for I feel that there must be a great conflict in your hearts and minds.... Forgive my referring to your hearts and minds, gentlemen of the jury, but I want to be truthful and sincere to the end. Let us all be sincere!" At this point the speech was interrupted by rather loud applause. The last words, indeed, were pronounced with a note of such sincerity that every one felt that he really might have something to say, and that what he was about to say would be of the greatest consequence. But the President, hearing the applause, in a loud voice threatened to clear the court if such an incident were repeated. Every sound was hushed and Fetyukovitch began in a voice full of feeling quite unlike the tone he had used hitherto.

Book 12, Chapter 12

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-12

In this portion of his speech, Fetyukovich sets out to establish a plausible explanation for Smerdyakov as Fyodor's murderer. After dismissing Grigory's testimony , Fetyukovich proceeds to tell the court about his own impressions on meeting Smerdyakov. In contrast to the prosecutor's description of Smerdyakov as a weak, bullied man, Fetyukovich paints a picture of him as a wily, spiteful man who knew exactly what he was doing when he set up Dmitri. Fetyukovich then points out that Smerdyakov had plenty of time to commit Fyodor's murder between the time Dmitri attacked Grigory and the time Grigory fully recovered consciousness. At this point Fetyukovich takes on a "heartfelt" voice, in contrast to the calm, sensible way he had proceeded thus far.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_24_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 25

chapter 25

{"name": "Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-25", "summary": "\"Idiosyncrasy and vicissitude had combined to stamp Sergeant Troy as an exceptional being. He was a man to whom memories were an incumbrance, and anticipations a superfluity. Simply feeling, considering, and caring for what was before his eyes, he was vulnerable only in the present. . . . With him the past was yesterday; the future, tomorrow; never, the day after.\" Troy was \"moderately truthful\" to men, but lied to and flattered women. \"He had been known to observe casually that in dealing with womankind the only alternative to flattery was cursing and swearing. There was no third method. 'Treat them fairly, and you are a lost man,' he would say.\" Bathsheba was relieved by Boldwood's absence. She was surveying the haymaking in her fields when she noticed a red uniform behind a wagon. The sergeant had \"come haymaking for pleasure; and nobody could deny that he was doing the mistress of the farm real knight-service by his voluntary contribution of his labour at a busy time.\" As soon as Bathsheba appeared, Troy put down his fork, gathered his riding crop, and came toward her. Bathsheba blushed and lowered her eyes.", "analysis": "Sergeant Troy is an undeniably charming liar who gives no thought to the harm his words may cause. When we remember Bathsheba's unthinking acts -- her treatment of Oak, her valentine to Boldwood -- we cannot help but feel some satisfaction that she has finally met her match -- and more."}

THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE DESCRIBED Idiosyncrasy and vicissitude had combined to stamp Sergeant Troy as an exceptional being. He was a man to whom memories were an incumbrance, and anticipations a superfluity. Simply feeling, considering, and caring for what was before his eyes, he was vulnerable only in the present. His outlook upon time was as a transient flash of the eye now and then: that projection of consciousness into days gone by and to come, which makes the past a synonym for the pathetic and the future a word for circumspection, was foreign to Troy. With him the past was yesterday; the future, to-morrow; never, the day after. On this account he might, in certain lights, have been regarded as one of the most fortunate of his order. For it may be argued with great plausibility that reminiscence is less an endowment than a disease, and that expectation in its only comfortable form--that of absolute faith--is practically an impossibility; whilst in the form of hope and the secondary compounds, patience, impatience, resolve, curiosity, it is a constant fluctuation between pleasure and pain. Sergeant Troy, being entirely innocent of the practice of expectation, was never disappointed. To set against this negative gain there may have been some positive losses from a certain narrowing of the higher tastes and sensations which it entailed. But limitation of the capacity is never recognized as a loss by the loser therefrom: in this attribute moral or aesthetic poverty contrasts plausibly with material, since those who suffer do not mind it, whilst those who mind it soon cease to suffer. It is not a denial of anything to have been always without it, and what Troy had never enjoyed he did not miss; but, being fully conscious that what sober people missed he enjoyed, his capacity, though really less, seemed greater than theirs. He was moderately truthful towards men, but to women lied like a Cretan--a system of ethics above all others calculated to win popularity at the first flush of admission into lively society; and the possibility of the favour gained being transitory had reference only to the future. He never passed the line which divides the spruce vices from the ugly; and hence, though his morals had hardly been applauded, disapproval of them had frequently been tempered with a smile. This treatment had led to his becoming a sort of regrater of other men's gallantries, to his own aggrandizement as a Corinthian, rather than to the moral profit of his hearers. His reason and his propensities had seldom any reciprocating influence, having separated by mutual consent long ago: thence it sometimes happened that, while his intentions were as honourable as could be wished, any particular deed formed a dark background which threw them into fine relief. The sergeant's vicious phases being the offspring of impulse, and his virtuous phases of cool meditation, the latter had a modest tendency to be oftener heard of than seen. Troy was full of activity, but his activities were less of a locomotive than a vegetative nature; and, never being based upon any original choice of foundation or direction, they were exercised on whatever object chance might place in their way. Hence, whilst he sometimes reached the brilliant in speech because that was spontaneous, he fell below the commonplace in action, from inability to guide incipient effort. He had a quick comprehension and considerable force of character; but, being without the power to combine them, the comprehension became engaged with trivialities whilst waiting for the will to direct it, and the force wasted itself in useless grooves through unheeding the comprehension. He was a fairly well-educated man for one of middle class-- exceptionally well educated for a common soldier. He spoke fluently and unceasingly. He could in this way be one thing and seem another: for instance, he could speak of love and think of dinner; call on the husband to look at the wife; be eager to pay and intend to owe. The wondrous power of flattery in _passados_ at woman is a perception so universal as to be remarked upon by many people almost as automatically as they repeat a proverb, or say that they are Christians and the like, without thinking much of the enormous corollaries which spring from the proposition. Still less is it acted upon for the good of the complemental being alluded to. With the majority such an opinion is shelved with all those trite aphorisms which require some catastrophe to bring their tremendous meanings thoroughly home. When expressed with some amount of reflectiveness it seems co-ordinate with a belief that this flattery must be reasonable to be effective. It is to the credit of men that few attempt to settle the question by experiment, and it is for their happiness, perhaps, that accident has never settled it for them. Nevertheless, that a male dissembler who by deluging her with untenable fictions charms the female wisely, may acquire powers reaching to the extremity of perdition, is a truth taught to many by unsought and wringing occurrences. And some profess to have attained to the same knowledge by experiment as aforesaid, and jauntily continue their indulgence in such experiments with terrible effect. Sergeant Troy was one. He had been known to observe casually that in dealing with womankind the only alternative to flattery was cursing and swearing. There was no third method. "Treat them fairly, and you are a lost man." he would say. This person's public appearance in Weatherbury promptly followed his arrival there. A week or two after the shearing, Bathsheba, feeling a nameless relief of spirits on account of Boldwood's absence, approached her hayfields and looked over the hedge towards the haymakers. They consisted in about equal proportions of gnarled and flexuous forms, the former being the men, the latter the women, who wore tilt bonnets covered with nankeen, which hung in a curtain upon their shoulders. Coggan and Mark Clark were mowing in a less forward meadow, Clark humming a tune to the strokes of his scythe, to which Jan made no attempt to keep time with his. In the first mead they were already loading hay, the women raking it into cocks and windrows, and the men tossing it upon the waggon. From behind the waggon a bright scarlet spot emerged, and went on loading unconcernedly with the rest. It was the gallant sergeant, who had come haymaking for pleasure; and nobody could deny that he was doing the mistress of the farm real knight-service by this voluntary contribution of his labour at a busy time. As soon as she had entered the field Troy saw her, and sticking his pitchfork into the ground and picking up his crop or cane, he came forward. Bathsheba blushed with half-angry embarrassment, and adjusted her eyes as well as her feet to the direct line of her path.

Chapter 25

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-25

"Idiosyncrasy and vicissitude had combined to stamp Sergeant Troy as an exceptional being. He was a man to whom memories were an incumbrance, and anticipations a superfluity. Simply feeling, considering, and caring for what was before his eyes, he was vulnerable only in the present. . . . With him the past was yesterday; the future, tomorrow; never, the day after." Troy was "moderately truthful" to men, but lied to and flattered women. "He had been known to observe casually that in dealing with womankind the only alternative to flattery was cursing and swearing. There was no third method. 'Treat them fairly, and you are a lost man,' he would say." Bathsheba was relieved by Boldwood's absence. She was surveying the haymaking in her fields when she noticed a red uniform behind a wagon. The sergeant had "come haymaking for pleasure; and nobody could deny that he was doing the mistress of the farm real knight-service by his voluntary contribution of his labour at a busy time." As soon as Bathsheba appeared, Troy put down his fork, gathered his riding crop, and came toward her. Bathsheba blushed and lowered her eyes.

Sergeant Troy is an undeniably charming liar who gives no thought to the harm his words may cause. When we remember Bathsheba's unthinking acts -- her treatment of Oak, her valentine to Boldwood -- we cannot help but feel some satisfaction that she has finally met her match -- and more.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_38_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 39

chapter 39

{"name": "Chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-39", "summary": "Dain Waris, son of Doramin, leads the first attack against Brown, but can't defeat him entirely. Meanwhile, Jim is away in the countryside while all this is going on. The Patusanians hold a council of war, at which everyone has competing plans and interests. It's clear that Jim's leadership is needed. Rajah Allang, who is playing both sides, decides to team up with Brown to defeat Jim, so he sends his advisor, Kassin, to meet with Brown. Kassim brings along Cornelius to act as an interpreter. The two of them make their pitch to Brown, who decides that Patusan sounds all right, and that he should take the island entirely for himself. While the double-crossers all have a powwow, Dain Waris quietly sends canoes downstream to trap Brown. Sneaky.", "analysis": ""}

'All the events of that night have a great importance, since they brought about a situation which remained unchanged till Jim's return. Jim had been away in the interior for more than a week, and it was Dain Waris who had directed the first repulse. That brave and intelligent youth ("who knew how to fight after the manner of white men") wished to settle the business off-hand, but his people were too much for him. He had not Jim's racial prestige and the reputation of invincible, supernatural power. He was not the visible, tangible incarnation of unfailing truth and of unfailing victory. Beloved, trusted, and admired as he was, he was still one of _them_, while Jim was one of us. Moreover, the white man, a tower of strength in himself, was invulnerable, while Dain Waris could be killed. Those unexpressed thoughts guided the opinions of the chief men of the town, who elected to assemble in Jim's fort for deliberation upon the emergency, as if expecting to find wisdom and courage in the dwelling of the absent white man. The shooting of Brown's ruffians was so far good, or lucky, that there had been half-a-dozen casualties amongst the defenders. The wounded were lying on the verandah tended by their women-folk. The women and children from the lower part of the town had been sent into the fort at the first alarm. There Jewel was in command, very efficient and high-spirited, obeyed by Jim's "own people," who, quitting in a body their little settlement under the stockade, had gone in to form the garrison. The refugees crowded round her; and through the whole affair, to the very disastrous last, she showed an extraordinary martial ardour. It was to her that Dain Waris had gone at once at the first intelligence of danger, for you must know that Jim was the only one in Patusan who possessed a store of gunpowder. Stein, with whom he had kept up intimate relations by letters, had obtained from the Dutch Government a special authorisation to export five hundred kegs of it to Patusan. The powder-magazine was a small hut of rough logs covered entirely with earth, and in Jim's absence the girl had the key. In the council, held at eleven o'clock in the evening in Jim's dining-room, she backed up Waris's advice for immediate and vigorous action. I am told that she stood up by the side of Jim's empty chair at the head of the long table and made a warlike impassioned speech, which for the moment extorted murmurs of approbation from the assembled headmen. Old Doramin, who had not showed himself outside his own gate for more than a year, had been brought across with great difficulty. He was, of course, the chief man there. The temper of the council was very unforgiving, and the old man's word would have been decisive; but it is my opinion that, well aware of his son's fiery courage, he dared not pronounce the word. More dilatory counsels prevailed. A certain Haji Saman pointed out at great length that "these tyrannical and ferocious men had delivered themselves to a certain death in any case. They would stand fast on their hill and starve, or they would try to regain their boat and be shot from ambushes across the creek, or they would break and fly into the forest and perish singly there." He argued that by the use of proper stratagems these evil-minded strangers could be destroyed without the risk of a battle, and his words had a great weight, especially with the Patusan men proper. What unsettled the minds of the townsfolk was the failure of the Rajah's boats to act at the decisive moment. It was the diplomatic Kassim who represented the Rajah at the council. He spoke very little, listened smilingly, very friendly and impenetrable. During the sitting messengers kept arriving every few minutes almost, with reports of the invaders' proceedings. Wild and exaggerated rumours were flying: there was a large ship at the mouth of the river with big guns and many more men--some white, others with black skins and of bloodthirsty appearance. They were coming with many more boats to exterminate every living thing. A sense of near, incomprehensible danger affected the common people. At one moment there was a panic in the courtyard amongst the women; shrieking; a rush; children crying--Haji Sunan went out to quiet them. Then a fort sentry fired at something moving on the river, and nearly killed a villager bringing in his women-folk in a canoe together with the best of his domestic utensils and a dozen fowls. This caused more confusion. Meantime the palaver inside Jim's house went on in the presence of the girl. Doramin sat fierce-faced, heavy, looking at the speakers in turn, and breathing slow like a bull. He didn't speak till the last, after Kassim had declared that the Rajah's boats would be called in because the men were required to defend his master's stockade. Dain Waris in his father's presence would offer no opinion, though the girl entreated him in Jim's name to speak out. She offered him Jim's own men in her anxiety to have these intruders driven out at once. He only shook his head, after a glance or two at Doramin. Finally, when the council broke up it had been decided that the houses nearest the creek should be strongly occupied to obtain the command of the enemy's boat. The boat itself was not to be interfered with openly, so that the robbers on the hill should be tempted to embark, when a well-directed fire would kill most of them, no doubt. To cut off the escape of those who might survive, and to prevent more of them coming up, Dain Waris was ordered by Doramin to take an armed party of Bugis down the river to a certain spot ten miles below Patusan, and there form a camp on the shore and blockade the stream with the canoes. I don't believe for a moment that Doramin feared the arrival of fresh forces. My opinion is that his conduct was guided solely by his wish to keep his son out of harm's way. To prevent a rush being made into the town the construction of a stockade was to be commenced at daylight at the end of the street on the left bank. The old nakhoda declared his intention to command there himself. A distribution of powder, bullets, and percussion-caps was made immediately under the girl's supervision. Several messengers were to be dispatched in different directions after Jim, whose exact whereabouts were unknown. These men started at dawn, but before that time Kassim had managed to open communications with the besieged Brown. 'That accomplished diplomatist and confidant of the Rajah, on leaving the fort to go back to his master, took into his boat Cornelius, whom he found slinking mutely amongst the people in the courtyard. Kassim had a little plan of his own and wanted him for an interpreter. Thus it came about that towards morning Brown, reflecting upon the desperate nature of his position, heard from the marshy overgrown hollow an amicable, quavering, strained voice crying--in English--for permission to come up, under a promise of personal safety and on a very important errand. He was overjoyed. If he was spoken to he was no longer a hunted wild beast. These friendly sounds took off at once the awful stress of vigilant watchfulness as of so many blind men not knowing whence the deathblow might come. He pretended a great reluctance. The voice declared itself "a white man--a poor, ruined, old man who had been living here for years." A mist, wet and chilly, lay on the slopes of the hill, and after some more shouting from one to the other, Brown called out, "Come on, then, but alone, mind!" As a matter of fact--he told me, writhing with rage at the recollection of his helplessness--it made no difference. They couldn't see more than a few yards before them, and no treachery could make their position worse. By-and-by Cornelius, in his week-day attire of a ragged dirty shirt and pants, barefooted, with a broken-rimmed pith hat on his head, was made out vaguely, sidling up to the defences, hesitating, stopping to listen in a peering posture. "Come along! You are safe," yelled Brown, while his men stared. All their hopes of life became suddenly centered in that dilapidated, mean newcomer, who in profound silence clambered clumsily over a felled tree-trunk, and shivering, with his sour, mistrustful face, looked about at the knot of bearded, anxious, sleepless desperadoes. 'Half an hour's confidential talk with Cornelius opened Brown's eyes as to the home affairs of Patusan. He was on the alert at once. There were possibilities, immense possibilities; but before he would talk over Cornelius's proposals he demanded that some food should be sent up as a guarantee of good faith. Cornelius went off, creeping sluggishly down the hill on the side of the Rajah's palace, and after some delay a few of Tunku Allang's men came up, bringing a scanty supply of rice, chillies, and dried fish. This was immeasurably better than nothing. Later on Cornelius returned accompanying Kassim, who stepped out with an air of perfect good-humoured trustfulness, in sandals, and muffled up from neck to ankles in dark-blue sheeting. He shook hands with Brown discreetly, and the three drew aside for a conference. Brown's men, recovering their confidence, were slapping each other on the back, and cast knowing glances at their captain while they busied themselves with preparations for cooking. 'Kassim disliked Doramin and his Bugis very much, but he hated the new order of things still more. It had occurred to him that these whites, together with the Rajah's followers, could attack and defeat the Bugis before Jim's return. Then, he reasoned, general defection of the townsfolk was sure to follow, and the reign of the white man who protected poor people would be over. Afterwards the new allies could be dealt with. They would have no friends. The fellow was perfectly able to perceive the difference of character, and had seen enough of white men to know that these newcomers were outcasts, men without country. Brown preserved a stern and inscrutable demeanour. When he first heard Cornelius's voice demanding admittance, it brought merely the hope of a loophole for escape. In less than an hour other thoughts were seething in his head. Urged by an extreme necessity, he had come there to steal food, a few tons of rubber or gum may be, perhaps a handful of dollars, and had found himself enmeshed by deadly dangers. Now in consequence of these overtures from Kassim he began to think of stealing the whole country. Some confounded fellow had apparently accomplished something of the kind--single-handed at that. Couldn't have done it very well though. Perhaps they could work together--squeeze everything dry and then go out quietly. In the course of his negotiations with Kassim he became aware that he was supposed to have a big ship with plenty of men outside. Kassim begged him earnestly to have this big ship with his many guns and men brought up the river without delay for the Rajah's service. Brown professed himself willing, and on this basis the negotiation was carried on with mutual distrust. Three times in the course of the morning the courteous and active Kassim went down to consult the Rajah and came up busily with his long stride. Brown, while bargaining, had a sort of grim enjoyment in thinking of his wretched schooner, with nothing but a heap of dirt in her hold, that stood for an armed ship, and a Chinaman and a lame ex-beachcomber of Levuka on board, who represented all his many men. In the afternoon he obtained further doles of food, a promise of some money, and a supply of mats for his men to make shelters for themselves. They lay down and snored, protected from the burning sunshine; but Brown, sitting fully exposed on one of the felled trees, feasted his eyes upon the view of the town and the river. There was much loot there. Cornelius, who had made himself at home in the camp, talked at his elbow, pointing out the localities, imparting advice, giving his own version of Jim's character, and commenting in his own fashion upon the events of the last three years. Brown, who, apparently indifferent and gazing away, listened with attention to every word, could not make out clearly what sort of man this Jim could be. "What's his name? Jim! Jim! That's not enough for a man's name." "They call him," said Cornelius scornfully, "Tuan Jim here. As you may say Lord Jim." "What is he? Where does he come from?" inquired Brown. "What sort of man is he? Is he an Englishman?" "Yes, yes, he's an Englishman. I am an Englishman too. From Malacca. He is a fool. All you have to do is to kill him and then you are king here. Everything belongs to him," explained Cornelius. "It strikes me he may be made to share with somebody before very long," commented Brown half aloud. "No, no. The proper way is to kill him the first chance you get, and then you can do what you like," Cornelius would insist earnestly. "I have lived for many years here, and I am giving you a friend's advice." 'In such converse and in gloating over the view of Patusan, which he had determined in his mind should become his prey, Brown whiled away most of the afternoon, his men, meantime, resting. On that day Dain Waris's fleet of canoes stole one by one under the shore farthest from the creek, and went down to close the river against his retreat. Of this Brown was not aware, and Kassim, who came up the knoll an hour before sunset, took good care not to enlighten him. He wanted the white man's ship to come up the river, and this news, he feared, would be discouraging. He was very pressing with Brown to send the "order," offering at the same time a trusty messenger, who for greater secrecy (as he explained) would make his way by land to the mouth of the river and deliver the "order" on board. After some reflection Brown judged it expedient to tear a page out of his pocket-book, on which he simply wrote, "We are getting on. Big job. Detain the man." The stolid youth selected by Kassim for that service performed it faithfully, and was rewarded by being suddenly tipped, head first, into the schooner's empty hold by the ex-beachcomber and the Chinaman, who thereupon hastened to put on the hatches. What became of him afterwards Brown did not say.'

Chapter 39

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-39

Dain Waris, son of Doramin, leads the first attack against Brown, but can't defeat him entirely. Meanwhile, Jim is away in the countryside while all this is going on. The Patusanians hold a council of war, at which everyone has competing plans and interests. It's clear that Jim's leadership is needed. Rajah Allang, who is playing both sides, decides to team up with Brown to defeat Jim, so he sends his advisor, Kassin, to meet with Brown. Kassim brings along Cornelius to act as an interpreter. The two of them make their pitch to Brown, who decides that Patusan sounds all right, and that he should take the island entirely for himself. While the double-crossers all have a powwow, Dain Waris quietly sends canoes downstream to trap Brown. Sneaky.

gradesaver

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finished_summaries/gradesaver/Uncle Vanya/section_0_part_0.txt

Uncle Vanya.act i

act i

{"name": "Act I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409044821/http://www.gradesaver.com/uncle-vanya/study-guide/summary-act-i", "summary": "The scene is a garden with a country house in the distance. It is mid-afternoon. Marina, an elderly woman, is knitting. Michael Astrov, a doctor, approaches her. Marina asks if he would like a drink, and Astrov declines. She reminisces about when he first came to these parts, and comments that he looks much older now. Astrov sighs that he is overworked and surrounded by the oddest people, which makes one turn odd themselves. He feels that he still has his wits, but he rues that he cares for nothing and no one. He does kiss her head, though, and smiles that he is fond of her. Astrov continues to talk about what he's seen, particularly a typhus epidemic and how, when he got home, a railwayman was brought in and died right on his table. The weight of guilt at not being able to save the man crushes him; he laments that, when he and everyone else is gone hundreds of years from now, people will not remember them. Marina comforts him by saying that God will remember. Voynitsky , looking disheveled and sleepy after a nap, joins them. He complains that since the professor and his wife arrived, the house has been turned upside down. Sonya works and he does nothing, but the schedule is completely different. Marina adds her complaints about the professor's whims and how she has to put the samovar on at random hours. Astrov asks how long they are staying; Vanya jokes wryly that they will be there for a hundred years. The professor, Serebryakov, his young and lovely second wife Helen, his daughter Sonya from his first marriage , and Telegin, an elderly landowner and Sonya's godfather, come down into the garden and join them. Serebryakov compliments the scenery and then asks for tea to be sent to the study. He, his wife, and his daughter retire into the house. Vanya mocks the professor's excessive clothing on this warm day, but he gushes over Helen's beauty. Astrov tries to get Vanya to talk about what is going on in the house now, and Vanya only grumbles that he is lazy and that his mother complains all day and gets her head in a tizzy about women's rights. As for the professor, he suffers from a myriad of ailments but spends his time writing and living off his first wife's estate. He knows nothing about the art he writes about, and he seems to get too many lucky breaks. Vanya adds that his brother-in-law simply writes about things that all smart people already know--\"in other words he's spent twenty-five years chasing his own shadow\" . Astrov comments that perhaps Vanya is jealous, and Vanya laughs blackly that of course he is. He doesn't understand Serebryakov's success with women: he married Vanya's sister; his mother still likes him; and now he is married to the beautiful Helen. Astrov asks if Helen is faithful to Serebryakov, and remarks that it seems incredibly ridiculous. Telegin whines that Vanya shouldn't criticize someone who is faithful to a spouse because being unfaithful could lead to being unfaithful to one's country. Vanya, irritated, tells him to be quiet. Telegin tearfully tells them of his own wife's unfaithfulness. Now, however, she has lost her looks and her lover is dead: she has nothing, while he still has his pride. Sonya and Helen return along with Mrs. Voynitsky, and Sonya hurriedly asks Marina if she can see what new visitors to the house want. Astrov tells Helen that he's come to see her husband but she says that he is fine now. Astrov decides to stay the night; Sonya tells him she is glad, and that he can eat with them. Telegin volunteers that the samovar is cold now, and Helen, referring to him as \"Mr. Galetin,\" tells him not to worry. He corrects her, and Sonya tells Helen that Telegin is a great help to them here. Mrs. Voynitsky speaks up to tell her son about a pamphlet from Kharkov, and how it is odd because the man reversed his opinions. Vanya rolls his eyes and says they ought to stop talking about pamphlets. Mrs. Voynitsky is offended by her son's behavior, but Vanya does not care. He is forty-seven and no longer feels like he knows what to do with himself, and he cannot sleep at night because he is angry and frustrated with his wasted life. His mother chides him that he is the only one to blame and that if he wanted to do something, he should have done it. Vanya scoffs that they aren't all \"non-stop writing machines like the learned professor\" . Sonya begs them to stop bickering, and they fall silent. Helen comments that it is a perfect day. Vanya retorts that it is a perfect day to hang oneself. When Marina returns, she tells Sonya that the village people wanted to talk about the wasted land. A laborer comes up to them asking for the doctor because there is an issue at the factory. Grumbling, Astrov gets up to leave. He addresses Sonya and Helen, telling them that there is a government forest reserve next to his estate and that it is somewhat of a showpiece. If they want to come, he says, he will show them around. Helen smiles that she has heard of his fondness for forestry work, and asks if it interferes with his \"real business\" . Astrov wryly asks what life's real business really is, but comments that forestry is interesting work. Helen is surprised someone as young as he is so interested in something as dull as trees. Sonya interjects and says that it is very interesting, and that Astrov is trying to save the forest from destruction. She explains that Astrov always says, \"forest are the glory of our earth, that they teach man to appreciate beauty and give him a sense of grandeur\" . Vanya laughs and says he'll keep burning his logs and building wooden barns. Astrov responds that, yes, he can cut timber, but why ruin all the forests? Russia is losing millions of trees and the scenery has changed. Man is not a creator but merely a destroyer: he ruins forests and rivers, wildlife is destroyed, the climate is changing, and everything grows uglier. Astrov is proud of what he has saved. Sonya walks him out, asking when he will return. Helen and Vanya start walking and she chastises him for his rudeness and for the way he treats her husband. He comments that he hates him, and then he muses that she seems to move as if she were bored and life were too much. She admits that she is bored but that men always feel sorry for women because they have a demon of destruction in them and feel upset when they see a woman who doesn't belong to them. She pauses and comments that Sonya is obviously in love with the doctor and that, although he is high-strung, he is attractive. He does not seem to like her, she muses, but she and Vanya get along so well because they are both \"abysmal bores\" . Vanya feverishly proclaims his love for her, but she shushes him and tells him that he is simply too much. Telegin plays the guitar in the background.", "analysis": "Chekhov's Uncle Vanya is comprised of four acts. Although the subtitle of the play suggests it will concern \"scenes of country life,\" that's only partially accurate. The play is indeed set on a country estate at the end of the 19th century, but there are few scenes that provide any insight into what the lived experience of people in the Russian countryside might be. Instead, the play is mostly concerned with the squabbles, complaints, and thwarted dreams of the middle-class characters. By the end of the play, little to nothing has happened; everything returns to the status quo. Even a dramatic attempted murder ends with the proverbial whimper rather than a bang. For theatergoers at the time of its staging, this was remarkably aberrant. As scholar Ronald Hingley notes in his introduction to an edition of Chekhov's plays, \"we shall do better to look neither for tragedy nor comedy, but to realize that we have entered a strange anti-climactic, anti-romantic, anti-dramatic world such has never existed on the stage before Chekhov, a world with its own laws, its own dimensions, its own brand of humor.\" Rosamund Bartlett described it as a \"play about a group of unremarkable individuals who seemingly randomly enter and leave, after holding desultory conversations which invariably degenerate into arguments\" and \"is neither tragedy nor farce.\" What, then, is Uncle Vanya about? Despite its lack of a traditional plot structure, the play does establish a few points of contention. In Act I, we meet Astrov, a country doctor who is bitterly aware of the intellectual limitations of his job. He expresses derision of the people whom he treats and wonders if anyone will ever remember the work he did. However, unlike Vanya, he manages to exhibit some feeling, telling Marina about a man he could not save and how \"I felt guilty as if I'd murdered the man\" . Astrov also extols the merits of his forestry reserve, offering an impassioned account of how Russians do not create but only destroy, and how this destruction results in both devastation of the environment and the Russian character. Astrov's labors are noble, but he does not succeed in convincing anyone else that his work invites emulation. If the title didn't already suggest it, it becomes clear that the play really belongs to Voynitsky, or Vanya. Vanya struggles with both his life as a whole and with the particular dynamic that results from Serebryakov and Helen being at the estate in person; their presence provokes and exacerbates his general feelings of unhappiness, lack of fulfillment, and exhaustion. Although Vanya normally works hard on the estate, being face-to-face with his brother-in-law and Helen renders him only able to \"sleep, eat, and drink\" . He is bitterly jealous of Serebryakov--not only for the women he attracts, but also for the fact that Serebryakov has been successful as a writer and scholar while he, Vanya, has not done anything of note. Vanya excoriates the lack of originality in Serebryakov's ideas and claims that he is \"totally obscure\" and \" spent twenty-five years chasing his own shadow\" . Ironically, one of the things that Vanya has in common with Serebryakov is his fixation on his age. Vanya bemoans the fact that he is almost fifty, whining \"I can't sleep at night for frustration and anger at the stupid way I've wasted time when I might have had everything I can't have now because I'm too old\" . Towards the end of the play, he even claims that he could have been a Dostoevsky or Schopenhauer if not for Serebryakov's diversion of his talents. In response to the first statement, Vanya's mother rightfully chastises him\" \"You're forgetting that principles on their own don't mean anything. You should have done something\" . Mrs. Voynitsky's advice could be applied to nearly all the characters, as they are prone to blaming others for their problems without taking into account their own behavior. Chekhov isn't entirely dismissive of them, though, and renders them both critically and sympathetically. They are prisoners of societal expectations, their own characteristics and viewpoints, and the vapidity of parochial existence."}

ACT I A country house on a terrace. In front of it a garden. In an avenue of trees, under an old poplar, stands a table set for tea, with a samovar, etc. Some benches and chairs stand near the table. On one of them is lying a guitar. A hammock is swung near the table. It is three o'clock in the afternoon of a cloudy day. MARINA, a quiet, grey-haired, little old woman, is sitting at the table knitting a stocking. ASTROFF is walking up and down near her. MARINA. [Pouring some tea into a glass] Take a little tea, my son. ASTROFF. [Takes the glass from her unwillingly] Somehow, I don't seem to want any. MARINA. Then will you have a little vodka instead? ASTROFF. No, I don't drink vodka every day, and besides, it is too hot now. [A pause] Tell me, nurse, how long have we known each other? MARINA. [Thoughtfully] Let me see, how long is it? Lord--help me to remember. You first came here, into our parts--let me think--when was it? Sonia's mother was still alive--it was two winters before she died; that was eleven years ago--[thoughtfully] perhaps more. ASTROFF. Have I changed much since then? MARINA. Oh, yes. You were handsome and young then, and now you are an old man and not handsome any more. You drink, too. ASTROFF. Yes, ten years have made me another man. And why? Because I am overworked. Nurse, I am on my feet from dawn till dusk. I know no rest; at night I tremble under my blankets for fear of being dragged out to visit some one who is sick; I have toiled without repose or a day's freedom since I have known you; could I help growing old? And then, existence is tedious, anyway; it is a senseless, dirty business, this life, and goes heavily. Every one about here is silly, and after living with them for two or three years one grows silly oneself. It is inevitable. [Twisting his moustache] See what a long moustache I have grown. A foolish, long moustache. Yes, I am as silly as the rest, nurse, but not as stupid; no, I have not grown stupid. Thank God, my brain is not addled yet, though my feelings have grown numb. I ask nothing, I need nothing, I love no one, unless it is yourself alone. [He kisses her head] I had a nurse just like you when I was a child. MARINA. Don't you want a bite of something to eat? ASTROFF. No. During the third week of Lent I went to the epidemic at Malitskoi. It was eruptive typhoid. The peasants were all lying side by side in their huts, and the calves and pigs were running about the floor among the sick. Such dirt there was, and smoke! Unspeakable! I slaved among those people all day, not a crumb passed my lips, but when I got home there was still no rest for me; a switchman was carried in from the railroad; I laid him on the operating table and he went and died in my arms under chloroform, and then my feelings that should have been deadened awoke again, my conscience tortured me as if I had killed the man. I sat down and closed my eyes--like this--and thought: will our descendants two hundred years from now, for whom we are breaking the road, remember to give us a kind word? No, nurse, they will forget. MARINA. Man is forgetful, but God remembers. ASTROFF. Thank you for that. You have spoken the truth. Enter VOITSKI from the house. He has been asleep after dinner and looks rather dishevelled. He sits down on the bench and straightens his collar. VOITSKI. H'm. Yes. [A pause] Yes. ASTROFF. Have you been asleep? VOITSKI. Yes, very much so. [He yawns] Ever since the Professor and his wife have come, our daily life seems to have jumped the track. I sleep at the wrong time, drink wine, and eat all sorts of messes for luncheon and dinner. It isn't wholesome. Sonia and I used to work together and never had an idle moment, but now Sonia works alone and I only eat and drink and sleep. Something is wrong. MARINA. [Shaking her head] Such a confusion in the house! The Professor gets up at twelve, the samovar is kept boiling all the morning, and everything has to wait for him. Before they came we used to have dinner at one o'clock, like everybody else, but now we have it at seven. The Professor sits up all night writing and reading, and suddenly, at two o'clock, there goes the bell! Heavens, what is that? The Professor wants some tea! Wake the servants, light the samovar! Lord, what disorder! ASTROFF. Will they be here long? VOITSKI. A hundred years! The Professor has decided to make his home here. MARINA. Look at this now! The samovar has been on the table for two hours, and they are all out walking! VOITSKI. All right, don't get excited; here they come. Voices are heard approaching. SEREBRAKOFF, HELENA, SONIA, and TELEGIN come in from the depths of the garden, returning from their walk. SEREBRAKOFF. Superb! Superb! What beautiful views! TELEGIN. They are wonderful, your Excellency. SONIA. To-morrow we shall go into the woods, shall we, papa? VOITSKI. Ladies and gentlemen, tea is ready. SEREBRAKOFF. Won't you please be good enough to send my tea into the library? I still have some work to finish. SONIA. I am sure you will love the woods. HELENA, SEREBRAKOFF, and SONIA go into the house. TELEGIN sits down at the table beside MARINA. VOITSKI. There goes our learned scholar on a hot, sultry day like this, in his overcoat and goloshes and carrying an umbrella! ASTROFF. He is trying to take good care of his health. VOITSKI. How lovely she is! How lovely! I have never in my life seen a more beautiful woman. TELEGIN. Do you know, Marina, that as I walk in the fields or in the shady garden, as I look at this table here, my heart swells with unbounded happiness. The weather is enchanting, the birds are singing, we are all living in peace and contentment--what more could the soul desire? [Takes a glass of tea.] VOITSKI. [Dreaming] Such eyes--a glorious woman! ASTROFF. Come, Ivan, tell us something. VOITSKI. [Indolently] What shall I tell you? ASTROFF. Haven't you any news for us? VOITSKI. No, it is all stale. I am just the same as usual, or perhaps worse, because I have become lazy. I don't do anything now but croak like an old raven. My mother, the old magpie, is still chattering about the emancipation of woman, with one eye on her grave and the other on her learned books, in which she is always looking for the dawn of a new life. ASTROFF. And the Professor? VOITSKI. The Professor sits in his library from morning till night, as usual-- "Straining the mind, wrinkling the brow, We write, write, write, Without respite Or hope of praise in the future or now." Poor paper! He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a really splendid subject for a book! Imagine it, the life of a retired professor, as stale as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches, and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy and envy, living on the estate of his first wife, although he hates it, because he can't afford to live in town. He is everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though, as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. He is the son of a common deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the son-in-law of a senator, is called "your Excellency," and so on. But I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for twenty-five years, and he doesn't know the very first thing about it. For twenty-five years he has been chewing on other men's thoughts about realism, naturalism, and all such foolishness; for twenty-five years he has been reading and writing things that clever men have long known and stupid ones are not interested in; for twenty-five years he has been making his imaginary mountains out of molehills. And just think of the man's self-conceit and presumption all this time! For twenty-five years he has been masquerading in false clothes and has now retired absolutely unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking across the earth like a demi-god! ASTROFF. I believe you envy him. VOITSKI. Yes, I do. Look at the success he has had with women! Don Juan himself was not more favoured. His first wife, who was my sister, was a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue heaven there above us, noble, great-hearted, with more admirers than he has pupils, and she loved him as only beings of angelic purity can love those who are as pure and beautiful as themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother, adores him to this day, and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe in her. His second wife is, as you see, a brilliant beauty; she married him in his old age and has surrendered all the glory of her beauty and freedom to him. Why? What for? ASTROFF. Is she faithful to him? VOITSKI. Yes, unfortunately she is. ASTROFF. Why unfortunately? VOITSKI. Because such fidelity is false and unnatural, root and branch. It sounds well, but there is no logic in it. It is thought immoral for a woman to deceive an old husband whom she hates, but quite moral for her to strangle her poor youth in her breast and banish every vital desire from her heart. TELEGIN. [In a tearful voice] Vanya, I don't like to hear you talk so. Listen, Vanya; every one who betrays husband or wife is faithless, and could also betray his country. VOITSKI. [Crossly] Turn off the tap, Waffles. TELEGIN. No, allow me, Vanya. My wife ran away with a lover on the day after our wedding, because my exterior was unprepossessing. I have never failed in my duty since then. I love her and am true to her to this day. I help her all I can and have given my fortune to educate the daughter of herself and her lover. I have forfeited my happiness, but I have kept my pride. And she? Her youth has fled, her beauty has faded according to the laws of nature, and her lover is dead. What has she kept? HELENA and SONIA come in; after them comes MME. VOITSKAYA carrying a book. She sits down and begins to read. Some one hands her a glass of tea which she drinks without looking up. SONIA. [Hurriedly, to the nurse] There are some peasants waiting out there. Go and see what they want. I shall pour the tea. [Pours out some glasses of tea.] MARINA goes out. HELENA takes a glass and sits drinking in the hammock. ASTROFF. I have come to see your husband. You wrote me that he had rheumatism and I know not what else, and that he was very ill, but he appears to be as lively as a cricket. HELENA. He had a fit of the blues yesterday evening and complained of pains in his legs, but he seems all right again to-day. ASTROFF. And I galloped over here twenty miles at break-neck speed! No matter, though, it is not the first time. Once here, however, I am going to stay until to-morrow, and at any rate sleep _quantum satis._ SONIA. Oh, splendid! You so seldom spend the night with us. Have you had dinner yet? ASTROFF. No. SONIA. Good. So you will have it with us. We dine at seven now. [Drinks her tea] This tea is cold! TELEGIN. Yes, the samovar has grown cold. HELENA. Don't mind, Monsieur Ivan, we will drink cold tea, then. TELEGIN. I beg your pardon, my name is not Ivan, but Ilia, ma'am--Ilia Telegin, or Waffles, as I am sometimes called on account of my pock-marked face. I am Sonia's godfather, and his Excellency, your husband, knows me very well. I now live with you, ma'am, on this estate, and perhaps you will be so good as to notice that I dine with you every day. SONIA. He is our great help, our right-hand man. [Tenderly] Dear godfather, let me pour you some tea. MME. VOITSKAYA. Oh! Oh! SONIA. What is it, grandmother? MME. VOITSKAYA. I forgot to tell Alexander--I have lost my memory--I received a letter to-day from Paul Alexevitch in Kharkoff. He has sent me a new pamphlet. ASTROFF. Is it interesting? MME. VOITSKAYA. Yes, but strange. He refutes the very theories which he defended seven years ago. It is appalling! VOITSKI. There is nothing appalling about it. Drink your tea, mamma. MME. VOITSKAYA. It seems you never want to listen to what I have to say. Pardon me, Jean, but you have changed so in the last year that I hardly know you. You used to be a man of settled convictions and had an illuminating personality---- VOITSKI. Oh, yes. I had an illuminating personality, which illuminated no one. [A pause] I had an illuminating personality! You couldn't say anything more biting. I am forty-seven years old. Until last year I endeavoured, as you do now, to blind my eyes by your pedantry to the truths of life. But now--Oh, if you only knew! If you knew how I lie awake at night, heartsick and angry, to think how stupidly I have wasted my time when I might have been winning from life everything which my old age now forbids. SONIA. Uncle Vanya, how dreary! MME. VOITSKAYA. [To her son] You speak as if your former convictions were somehow to blame, but you yourself, not they, were at fault. You have forgotten that a conviction, in itself, is nothing but a dead letter. You should have done something. VOITSKI. Done something! Not every man is capable of being a writer _perpetuum mobile_ like your Herr Professor. MME. VOITSKAYA. What do you mean by that? SONIA. [Imploringly] Mother! Uncle Vanya! I entreat you! VOITSKI. I am silent. I apologise and am silent. [A pause.] HELENA. What a fine day! Not too hot. [A pause.] VOITSKI. A fine day to hang oneself. TELEGIN tunes the guitar. MARINA appears near the house, calling the chickens. MARINA. Chick, chick, chick! SONIA. What did the peasants want, nurse? MARINA. The same old thing, the same old nonsense. Chick, chick, chick! SONIA. Why are you calling the chickens? MARINA. The speckled hen has disappeared with her chicks. I am afraid the crows have got her. TELEGIN plays a polka. All listen in silence. Enter WORKMAN. WORKMAN. Is the doctor here? [To ASTROFF] Excuse me, sir, but I have been sent to fetch you. ASTROFF. Where are you from? WORKMAN. The factory. ASTROFF. [Annoyed] Thank you. There is nothing for it, then, but to go. [Looking around him for his cap] Damn it, this is annoying! SONIA. Yes, it is too bad, really. You must come back to dinner from the factory. ASTROFF. No, I won't be able to do that. It will be too late. Now where, where--[To the WORKMAN] Look here, my man, get me a glass of vodka, will you? [The WORKMAN goes out] Where--where--[Finds his cap] One of the characters in Ostroff's plays is a man with a long moustache and short wits, like me. However, let me bid you good-bye, ladies and gentlemen. [To HELENA] I should be really delighted if you would come to see me some day with Miss Sonia. My estate is small, but if you are interested in such things I should like to show you a nursery and seed-bed whose like you will not find within a thousand miles of here. My place is surrounded by government forests. The forester is old and always ailing, so I superintend almost all the work myself. HELENA. I have always heard that you were very fond of the woods. Of course one can do a great deal of good by helping to preserve them, but does not that work interfere with your real calling? ASTROFF. God alone knows what a man's real calling is. HELENA. And do you find it interesting? ASTROFF. Yes, very. VOITSKI. [Sarcastically] Oh, extremely! HELENA. You are still young, not over thirty-six or seven, I should say, and I suspect that the woods do not interest you as much as you say they do. I should think you would find them monotonous. SONIA. No, the work is thrilling. Dr. Astroff watches over the old woods and sets out new plantations every year, and he has already received a diploma and a bronze medal. If you will listen to what he can tell you, you will agree with him entirely. He says that forests are the ornaments of the earth, that they teach mankind to understand beauty and attune his mind to lofty sentiments. Forests temper a stern climate, and in countries where the climate is milder, less strength is wasted in the battle with nature, and the people are kind and gentle. The inhabitants of such countries are handsome, tractable, sensitive, graceful in speech and gesture. Their philosophy is joyous, art and science blossom among them, their treatment of women is full of exquisite nobility---- VOITSKI. [Laughing] Bravo! Bravo! All that is very pretty, but it is also unconvincing. So, my friend [To ASTROFF] you must let me go on burning firewood in my stoves and building my sheds of planks. ASTROFF. You can burn peat in your stoves and build your sheds of stone. Oh, I don't object, of course, to cutting wood from necessity, but why destroy the forests? The woods of Russia are trembling under the blows of the axe. Millions of trees have perished. The homes of the wild animals and birds have been desolated; the rivers are shrinking, and many beautiful landscapes are gone forever. And why? Because men are too lazy and stupid to stoop down and pick up their fuel from the ground. [To HELENA] Am I not right, Madame? Who but a stupid barbarian could burn so much beauty in his stove and destroy that which he cannot make? Man is endowed with reason and the power to create, so that he may increase that which has been given him, but until now he has not created, but demolished. The forests are disappearing, the rivers are running dry, the game is exterminated, the climate is spoiled, and the earth becomes poorer and uglier every day. [To VOITSKI] I read irony in your eye; you do not take what I am saying seriously, and--and--after all, it may very well be nonsense. But when I pass peasant-forests that I have preserved from the axe, or hear the rustling of the young plantations set out with my own hands, I feel as if I had had some small share in improving the climate, and that if mankind is happy a thousand years from now I will have been a little bit responsible for their happiness. When I plant a little birch tree and then see it budding into young green and swaying in the wind, my heart swells with pride and I--[Sees the WORKMAN, who is bringing him a glass of vodka on a tray] however--[He drinks] I must be off. Probably it is all nonsense, anyway. Good-bye. He goes toward the house. SONIA takes his arm and goes with him. SONIA. When are you coming to see us again? ASTROFF. I can't say. SONIA. In a month? ASTROFF and SONIA go into the house. HELENA and VOITSKI walk over to the terrace. HELENA. You have behaved shockingly again. Ivan, what sense was there in teasing your mother and talking about _perpetuum mobile?_ And at breakfast you quarreled with Alexander again. Really, your behaviour is too petty. VOITSKI. But if I hate him? HELENA. You hate Alexander without reason; he is like every one else, and no worse than you are. VOITSKI. If you could only see your face, your gestures! Oh, how tedious your life must be. HELENA. It is tedious, yes, and dreary! You all abuse my husband and look on me with compassion; you think, "Poor woman, she is married to an old man." How well I understand your compassion! As Astroff said just now, see how you thoughtlessly destroy the forests, so that there will soon be none left. So you also destroy mankind, and soon fidelity and purity and self-sacrifice will have vanished with the woods. Why cannot you look calmly at a woman unless she is yours? Because, the doctor was right, you are all possessed by a devil of destruction; you have no mercy on the woods or the birds or on women or on one another. VOITSKI. I don't like your philosophy. HELENA. That doctor has a sensitive, weary face--an interesting face. Sonia evidently likes him, and she is in love with him, and I can understand it. This is the third time he has been here since I have come, and I have not had a real talk with him yet or made much of him. He thinks I am disagreeable. Do you know, Ivan, the reason you and I are such friends? I think it is because we are both lonely and unfortunate. Yes, unfortunate. Don't look at me in that way, I don't like it. VOITSKI. How can I look at you otherwise when I love you? You are my joy, my life, and my youth. I know that my chances of being loved in return are infinitely small, do not exist, but I ask nothing of you. Only let me look at you, listen to your voice-- HELENA. Hush, some one will overhear you. [They go toward the house.] VOITSKI. [Following her] Let me speak to you of my love, do not drive me away, and this alone will be my greatest happiness! HELENA. Ah! This is agony! TELEGIN strikes the strings of his guitar and plays a polka. MME. VOITSKAYA writes something on the leaves of her pamphlet. The curtain falls.

Act I

https://web.archive.org/web/20180409044821/http://www.gradesaver.com/uncle-vanya/study-guide/summary-act-i

The scene is a garden with a country house in the distance. It is mid-afternoon. Marina, an elderly woman, is knitting. Michael Astrov, a doctor, approaches her. Marina asks if he would like a drink, and Astrov declines. She reminisces about when he first came to these parts, and comments that he looks much older now. Astrov sighs that he is overworked and surrounded by the oddest people, which makes one turn odd themselves. He feels that he still has his wits, but he rues that he cares for nothing and no one. He does kiss her head, though, and smiles that he is fond of her. Astrov continues to talk about what he's seen, particularly a typhus epidemic and how, when he got home, a railwayman was brought in and died right on his table. The weight of guilt at not being able to save the man crushes him; he laments that, when he and everyone else is gone hundreds of years from now, people will not remember them. Marina comforts him by saying that God will remember. Voynitsky , looking disheveled and sleepy after a nap, joins them. He complains that since the professor and his wife arrived, the house has been turned upside down. Sonya works and he does nothing, but the schedule is completely different. Marina adds her complaints about the professor's whims and how she has to put the samovar on at random hours. Astrov asks how long they are staying; Vanya jokes wryly that they will be there for a hundred years. The professor, Serebryakov, his young and lovely second wife Helen, his daughter Sonya from his first marriage , and Telegin, an elderly landowner and Sonya's godfather, come down into the garden and join them. Serebryakov compliments the scenery and then asks for tea to be sent to the study. He, his wife, and his daughter retire into the house. Vanya mocks the professor's excessive clothing on this warm day, but he gushes over Helen's beauty. Astrov tries to get Vanya to talk about what is going on in the house now, and Vanya only grumbles that he is lazy and that his mother complains all day and gets her head in a tizzy about women's rights. As for the professor, he suffers from a myriad of ailments but spends his time writing and living off his first wife's estate. He knows nothing about the art he writes about, and he seems to get too many lucky breaks. Vanya adds that his brother-in-law simply writes about things that all smart people already know--"in other words he's spent twenty-five years chasing his own shadow" . Astrov comments that perhaps Vanya is jealous, and Vanya laughs blackly that of course he is. He doesn't understand Serebryakov's success with women: he married Vanya's sister; his mother still likes him; and now he is married to the beautiful Helen. Astrov asks if Helen is faithful to Serebryakov, and remarks that it seems incredibly ridiculous. Telegin whines that Vanya shouldn't criticize someone who is faithful to a spouse because being unfaithful could lead to being unfaithful to one's country. Vanya, irritated, tells him to be quiet. Telegin tearfully tells them of his own wife's unfaithfulness. Now, however, she has lost her looks and her lover is dead: she has nothing, while he still has his pride. Sonya and Helen return along with Mrs. Voynitsky, and Sonya hurriedly asks Marina if she can see what new visitors to the house want. Astrov tells Helen that he's come to see her husband but she says that he is fine now. Astrov decides to stay the night; Sonya tells him she is glad, and that he can eat with them. Telegin volunteers that the samovar is cold now, and Helen, referring to him as "Mr. Galetin," tells him not to worry. He corrects her, and Sonya tells Helen that Telegin is a great help to them here. Mrs. Voynitsky speaks up to tell her son about a pamphlet from Kharkov, and how it is odd because the man reversed his opinions. Vanya rolls his eyes and says they ought to stop talking about pamphlets. Mrs. Voynitsky is offended by her son's behavior, but Vanya does not care. He is forty-seven and no longer feels like he knows what to do with himself, and he cannot sleep at night because he is angry and frustrated with his wasted life. His mother chides him that he is the only one to blame and that if he wanted to do something, he should have done it. Vanya scoffs that they aren't all "non-stop writing machines like the learned professor" . Sonya begs them to stop bickering, and they fall silent. Helen comments that it is a perfect day. Vanya retorts that it is a perfect day to hang oneself. When Marina returns, she tells Sonya that the village people wanted to talk about the wasted land. A laborer comes up to them asking for the doctor because there is an issue at the factory. Grumbling, Astrov gets up to leave. He addresses Sonya and Helen, telling them that there is a government forest reserve next to his estate and that it is somewhat of a showpiece. If they want to come, he says, he will show them around. Helen smiles that she has heard of his fondness for forestry work, and asks if it interferes with his "real business" . Astrov wryly asks what life's real business really is, but comments that forestry is interesting work. Helen is surprised someone as young as he is so interested in something as dull as trees. Sonya interjects and says that it is very interesting, and that Astrov is trying to save the forest from destruction. She explains that Astrov always says, "forest are the glory of our earth, that they teach man to appreciate beauty and give him a sense of grandeur" . Vanya laughs and says he'll keep burning his logs and building wooden barns. Astrov responds that, yes, he can cut timber, but why ruin all the forests? Russia is losing millions of trees and the scenery has changed. Man is not a creator but merely a destroyer: he ruins forests and rivers, wildlife is destroyed, the climate is changing, and everything grows uglier. Astrov is proud of what he has saved. Sonya walks him out, asking when he will return. Helen and Vanya start walking and she chastises him for his rudeness and for the way he treats her husband. He comments that he hates him, and then he muses that she seems to move as if she were bored and life were too much. She admits that she is bored but that men always feel sorry for women because they have a demon of destruction in them and feel upset when they see a woman who doesn't belong to them. She pauses and comments that Sonya is obviously in love with the doctor and that, although he is high-strung, he is attractive. He does not seem to like her, she muses, but she and Vanya get along so well because they are both "abysmal bores" . Vanya feverishly proclaims his love for her, but she shushes him and tells him that he is simply too much. Telegin plays the guitar in the background.

Chekhov's Uncle Vanya is comprised of four acts. Although the subtitle of the play suggests it will concern "scenes of country life," that's only partially accurate. The play is indeed set on a country estate at the end of the 19th century, but there are few scenes that provide any insight into what the lived experience of people in the Russian countryside might be. Instead, the play is mostly concerned with the squabbles, complaints, and thwarted dreams of the middle-class characters. By the end of the play, little to nothing has happened; everything returns to the status quo. Even a dramatic attempted murder ends with the proverbial whimper rather than a bang. For theatergoers at the time of its staging, this was remarkably aberrant. As scholar Ronald Hingley notes in his introduction to an edition of Chekhov's plays, "we shall do better to look neither for tragedy nor comedy, but to realize that we have entered a strange anti-climactic, anti-romantic, anti-dramatic world such has never existed on the stage before Chekhov, a world with its own laws, its own dimensions, its own brand of humor." Rosamund Bartlett described it as a "play about a group of unremarkable individuals who seemingly randomly enter and leave, after holding desultory conversations which invariably degenerate into arguments" and "is neither tragedy nor farce." What, then, is Uncle Vanya about? Despite its lack of a traditional plot structure, the play does establish a few points of contention. In Act I, we meet Astrov, a country doctor who is bitterly aware of the intellectual limitations of his job. He expresses derision of the people whom he treats and wonders if anyone will ever remember the work he did. However, unlike Vanya, he manages to exhibit some feeling, telling Marina about a man he could not save and how "I felt guilty as if I'd murdered the man" . Astrov also extols the merits of his forestry reserve, offering an impassioned account of how Russians do not create but only destroy, and how this destruction results in both devastation of the environment and the Russian character. Astrov's labors are noble, but he does not succeed in convincing anyone else that his work invites emulation. If the title didn't already suggest it, it becomes clear that the play really belongs to Voynitsky, or Vanya. Vanya struggles with both his life as a whole and with the particular dynamic that results from Serebryakov and Helen being at the estate in person; their presence provokes and exacerbates his general feelings of unhappiness, lack of fulfillment, and exhaustion. Although Vanya normally works hard on the estate, being face-to-face with his brother-in-law and Helen renders him only able to "sleep, eat, and drink" . He is bitterly jealous of Serebryakov--not only for the women he attracts, but also for the fact that Serebryakov has been successful as a writer and scholar while he, Vanya, has not done anything of note. Vanya excoriates the lack of originality in Serebryakov's ideas and claims that he is "totally obscure" and " spent twenty-five years chasing his own shadow" . Ironically, one of the things that Vanya has in common with Serebryakov is his fixation on his age. Vanya bemoans the fact that he is almost fifty, whining "I can't sleep at night for frustration and anger at the stupid way I've wasted time when I might have had everything I can't have now because I'm too old" . Towards the end of the play, he even claims that he could have been a Dostoevsky or Schopenhauer if not for Serebryakov's diversion of his talents. In response to the first statement, Vanya's mother rightfully chastises him" "You're forgetting that principles on their own don't mean anything. You should have done something" . Mrs. Voynitsky's advice could be applied to nearly all the characters, as they are prone to blaming others for their problems without taking into account their own behavior. Chekhov isn't entirely dismissive of them, though, and renders them both critically and sympathetically. They are prisoners of societal expectations, their own characteristics and viewpoints, and the vapidity of parochial existence.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/85.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_14_part_6.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 12.chapter 6

book 12, chapter 6

{"name": "book 12, Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section15/", "summary": "The Prosecutor's Speech. Characterizations When order is restored, the lawyers give their closing speeches. The prosecutor, Kirrillovich, runs down the facts of the case", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VI. The Prosecutor's Speech. Sketches Of Character Ippolit Kirillovitch began his speech, trembling with nervousness, with cold sweat on his forehead, feeling hot and cold all over by turns. He described this himself afterwards. He regarded this speech as his _chef- d'oeuvre_, the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of his whole life, as his swan-song. He died, it is true, nine months later of rapid consumption, so that he had the right, as it turned out, to compare himself to a swan singing his last song. He had put his whole heart and all the brain he had into that speech. And poor Ippolit Kirillovitch unexpectedly revealed that at least some feeling for the public welfare and "the eternal question" lay concealed in him. Where his speech really excelled was in its sincerity. He genuinely believed in the prisoner's guilt; he was accusing him not as an official duty only, and in calling for vengeance he quivered with a genuine passion "for the security of society." Even the ladies in the audience, though they remained hostile to Ippolit Kirillovitch, admitted that he made an extraordinary impression on them. He began in a breaking voice, but it soon gained strength and filled the court to the end of his speech. But as soon as he had finished, he almost fainted. "Gentlemen of the jury," began the prosecutor, "this case has made a stir throughout Russia. But what is there to wonder at, what is there so peculiarly horrifying in it for us? We are so accustomed to such crimes! That's what's so horrible, that such dark deeds have ceased to horrify us. What ought to horrify us is that we are so accustomed to it, and not this or that isolated crime. What are the causes of our indifference, our lukewarm attitude to such deeds, to such signs of the times, ominous of an unenviable future? Is it our cynicism, is it the premature exhaustion of intellect and imagination in a society that is sinking into decay, in spite of its youth? Is it that our moral principles are shattered to their foundations, or is it, perhaps, a complete lack of such principles among us? I cannot answer such questions; nevertheless they are disturbing, and every citizen not only must, but ought to be harassed by them. Our newborn and still timid press has done good service to the public already, for without it we should never have heard of the horrors of unbridled violence and moral degradation which are continually made known by the press, not merely to those who attend the new jury courts established in the present reign, but to every one. And what do we read almost daily? Of things beside which the present case grows pale, and seems almost commonplace. But what is most important is that the majority of our national crimes of violence bear witness to a widespread evil, now so general among us that it is difficult to contend against it. "One day we see a brilliant young officer of high society, at the very outset of his career, in a cowardly underhand way, without a pang of conscience, murdering an official who had once been his benefactor, and the servant girl, to steal his own I.O.U. and what ready money he could find on him; 'it will come in handy for my pleasures in the fashionable world and for my career in the future.' After murdering them, he puts pillows under the head of each of his victims; he goes away. Next, a young hero 'decorated for bravery' kills the mother of his chief and benefactor, like a highwayman, and to urge his companions to join him he asserts that 'she loves him like a son, and so will follow all his directions and take no precautions.' Granted that he is a monster, yet I dare not say in these days that he is unique. Another man will not commit the murder, but will feel and think like him, and is as dishonorable in soul. In silence, alone with his conscience, he asks himself perhaps, 'What is honor, and isn't the condemnation of bloodshed a prejudice?' "Perhaps people will cry out against me that I am morbid, hysterical, that it is a monstrous slander, that I am exaggerating. Let them say so--and heavens! I should be the first to rejoice if it were so! Oh, don't believe me, think of me as morbid, but remember my words; if only a tenth, if only a twentieth part of what I say is true--even so it's awful! Look how our young people commit suicide, without asking themselves Hamlet's question what there is beyond, without a sign of such a question, as though all that relates to the soul and to what awaits us beyond the grave had long been erased in their minds and buried under the sands. Look at our vice, at our profligates. Fyodor Pavlovitch, the luckless victim in the present case, was almost an innocent babe compared with many of them. And yet we all knew him, 'he lived among us!'... "Yes, one day perhaps the leading intellects of Russia and of Europe will study the psychology of Russian crime, for the subject is worth it. But this study will come later, at leisure, when all the tragic topsy-turvydom of to-day is farther behind us, so that it's possible to examine it with more insight and more impartiality than I can do. Now we are either horrified or pretend to be horrified, though we really gloat over the spectacle, and love strong and eccentric sensations which tickle our cynical, pampered idleness. Or, like little children, we brush the dreadful ghosts away and hide our heads in the pillow so as to return to our sports and merriment as soon as they have vanished. But we must one day begin life in sober earnest, we must look at ourselves as a society; it's time we tried to grasp something of our social position, or at least to make a beginning in that direction. "A great writer(9) of the last epoch, comparing Russia to a swift troika galloping to an unknown goal, exclaims, 'Oh, troika, birdlike troika, who invented thee!' and adds, in proud ecstasy, that all the peoples of the world stand aside respectfully to make way for the recklessly galloping troika to pass. That may be, they may stand aside, respectfully or no, but in my poor opinion the great writer ended his book in this way either in an access of childish and naive optimism, or simply in fear of the censorship of the day. For if the troika were drawn by his heroes, Sobakevitch, Nozdryov, Tchitchikov, it could reach no rational goal, whoever might be driving it. And those were the heroes of an older generation, ours are worse specimens still...." At this point Ippolit Kirillovitch's speech was interrupted by applause. The liberal significance of this simile was appreciated. The applause was, it's true, of brief duration, so that the President did not think it necessary to caution the public, and only looked severely in the direction of the offenders. But Ippolit Kirillovitch was encouraged; he had never been applauded before! He had been all his life unable to get a hearing, and now he suddenly had an opportunity of securing the ear of all Russia. "What, after all, is this Karamazov family, which has gained such an unenviable notoriety throughout Russia?" he continued. "Perhaps I am exaggerating, but it seems to me that certain fundamental features of the educated class of to-day are reflected in this family picture--only, of course, in miniature, 'like the sun in a drop of water.' Think of that unhappy, vicious, unbridled old man, who has met with such a melancholy end, the head of a family! Beginning life of noble birth, but in a poor dependent position, through an unexpected marriage he came into a small fortune. A petty knave, a toady and buffoon, of fairly good, though undeveloped, intelligence, he was, above all, a moneylender, who grew bolder with growing prosperity. His abject and servile characteristics disappeared, his malicious and sarcastic cynicism was all that remained. On the spiritual side he was undeveloped, while his vitality was excessive. He saw nothing in life but sensual pleasure, and he brought his children up to be the same. He had no feelings for his duties as a father. He ridiculed those duties. He left his little children to the servants, and was glad to be rid of them, forgot about them completely. The old man's maxim was _Apres moi le deluge_. He was an example of everything that is opposed to civic duty, of the most complete and malignant individualism. 'The world may burn for aught I care, so long as I am all right,' and he was all right; he was content, he was eager to go on living in the same way for another twenty or thirty years. He swindled his own son and spent his money, his maternal inheritance, on trying to get his mistress from him. No, I don't intend to leave the prisoner's defense altogether to my talented colleague from Petersburg. I will speak the truth myself, I can well understand what resentment he had heaped up in his son's heart against him. "But enough, enough of that unhappy old man; he has paid the penalty. Let us remember, however, that he was a father, and one of the typical fathers of to-day. Am I unjust, indeed, in saying that he is typical of many modern fathers? Alas! many of them only differ in not openly professing such cynicism, for they are better educated, more cultured, but their philosophy is essentially the same as his. Perhaps I am a pessimist, but you have agreed to forgive me. Let us agree beforehand, you need not believe me, but let me speak. Let me say what I have to say, and remember something of my words. "Now for the children of this father, this head of a family. One of them is the prisoner before us, all the rest of my speech will deal with him. Of the other two I will speak only cursorily. "The elder is one of those modern young men of brilliant education and vigorous intellect, who has lost all faith in everything. He has denied and rejected much already, like his father. We have all heard him, he was a welcome guest in local society. He never concealed his opinions, quite the contrary in fact, which justifies me in speaking rather openly of him now, of course, not as an individual, but as a member of the Karamazov family. Another personage closely connected with the case died here by his own hand last night. I mean an afflicted idiot, formerly the servant, and possibly the illegitimate son, of Fyodor Pavlovitch, Smerdyakov. At the preliminary inquiry, he told me with hysterical tears how the young Ivan Karamazov had horrified him by his spiritual audacity. 'Everything in the world is lawful according to him, and nothing must be forbidden in the future--that is what he always taught me.' I believe that idiot was driven out of his mind by this theory, though, of course, the epileptic attacks from which he suffered, and this terrible catastrophe, have helped to unhinge his faculties. But he dropped one very interesting observation, which would have done credit to a more intelligent observer, and that is, indeed, why I've mentioned it: 'If there is one of the sons that is like Fyodor Pavlovitch in character, it is Ivan Fyodorovitch.' "With that remark I conclude my sketch of his character, feeling it indelicate to continue further. Oh, I don't want to draw any further conclusions and croak like a raven over the young man's future. We've seen to-day in this court that there are still good impulses in his young heart, that family feeling has not been destroyed in him by lack of faith and cynicism, which have come to him rather by inheritance than by the exercise of independent thought. "Then the third son. Oh, he is a devout and modest youth, who does not share his elder brother's gloomy and destructive theory of life. He has sought to cling to the 'ideas of the people,' or to what goes by that name in some circles of our intellectual classes. He clung to the monastery, and was within an ace of becoming a monk. He seems to me to have betrayed unconsciously, and so early, that timid despair which leads so many in our unhappy society, who dread cynicism and its corrupting influences, and mistakenly attribute all the mischief to European enlightenment, to return to their 'native soil,' as they say, to the bosom, so to speak, of their mother earth, like frightened children, yearning to fall asleep on the withered bosom of their decrepit mother, and to sleep there for ever, only to escape the horrors that terrify them. "For my part I wish the excellent and gifted young man every success; I trust that his youthful idealism and impulse towards the ideas of the people may never degenerate, as often happens, on the moral side into gloomy mysticism, and on the political into blind chauvinism--two elements which are even a greater menace to Russia than the premature decay, due to misunderstanding and gratuitous adoption of European ideas, from which his elder brother is suffering." Two or three people clapped their hands at the mention of chauvinism and mysticism. Ippolit Kirillovitch had been, indeed, carried away by his own eloquence. All this had little to do with the case in hand, to say nothing of the fact of its being somewhat vague, but the sickly and consumptive man was overcome by the desire to express himself once in his life. People said afterwards that he was actuated by unworthy motives in his criticism of Ivan, because the latter had on one or two occasions got the better of him in argument, and Ippolit Kirillovitch, remembering it, tried now to take his revenge. But I don't know whether it was true. All this was only introductory, however, and the speech passed to more direct consideration of the case. "But to return to the eldest son," Ippolit Kirillovitch went on. "He is the prisoner before us. We have his life and his actions, too, before us; the fatal day has come and all has been brought to the surface. While his brothers seem to stand for 'Europeanism' and 'the principles of the people,' he seems to represent Russia as she is. Oh, not all Russia, not all! God preserve us, if it were! Yet, here we have her, our mother Russia, the very scent and sound of her. Oh, he is spontaneous, he is a marvelous mingling of good and evil, he is a lover of culture and Schiller, yet he brawls in taverns and plucks out the beards of his boon companions. Oh, he, too, can be good and noble, but only when all goes well with him. What is more, he can be carried off his feet, positively carried off his feet by noble ideals, but only if they come of themselves, if they fall from heaven for him, if they need not be paid for. He dislikes paying for anything, but is very fond of receiving, and that's so with him in everything. Oh, give him every possible good in life (he couldn't be content with less), and put no obstacle in his way, and he will show that he, too, can be noble. He is not greedy, no, but he must have money, a great deal of money, and you will see how generously, with what scorn of filthy lucre, he will fling it all away in the reckless dissipation of one night. But if he has not money, he will show what he is ready to do to get it when he is in great need of it. But all this later, let us take events in their chronological order. "First, we have before us a poor abandoned child, running about the back- yard 'without boots on his feet,' as our worthy and esteemed fellow citizen, of foreign origin, alas! expressed it just now. I repeat it again, I yield to no one the defense of the criminal. I am here to accuse him, but to defend him also. Yes, I, too, am human; I, too, can weigh the influence of home and childhood on the character. But the boy grows up and becomes an officer; for a duel and other reckless conduct he is exiled to one of the remote frontier towns of Russia. There he led a wild life as an officer. And, of course, he needed money, money before all things, and so after prolonged disputes he came to a settlement with his father, and the last six thousand was sent him. A letter is in existence in which he practically gives up his claim to the rest and settles his conflict with his father over the inheritance on the payment of this six thousand. "Then came his meeting with a young girl of lofty character and brilliant education. Oh, I do not venture to repeat the details; you have only just heard them. Honor, self-sacrifice were shown there, and I will be silent. The figure of the young officer, frivolous and profligate, doing homage to true nobility and a lofty ideal, was shown in a very sympathetic light before us. But the other side of the medal was unexpectedly turned to us immediately after in this very court. Again I will not venture to conjecture why it happened so, but there were causes. The same lady, bathed in tears of long-concealed indignation, alleged that he, he of all men, had despised her for her action, which, though incautious, reckless perhaps, was still dictated by lofty and generous motives. He, he, the girl's betrothed, looked at her with that smile of mockery, which was more insufferable from him than from any one. And knowing that he had already deceived her (he had deceived her, believing that she was bound to endure everything from him, even treachery), she intentionally offered him three thousand roubles, and clearly, too clearly, let him understand that she was offering him money to deceive her. 'Well, will you take it or not, are you so lost to shame?' was the dumb question in her scrutinizing eyes. He looked at her, saw clearly what was in her mind (he's admitted here before you that he understood it all), appropriated that three thousand unconditionally, and squandered it in two days with the new object of his affections. "What are we to believe then? The first legend of the young officer sacrificing his last farthing in a noble impulse of generosity and doing reverence to virtue, or this other revolting picture? As a rule, between two extremes one has to find the mean, but in the present case this is not true. The probability is that in the first case he was genuinely noble, and in the second as genuinely base. And why? Because he was of the broad Karamazov character--that's just what I am leading up to--capable of combining the most incongruous contradictions, and capable of the greatest heights and of the greatest depths. Remember the brilliant remark made by a young observer who has seen the Karamazov family at close quarters--Mr. Rakitin: 'The sense of their own degradation is as essential to those reckless, unbridled natures as the sense of their lofty generosity.' And that's true, they need continually this unnatural mixture. Two extremes at the same moment, or they are miserable and dissatisfied and their existence is incomplete. They are wide, wide as mother Russia; they include everything and put up with everything. "By the way, gentlemen of the jury, we've just touched upon that three thousand roubles, and I will venture to anticipate things a little. Can you conceive that a man like that, on receiving that sum and in such a way, at the price of such shame, such disgrace, such utter degradation, could have been capable that very day of setting apart half that sum, that very day, and sewing it up in a little bag, and would have had the firmness of character to carry it about with him for a whole month afterwards, in spite of every temptation and his extreme need of it! Neither in drunken debauchery in taverns, nor when he was flying into the country, trying to get from God knows whom, the money so essential to him to remove the object of his affections from being tempted by his father, did he bring himself to touch that little bag! Why, if only to avoid abandoning his mistress to the rival of whom he was so jealous, he would have been certain to have opened that bag and to have stayed at home to keep watch over her, and to await the moment when she would say to him at last 'I am yours,' and to fly with her far from their fatal surroundings. "But no, he did not touch his talisman, and what is the reason he gives for it? The chief reason, as I have just said, was that when she would say, 'I am yours, take me where you will,' he might have the wherewithal to take her. But that first reason, in the prisoner's own words, was of little weight beside the second. While I have that money on me, he said, I am a scoundrel, not a thief, for I can always go to my insulted betrothed, and, laying down half the sum I have fraudulently appropriated, I can always say to her, 'You see, I've squandered half your money, and shown I am a weak and immoral man, and, if you like, a scoundrel' (I use the prisoner's own expressions), 'but though I am a scoundrel, I am not a thief, for if I had been a thief, I shouldn't have brought you back this half of the money, but should have taken it as I did the other half!' A marvelous explanation! This frantic, but weak man, who could not resist the temptation of accepting the three thousand roubles at the price of such disgrace, this very man suddenly develops the most stoical firmness, and carries about a thousand roubles without daring to touch it. Does that fit in at all with the character we have analyzed? No, and I venture to tell you how the real Dmitri Karamazov would have behaved in such circumstances, if he really had brought himself to put away the money. "At the first temptation--for instance, to entertain the woman with whom he had already squandered half the money--he would have unpicked his little bag and have taken out some hundred roubles, for why should he have taken back precisely half the money, that is, fifteen hundred roubles? why not fourteen hundred? He could just as well have said then that he was not a thief, because he brought back fourteen hundred roubles. Then another time he would have unpicked it again and taken out another hundred, and then a third, and then a fourth, and before the end of the month he would have taken the last note but one, feeling that if he took back only a hundred it would answer the purpose, for a thief would have stolen it all. And then he would have looked at this last note, and have said to himself, 'It's really not worth while to give back one hundred; let's spend that, too!' That's how the real Dmitri Karamazov, as we know him, would have behaved. One cannot imagine anything more incongruous with the actual fact than this legend of the little bag. Nothing could be more inconceivable. But we shall return to that later." After touching upon what had come out in the proceedings concerning the financial relations of father and son, and arguing again and again that it was utterly impossible, from the facts known, to determine which was in the wrong, Ippolit Kirillovitch passed to the evidence of the medical experts in reference to Mitya's fixed idea about the three thousand owing him.

book 12, Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section15/

The Prosecutor's Speech. Characterizations When order is restored, the lawyers give their closing speeches. The prosecutor, Kirrillovich, runs down the facts of the case

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/02.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_1_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 2

chapter 2

{"name": "Phase I: \"The Maiden,\" Chapter Two", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-2", "summary": "The chapter opens with a description of the \"Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor\" , where the village of Marlott is situated. The narrator gives us a historical, as well as a geographical and topographical, description of the area. Apparently the valley used to be covered by an ancient forest, most of which has since been cleared for farming, but occasional bits of the ancient woods survive here and there. The ancient customs associated with the forest still survive in the valley in some form or another. The May-Day dance survives in the form of the club-walking mentioned in the previous chapter. The club-walkers are all women, because the custom is a holdover from the ancient festival to the earth goddess, which was traditionally celebrated by women. The group includes women of all ages, from teenagers to old women, but the majority of them are young. The women are parading around the outskirts of the town as part of the celebration. As they pass the Pure Drop Inn , one of the women points out Jack Durbeyfield riding home in a carriage to his daughter, Tess. Tess is described for the first time: she's a very pretty girl, wearing white like the others, but with a red ribbon in her hair. Jack Durbeyfield is reclining in the carriage, waving to anyone who happens to be watching him, chanting, \"I've-got-a-great-family-vault-at-Kingsbere--and-knighted-fore-fathers-in-lead-coffins-there!\" . Tess is understandably embarrassed by her father's behavior, and tries to excuse it to her friends by saying that he must have gotten a ride home because he was tired. Her friends laugh and say that he got a ride home because he was drunk . Tess is hurt by their snide remarks, and they feel bad and leave her alone about it. Jack Durbeyfield rides on, and no one sees anything more of him. The women arrive at the open space where they dance at the end of the parade, but at first dance only with each other, since most of the local men are still working. A few random passers-by gather around and think about joining in the dance. Three of these are a group of brothers \"of a superior class,\" who are on a walking tour of the valley . They watch the women dancing, and ask a few of the other spectators what the festival is. The older two brothers are ready to move on, but the youngest seems amused at the group of women dancing without male partners, and starts to enter the field. His brothers ask him what he's doing--his name is \"Angel.\" Angel says he's going to join them for a moment, and suggests that his brothers do likewise. They aren't interested--they want to keep going so that they'll make it to their next stop before dark, and one of the brothers particularly wants to leave time to read the next chapter of the book he brought with him: A Counterblast to Agnosticism. Angel says he'll catch up with his brothers--they're named Felix and Cuthbert--after a quick dance. They agree, and leave the spot. Angel is quickly approached by one of the boldest of the young women--she tells him that the young men of the village haven't arrived yet, and that he would be welcome to pick and choose from among the women there until the village men arrive. Angel is overwhelmed by the choices, and picks almost the first pretty girl he sees. It isn't Tess. Other young men from the village arrive soon afterwards, and start dancing with other women, but Tess's feelings are hurt by the strange young man's neglect. As Angel leaves to catch up with his brothers, he looks back and sees Tess standing a little apart from the rest of the group, looking sad. She looks so lovely and so reproachful, that he regrets not having danced with her or at least having asked her name. But Angel can't help it now, and so moves on to catch up with his brothers.", "analysis": ""}

The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor, aforesaid, an engirdled and secluded region, for the most part untrodden as yet by tourist or landscape-painter, though within a four hours' journey from London. It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summits of the hills that surround it--except perhaps during the droughts of summer. An unguided ramble into its recesses in bad weather is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, tortuous, and miry ways. This fertile and sheltered tract of country, in which the fields are never brown and the springs never dry, is bounded on the south by the bold chalk ridge that embraces the prominences of Hambledon Hill, Bulbarrow, Nettlecombe-Tout, Dogbury, High Stoy, and Bubb Down. The traveller from the coast, who, after plodding northward for a score of miles over calcareous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches the verge of one of these escarpments, is surprised and delighted to behold, extended like a map beneath him, a country differing absolutely from that which he has passed through. Behind him the hills are open, the sun blazes down upon fields so large as to give an unenclosed character to the landscape, the lanes are white, the hedges low and plashed, the atmosphere colourless. Here, in the valley, the world seems to be constructed upon a smaller and more delicate scale; the fields are mere paddocks, so reduced that from this height their hedgerows appear a network of dark green threads overspreading the paler green of the grass. The atmosphere beneath is languorous, and is so tinged with azure that what artists call the middle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon beyond is of the deepest ultramarine. Arable lands are few and limited; with but slight exceptions the prospect is a broad rich mass of grass and trees, mantling minor hills and dales within the major. Such is the Vale of Blackmoor. The district is of historic, no less than of topographical interest. The Vale was known in former times as the Forest of White Hart, from a curious legend of King Henry III's reign, in which the killing by a certain Thomas de la Lynd of a beautiful white hart which the king had run down and spared, was made the occasion of a heavy fine. In those days, and till comparatively recent times, the country was densely wooded. Even now, traces of its earlier condition are to be found in the old oak copses and irregular belts of timber that yet survive upon its slopes, and the hollow-trunked trees that shade so many of its pastures. The forests have departed, but some old customs of their shades remain. Many, however, linger only in a metamorphosed or disguised form. The May-Day dance, for instance, was to be discerned on the afternoon under notice, in the guise of the club revel, or "club-walking," as it was there called. It was an interesting event to the younger inhabitants of Marlott, though its real interest was not observed by the participators in the ceremony. Its singularity lay less in the retention of a custom of walking in procession and dancing on each anniversary than in the members being solely women. In men's clubs such celebrations were, though expiring, less uncommon; but either the natural shyness of the softer sex, or a sarcastic attitude on the part of male relatives, had denuded such women's clubs as remained (if any other did) or this their glory and consummation. The club of Marlott alone lived to uphold the local Cerealia. It had walked for hundreds of years, if not as benefit-club, as votive sisterhood of some sort; and it walked still. The banded ones were all dressed in white gowns--a gay survival from Old Style days, when cheerfulness and May-time were synonyms--days before the habit of taking long views had reduced emotions to a monotonous average. Their first exhibition of themselves was in a processional march of two and two round the parish. Ideal and real clashed slightly as the sun lit up their figures against the green hedges and creeper-laced house-fronts; for, though the whole troop wore white garments, no two whites were alike among them. Some approached pure blanching; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the older characters (which had possibly lain by folded for many a year) inclined to a cadaverous tint, and to a Georgian style. In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and girl carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand, and in her left a bunch of white flowers. The peeling of the former, and the selection of the latter, had been an operation of personal care. There were a few middle-aged and even elderly women in the train, their silver-wiry hair and wrinkled faces, scourged by time and trouble, having almost a grotesque, certainly a pathetic, appearance in such a jaunty situation. In a true view, perhaps, there was more to be gathered and told of each anxious and experienced one, to whom the years were drawing nigh when she should say, "I have no pleasure in them," than of her juvenile comrades. But let the elder be passed over here for those under whose bodices the life throbbed quick and warm. The young girls formed, indeed, the majority of the band, and their heads of luxuriant hair reflected in the sunshine every tone of gold, and black, and brown. Some had beautiful eyes, others a beautiful nose, others a beautiful mouth and figure: few, if any, had all. A difficulty of arranging their lips in this crude exposure to public scrutiny, an inability to balance their heads, and to dissociate self-consciousness from their features, was apparent in them, and showed that they were genuine country girls, unaccustomed to many eyes. And as each and all of them were warmed without by the sun, so each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope which, though perhaps starving to nothing, still lived on, as hopes will. They were all cheerful, and many of them merry. They came round by The Pure Drop Inn, and were turning out of the high road to pass through a wicket-gate into the meadows, when one of the women said-- "The Load-a-Lord! Why, Tess Durbeyfield, if there isn't thy father riding hwome in a carriage!" A young member of the band turned her head at the exclamation. She was a fine and handsome girl--not handsomer than some others, possibly--but her mobile peony mouth and large innocent eyes added eloquence to colour and shape. She wore a red ribbon in her hair, and was the only one of the white company who could boast of such a pronounced adornment. As she looked round Durbeyfield was seen moving along the road in a chaise belonging to The Pure Drop, driven by a frizzle-headed brawny damsel with her gown-sleeves rolled above her elbows. This was the cheerful servant of that establishment, who, in her part of factotum, turned groom and ostler at times. Durbeyfield, leaning back, and with his eyes closed luxuriously, was waving his hand above his head, and singing in a slow recitative-- "I've-got-a-gr't-family-vault-at-Kingsbere--and knighted-forefathers-in-lead-coffins-there!" The clubbists tittered, except the girl called Tess--in whom a slow heat seemed to rise at the sense that her father was making himself foolish in their eyes. "He's tired, that's all," she said hastily, "and he has got a lift home, because our own horse has to rest to-day." "Bless thy simplicity, Tess," said her companions. "He's got his market-nitch. Haw-haw!" "Look here; I won't walk another inch with you, if you say any jokes about him!" Tess cried, and the colour upon her cheeks spread over her face and neck. In a moment her eyes grew moist, and her glance drooped to the ground. Perceiving that they had really pained her they said no more, and order again prevailed. Tess's pride would not allow her to turn her head again, to learn what her father's meaning was, if he had any; and thus she moved on with the whole body to the enclosure where there was to be dancing on the green. By the time the spot was reached she has recovered her equanimity, and tapped her neighbour with her wand and talked as usual. Tess Durbeyfield at this time of her life was a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experience. The dialect was on her tongue to some extent, despite the village school: the characteristic intonation of that dialect for this district being the voicing approximately rendered by the syllable UR, probably as rich an utterance as any to be found in human speech. The pouted-up deep red mouth to which this syllable was native had hardly as yet settled into its definite shape, and her lower lip had a way of thrusting the middle of her top one upward, when they closed together after a word. Phases of her childhood lurked in her aspect still. As she walked along to-day, for all her bouncing handsome womanliness, you could sometimes see her twelfth year in her cheeks, or her ninth sparkling from her eyes; and even her fifth would flit over the curves of her mouth now and then. Yet few knew, and still fewer considered this. A small minority, mainly strangers, would look long at her in casually passing by, and grow momentarily fascinated by her freshness, and wonder if they would ever see her again: but to almost everybody she was a fine and picturesque country girl, and no more. Nothing was seen or heard further of Durbeyfield in his triumphal chariot under the conduct of the ostleress, and the club having entered the allotted space, dancing began. As there were no men in the company, the girls danced at first with each other, but when the hour for the close of labour drew on, the masculine inhabitants of the village, together with other idlers and pedestrians, gathered round the spot, and appeared inclined to negotiate for a partner. Among these on-lookers were three young men of a superior class, carrying small knapsacks strapped to their shoulders, and stout sticks in their hands. Their general likeness to each other, and their consecutive ages, would almost have suggested that they might be, what in fact they were, brothers. The eldest wore the white tie, high waistcoat, and thin-brimmed hat of the regulation curate; the second was the normal undergraduate; the appearance of the third and youngest would hardly have been sufficient to characterize him; there was an uncribbed, uncabined aspect in his eyes and attire, implying that he had hardly as yet found the entrance to his professional groove. That he was a desultory tentative student of something and everything might only have been predicted of him. These three brethren told casual acquaintance that they were spending their Whitsun holidays in a walking tour through the Vale of Blackmoor, their course being south-westerly from the town of Shaston on the north-east. They leant over the gate by the highway, and inquired as to the meaning of the dance and the white-frocked maids. The two elder of the brothers were plainly not intending to linger more than a moment, but the spectacle of a bevy of girls dancing without male partners seemed to amuse the third, and make him in no hurry to move on. He unstrapped his knapsack, put it, with his stick, on the hedge-bank, and opened the gate. "What are you going to do, Angel?" asked the eldest. "I am inclined to go and have a fling with them. Why not all of us--just for a minute or two--it will not detain us long?" "No--no; nonsense!" said the first. "Dancing in public with a troop of country hoydens--suppose we should be seen! Come along, or it will be dark before we get to Stourcastle, and there's no place we can sleep at nearer than that; besides, we must get through another chapter of _A Counterblast to Agnosticism_ before we turn in, now I have taken the trouble to bring the book." "All right--I'll overtake you and Cuthbert in five minutes; don't stop; I give my word that I will, Felix." The two elder reluctantly left him and walked on, taking their brother's knapsack to relieve him in following, and the youngest entered the field. "This is a thousand pities," he said gallantly, to two or three of the girls nearest him, as soon as there was a pause in the dance. "Where are your partners, my dears?" "They've not left off work yet," answered one of the boldest. "They'll be here by and by. Till then, will you be one, sir?" "Certainly. But what's one among so many!" "Better than none. 'Tis melancholy work facing and footing it to one of your own sort, and no clipsing and colling at all. Now, pick and choose." "'Ssh--don't be so for'ard!" said a shyer girl. The young man, thus invited, glanced them over, and attempted some discrimination; but, as the group were all so new to him, he could not very well exercise it. He took almost the first that came to hand, which was not the speaker, as she had expected; nor did it happen to be Tess Durbeyfield. Pedigree, ancestral skeletons, monumental record, the d'Urberville lineaments, did not help Tess in her life's battle as yet, even to the extent of attracting to her a dancing-partner over the heads of the commonest peasantry. So much for Norman blood unaided by Victorian lucre. The name of the eclipsing girl, whatever it was, has not been handed down; but she was envied by all as the first who enjoyed the luxury of a masculine partner that evening. Yet such was the force of example that the village young men, who had not hastened to enter the gate while no intruder was in the way, now dropped in quickly, and soon the couples became leavened with rustic youth to a marked extent, till at length the plainest woman in the club was no longer compelled to foot it on the masculine side of the figure. The church clock struck, when suddenly the student said that he must leave--he had been forgetting himself--he had to join his companions. As he fell out of the dance his eyes lighted on Tess Durbeyfield, whose own large orbs wore, to tell the truth, the faintest aspect of reproach that he had not chosen her. He, too, was sorry then that, owing to her backwardness, he had not observed her; and with that in his mind he left the pasture. On account of his long delay he started in a flying-run down the lane westward, and had soon passed the hollow and mounted the next rise. He had not yet overtaken his brothers, but he paused to get breath, and looked back. He could see the white figures of the girls in the green enclosure whirling about as they had whirled when he was among them. They seemed to have quite forgotten him already. All of them, except, perhaps, one. This white shape stood apart by the hedge alone. From her position he knew it to be the pretty maiden with whom he had not danced. Trifling as the matter was, he yet instinctively felt that she was hurt by his oversight. He wished that he had asked her; he wished that he had inquired her name. She was so modest, so expressive, she had looked so soft in her thin white gown that he felt he had acted stupidly. However, it could not be helped, and turning, and bending himself to a rapid walk, he dismissed the subject from his mind.

Phase I: "The Maiden," Chapter Two

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-2

The chapter opens with a description of the "Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor" , where the village of Marlott is situated. The narrator gives us a historical, as well as a geographical and topographical, description of the area. Apparently the valley used to be covered by an ancient forest, most of which has since been cleared for farming, but occasional bits of the ancient woods survive here and there. The ancient customs associated with the forest still survive in the valley in some form or another. The May-Day dance survives in the form of the club-walking mentioned in the previous chapter. The club-walkers are all women, because the custom is a holdover from the ancient festival to the earth goddess, which was traditionally celebrated by women. The group includes women of all ages, from teenagers to old women, but the majority of them are young. The women are parading around the outskirts of the town as part of the celebration. As they pass the Pure Drop Inn , one of the women points out Jack Durbeyfield riding home in a carriage to his daughter, Tess. Tess is described for the first time: she's a very pretty girl, wearing white like the others, but with a red ribbon in her hair. Jack Durbeyfield is reclining in the carriage, waving to anyone who happens to be watching him, chanting, "I've-got-a-great-family-vault-at-Kingsbere--and-knighted-fore-fathers-in-lead-coffins-there!" . Tess is understandably embarrassed by her father's behavior, and tries to excuse it to her friends by saying that he must have gotten a ride home because he was tired. Her friends laugh and say that he got a ride home because he was drunk . Tess is hurt by their snide remarks, and they feel bad and leave her alone about it. Jack Durbeyfield rides on, and no one sees anything more of him. The women arrive at the open space where they dance at the end of the parade, but at first dance only with each other, since most of the local men are still working. A few random passers-by gather around and think about joining in the dance. Three of these are a group of brothers "of a superior class," who are on a walking tour of the valley . They watch the women dancing, and ask a few of the other spectators what the festival is. The older two brothers are ready to move on, but the youngest seems amused at the group of women dancing without male partners, and starts to enter the field. His brothers ask him what he's doing--his name is "Angel." Angel says he's going to join them for a moment, and suggests that his brothers do likewise. They aren't interested--they want to keep going so that they'll make it to their next stop before dark, and one of the brothers particularly wants to leave time to read the next chapter of the book he brought with him: A Counterblast to Agnosticism. Angel says he'll catch up with his brothers--they're named Felix and Cuthbert--after a quick dance. They agree, and leave the spot. Angel is quickly approached by one of the boldest of the young women--she tells him that the young men of the village haven't arrived yet, and that he would be welcome to pick and choose from among the women there until the village men arrive. Angel is overwhelmed by the choices, and picks almost the first pretty girl he sees. It isn't Tess. Other young men from the village arrive soon afterwards, and start dancing with other women, but Tess's feelings are hurt by the strange young man's neglect. As Angel leaves to catch up with his brothers, he looks back and sees Tess standing a little apart from the rest of the group, looking sad. She looks so lovely and so reproachful, that he regrets not having danced with her or at least having asked her name. But Angel can't help it now, and so moves on to catch up with his brothers.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/33.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_5_part_3.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 5.chapter 2

book 5, chapter 2

{"name": "book 5, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section6/", "summary": "Smerdyakov with a Guitar Alyosha thinks about Dmitri's violent and passionate behavior, and decides to try to help his brother rather than return to Zosima's bedside in the monastery as he longs to do. Alyosha notes that Dmitri seems to be avoiding him, so Alyosha decides to stake out the gazebo that he knows Dmitri often visits to watch for Grushenka. There, Alyosha overhears Smerdyakov playing a guitar and singing a song for the housekeeper's daughter. Alyosha tentatively interrupts this scene and asks Smerdyakov if he knows where Dmitri has gone. Smerdyakov says that Dmitri has gone to meet Ivan at a restaurant", "analysis": ""}

Chapter II. Smerdyakov With A Guitar He had no time to lose indeed. Even while he was saying good-by to Lise, the thought had struck him that he must attempt some stratagem to find his brother Dmitri, who was evidently keeping out of his way. It was getting late, nearly three o'clock. Alyosha's whole soul turned to the monastery, to his dying saint, but the necessity of seeing Dmitri outweighed everything. The conviction that a great inevitable catastrophe was about to happen grew stronger in Alyosha's mind with every hour. What that catastrophe was, and what he would say at that moment to his brother, he could perhaps not have said definitely. "Even if my benefactor must die without me, anyway I won't have to reproach myself all my life with the thought that I might have saved something and did not, but passed by and hastened home. If I do as I intend, I shall be following his great precept." His plan was to catch his brother Dmitri unawares, to climb over the fence, as he had the day before, get into the garden and sit in the summer-house. If Dmitri were not there, thought Alyosha, he would not announce himself to Foma or the women of the house, but would remain hidden in the summer-house, even if he had to wait there till evening. If, as before, Dmitri were lying in wait for Grushenka to come, he would be very likely to come to the summer-house. Alyosha did not, however, give much thought to the details of his plan, but resolved to act upon it, even if it meant not getting back to the monastery that day. Everything happened without hindrance, he climbed over the hurdle almost in the same spot as the day before, and stole into the summer-house unseen. He did not want to be noticed. The woman of the house and Foma too, if he were here, might be loyal to his brother and obey his instructions, and so refuse to let Alyosha come into the garden, or might warn Dmitri that he was being sought and inquired for. There was no one in the summer-house. Alyosha sat down and began to wait. He looked round the summer-house, which somehow struck him as a great deal more ancient than before. Though the day was just as fine as yesterday, it seemed a wretched little place this time. There was a circle on the table, left no doubt from the glass of brandy having been spilt the day before. Foolish and irrelevant ideas strayed about his mind, as they always do in a time of tedious waiting. He wondered, for instance, why he had sat down precisely in the same place as before, why not in the other seat. At last he felt very depressed--depressed by suspense and uncertainty. But he had not sat there more than a quarter of an hour, when he suddenly heard the thrum of a guitar somewhere quite close. People were sitting, or had only just sat down, somewhere in the bushes not more than twenty paces away. Alyosha suddenly recollected that on coming out of the summer-house the day before, he had caught a glimpse of an old green low garden-seat among the bushes on the left, by the fence. The people must be sitting on it now. Who were they? A man's voice suddenly began singing in a sugary falsetto, accompanying himself on the guitar: With invincible force I am bound to my dear. O Lord, have mercy On her and on me! On her and on me! On her and on me! The voice ceased. It was a lackey's tenor and a lackey's song. Another voice, a woman's, suddenly asked insinuatingly and bashfully, though with mincing affectation: "Why haven't you been to see us for so long, Pavel Fyodorovitch? Why do you always look down upon us?" "Not at all," answered a man's voice politely, but with emphatic dignity. It was clear that the man had the best of the position, and that the woman was making advances. "I believe the man must be Smerdyakov," thought Alyosha, "from his voice. And the lady must be the daughter of the house here, who has come from Moscow, the one who wears the dress with a tail and goes to Marfa for soup." "I am awfully fond of verses of all kinds, if they rhyme," the woman's voice continued. "Why don't you go on?" The man sang again: What do I care for royal wealth If but my dear one be in health? Lord have mercy On her and on me! On her and on me! On her and on me! "It was even better last time," observed the woman's voice. "You sang 'If my darling be in health'; it sounded more tender. I suppose you've forgotten to-day." "Poetry is rubbish!" said Smerdyakov curtly. "Oh, no! I am very fond of poetry." "So far as it's poetry, it's essential rubbish. Consider yourself, who ever talks in rhyme? And if we were all to talk in rhyme, even though it were decreed by government, we shouldn't say much, should we? Poetry is no good, Marya Kondratyevna." "How clever you are! How is it you've gone so deep into everything?" The woman's voice was more and more insinuating. "I could have done better than that. I could have known more than that, if it had not been for my destiny from my childhood up. I would have shot a man in a duel if he called me names because I am descended from a filthy beggar and have no father. And they used to throw it in my teeth in Moscow. It had reached them from here, thanks to Grigory Vassilyevitch. Grigory Vassilyevitch blames me for rebelling against my birth, but I would have sanctioned their killing me before I was born that I might not have come into the world at all. They used to say in the market, and your mamma too, with great lack of delicacy, set off telling me that her hair was like a mat on her head, and that she was short of five foot by a wee bit. Why talk of a wee bit while she might have said 'a little bit,' like every one else? She wanted to make it touching, a regular peasant's feeling. Can a Russian peasant be said to feel, in comparison with an educated man? He can't be said to have feeling at all, in his ignorance. From my childhood up when I hear 'a wee bit,' I am ready to burst with rage. I hate all Russia, Marya Kondratyevna." "If you'd been a cadet in the army, or a young hussar, you wouldn't have talked like that, but would have drawn your saber to defend all Russia." "I don't want to be a hussar, Marya Kondratyevna, and, what's more, I should like to abolish all soldiers." "And when an enemy comes, who is going to defend us?" "There's no need of defense. In 1812 there was a great invasion of Russia by Napoleon, first Emperor of the French, father of the present one, and it would have been a good thing if they had conquered us. A clever nation would have conquered a very stupid one and annexed it. We should have had quite different institutions." "Are they so much better in their own country than we are? I wouldn't change a dandy I know of for three young Englishmen," observed Marya Kondratyevna tenderly, doubtless accompanying her words with a most languishing glance. "That's as one prefers." "But you are just like a foreigner--just like a most gentlemanly foreigner. I tell you that, though it makes me bashful." "If you care to know, the folks there and ours here are just alike in their vice. They are swindlers, only there the scoundrel wears polished boots and here he grovels in filth and sees no harm in it. The Russian people want thrashing, as Fyodor Pavlovitch said very truly yesterday, though he is mad, and all his children." "You said yourself you had such a respect for Ivan Fyodorovitch." "But he said I was a stinking lackey. He thinks that I might be unruly. He is mistaken there. If I had a certain sum in my pocket, I would have left here long ago. Dmitri Fyodorovitch is lower than any lackey in his behavior, in his mind, and in his poverty. He doesn't know how to do anything, and yet he is respected by every one. I may be only a soup- maker, but with luck I could open a cafe restaurant in Petrovka, in Moscow, for my cookery is something special, and there's no one in Moscow, except the foreigners, whose cookery is anything special. Dmitri Fyodorovitch is a beggar, but if he were to challenge the son of the first count in the country, he'd fight him. Though in what way is he better than I am? For he is ever so much stupider than I am. Look at the money he has wasted without any need!" "It must be lovely, a duel," Marya Kondratyevna observed suddenly. "How so?" "It must be so dreadful and so brave, especially when young officers with pistols in their hands pop at one another for the sake of some lady. A perfect picture! Ah, if only girls were allowed to look on, I'd give anything to see one!" "It's all very well when you are firing at some one, but when he is firing straight in your mug, you must feel pretty silly. You'd be glad to run away, Marya Kondratyevna." "You don't mean you would run away?" But Smerdyakov did not deign to reply. After a moment's silence the guitar tinkled again, and he sang again in the same falsetto: Whatever you may say, I shall go far away. Life will be bright and gay In the city far away. I shall not grieve, I shall not grieve at all, I don't intend to grieve at all. Then something unexpected happened. Alyosha suddenly sneezed. They were silent. Alyosha got up and walked towards them. He found Smerdyakov dressed up and wearing polished boots, his hair pomaded, and perhaps curled. The guitar lay on the garden-seat. His companion was the daughter of the house, wearing a light-blue dress with a train two yards long. She was young and would not have been bad-looking, but that her face was so round and terribly freckled. "Will my brother Dmitri soon be back?" asked Alyosha with as much composure as he could. Smerdyakov got up slowly; Marya Kondratyevna rose too. "How am I to know about Dmitri Fyodorovitch? It's not as if I were his keeper," answered Smerdyakov quietly, distinctly, and superciliously. "But I simply asked whether you do know?" Alyosha explained. "I know nothing of his whereabouts and don't want to." "But my brother told me that you let him know all that goes on in the house, and promised to let him know when Agrafena Alexandrovna comes." Smerdyakov turned a deliberate, unmoved glance upon him. "And how did you get in this time, since the gate was bolted an hour ago?" he asked, looking at Alyosha. "I came in from the back-alley, over the fence, and went straight to the summer-house. I hope you'll forgive me," he added, addressing Marya Kondratyevna. "I was in a hurry to find my brother." "Ach, as though we could take it amiss in you!" drawled Marya Kondratyevna, flattered by Alyosha's apology. "For Dmitri Fyodorovitch often goes to the summer-house in that way. We don't know he is here and he is sitting in the summer-house." "I am very anxious to find him, or to learn from you where he is now. Believe me, it's on business of great importance to him." "He never tells us," lisped Marya Kondratyevna. "Though I used to come here as a friend," Smerdyakov began again, "Dmitri Fyodorovitch has pestered me in a merciless way even here by his incessant questions about the master. 'What news?' he'll ask. 'What's going on in there now? Who's coming and going?' and can't I tell him something more. Twice already he's threatened me with death." "With death?" Alyosha exclaimed in surprise. "Do you suppose he'd think much of that, with his temper, which you had a chance of observing yourself yesterday? He says if I let Agrafena Alexandrovna in and she passes the night there, I'll be the first to suffer for it. I am terribly afraid of him, and if I were not even more afraid of doing so, I ought to let the police know. God only knows what he might not do!" "His honor said to him the other day, 'I'll pound you in a mortar!' " added Marya Kondratyevna. "Oh, if it's pounding in a mortar, it may be only talk," observed Alyosha. "If I could meet him, I might speak to him about that too." "Well, the only thing I can tell you is this," said Smerdyakov, as though thinking better of it; "I am here as an old friend and neighbor, and it would be odd if I didn't come. On the other hand, Ivan Fyodorovitch sent me first thing this morning to your brother's lodging in Lake Street, without a letter, but with a message to Dmitri Fyodorovitch to go to dine with him at the restaurant here, in the market-place. I went, but didn't find Dmitri Fyodorovitch at home, though it was eight o'clock. 'He's been here, but he is quite gone,' those were the very words of his landlady. It's as though there was an understanding between them. Perhaps at this moment he is in the restaurant with Ivan Fyodorovitch, for Ivan Fyodorovitch has not been home to dinner and Fyodor Pavlovitch dined alone an hour ago, and is gone to lie down. But I beg you most particularly not to speak of me and of what I have told you, for he'd kill me for nothing at all." "Brother Ivan invited Dmitri to the restaurant to-day?" repeated Alyosha quickly. "That's so." "The Metropolis tavern in the market-place?" "The very same." "That's quite likely," cried Alyosha, much excited. "Thank you, Smerdyakov; that's important. I'll go there at once." "Don't betray me," Smerdyakov called after him. "Oh, no, I'll go to the tavern as though by chance. Don't be anxious." "But wait a minute, I'll open the gate to you," cried Marya Kondratyevna. "No; it's a short cut, I'll get over the fence again." What he had heard threw Alyosha into great agitation. He ran to the tavern. It was impossible for him to go into the tavern in his monastic dress, but he could inquire at the entrance for his brothers and call them down. But just as he reached the tavern, a window was flung open, and his brother Ivan called down to him from it. "Alyosha, can't you come up here to me? I shall be awfully grateful." "To be sure I can, only I don't quite know whether in this dress--" "But I am in a room apart. Come up the steps; I'll run down to meet you." A minute later Alyosha was sitting beside his brother. Ivan was alone dining.

book 5, Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section6/

Smerdyakov with a Guitar Alyosha thinks about Dmitri's violent and passionate behavior, and decides to try to help his brother rather than return to Zosima's bedside in the monastery as he longs to do. Alyosha notes that Dmitri seems to be avoiding him, so Alyosha decides to stake out the gazebo that he knows Dmitri often visits to watch for Grushenka. There, Alyosha overhears Smerdyakov playing a guitar and singing a song for the housekeeper's daughter. Alyosha tentatively interrupts this scene and asks Smerdyakov if he knows where Dmitri has gone. Smerdyakov says that Dmitri has gone to meet Ivan at a restaurant

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_37_to_39.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_10_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 37-39

chapters 37-39

{"name": "Chapters 37-39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-37-39", "summary": "The story resumes in Marlow's written form. Marlow explains in his letter that he encountered a man named Brown at the direction of Schomberg . Brown is more than ready to tell his tale. He is a suspicious character, a thief, and a kind of figure of evil. The narrative then cuts back in time, creating additional suspense. Eight months prior to this encounter with Brown in Bangkok, Marlow had gone to visit Stein at his home, where he had found Tamb' Itam, Jim's Malay servant. Marlow had hoped that Jim was not far away, but the Malay had said quietly, \"He would not fight\" . Stein had appeared and told Marlow that the girl Jewel was also there, and that the two had arrived two days earlier. Jewel had said to Marlow, \"He has left me\" . She spoke in grief and shock. \"He is false!\" she cried. Stein protested: \"True!\" . The shock of the events \"seems to have changed their natures. It had turned her passion into stone\" . Tamb' Itam and the Malay boat-driver who had helped them to escape were both \"over-awed by a sense of deep, inexpressible wonder, by the touch of an inscrutable mystery,\" echoing Marlow's own statement to Jim that Jim would always remain a mystery to them . The letter concludes with Marlow's signature. Now, the \"privileged reader\" is able to focus on the \"story\" that Marlow has written of the last events. Brown has led a lawless life as a virtual \"latter-day buccaneer.\" The story went, apparently, that Brown had once run off with the wife of a missionary, a very young girl, who had died of fever on board the ship. The girl had hoped to make a great conversion in the name of her husband. When she died, Brown had wept violently. His shipmate always comments on that scene. Brown had lost his ship on the rocks. Soon after, Brown stole a schooner. His best man, a devoted Solomon Islander, killed two shipkeepers with a long knife, and Brown's sixteen men all rushed off to sea. They planned to cross the Indian Ocean, but were low on supplies and, out of the need to replenish their water and food, headed for Patusan. The big white boat carried the \"assorted scarecrows\" to the Patusan Reach, whence fourteen of them took to the river in a small boat. The headman of the fishing village, by this time, sent a warning to the town, and, when Brown's men arrived to see the flourishing community, shouting men fired from the mosque. There were armed men in the river, blocking their retreat. The natives fired, and Brown's men fired in reply. Brown saw the entrance to a narrow creek and established his men in the little knoll near the Rajah's stockade. As the sun set, they cut down the few trees for protection, and Brown lay on his back, in awe at the immensity of the place. Brown's story turns to consider Jim's absence, although he has not yet met the man. Jim has been gone in the interior for more than a week, while Dain Waris has been leading the fight in his absence. Dain Waris, significantly, is not Jim: \"He was not the visible, tangible incarnation of unfailing truth and of unfailing victory\" . Dain Waris fails to compare favorably with Jim's mythical stature. Jim is the one everyone believes cannot die. He holds the store of gunpowder in Patusan, supplied by Stein, and Jewel takes charge as they wait. The council gathers at Doramin's, and the townspeople are disturbed that the Rajah's boat did not act when it could have. Kassim, the Rajah's diplomat at the meeting, is unreadable. Rumors fly about a large ship and many men. The danger of panic is in the air, and Doramin orders Dain Waris to take an armed party down the river, to make a camp and to blockade the stream with canoes. Doramin seems motivated most by a desire to keep his son out of harm's way. Kassim goes into open communication with Brown, taking Cornelius with him to serve as interpreter. Brown, overjoyed to hear English words, demands food as a guarantee of good faith. The Rajah sends them rice, chillies, and dried fish. It becomes clear that Kassim intends to double-deal, however, given his unhappiness with the order of things and with Jim's power, and given his dislike for Doramin. He asks Brown to quickly send for his big ship and many men, and then to attack and defeat the Bugis settlement before Jim's return. This is where Brown hears about Jim for the first time. He hears the story of Jim's accomplishments, how the whole area is basically his. Brown begins to get the idea of accomplishing something of the same. Cornelius urges him to kill Jim at the first opportunity. The men doze on the stockade, and Brown gazes greedily. Kassim presses Brown for his ship again, and Brown writes the message, \"We are getting on. Big job. Detain the man.\" He sends this message to his two remaining men on the schooner.", "analysis": "Marlow's letter to the \"privileged reader\" provides his sources for the conclusion of the events that help him understand his subject, Jim. First, he describes a man named Brown, who had communicated his part in the story to Marlow in Bangkok. Second, upon a visit to see Stein, Marlow finds Tamb' Itam, who is Jim's servant, and Jewel. From these three characters, along with his own imagination and understanding, Marlow builds the conclusion to the story. Brown's character presents a foil against both Stein's and Jim's romantically charmed lives, particularly by way of the woman he is associated with. She is a missionary's wife who dies of fever, like Stein's wife and daughter. For Brown, however, the woman dies quickly, before there is a chance for Brown to know happiness. The forcefulness of his weeping, a poignant detail that adds depth and mystery to his character, suggests that, for Brown, fortune has always been tough. His \"Eastern bride\" of opportunity, also veiled in the hope of a more spiritual salvation, is lost to him before being realized. Therefore, Brown becomes decrepit, almost without hope, yet has just enough strength and anger at the world to continue to eke his way through it. Jim may very well have descended to resemble such a character, given his anger and frustration and feeling that he had been cheated of some of his opportunities, but Jim differs from Brown in that Jim was lucky enough to have found helpers in both Marlow and Stein. Brown had never come upon someone who had had this kind of encouraging faith in his underlying character. Brown is a significant figure, particularly in comparison with Jim and Brierly. While Brierly had lived the length of his life committed to a particular ideal of honor, his honest recognition of something dishonorable in his heart had led him to commit suicide. Brown, on the other hand, with little comfort or faith in the world, struggles to survive with as much effort as Brierly had struggled in order to live a life of honor. These two characters therefore delineate two paths along which a man may live. Brown's abhorrent character is not unlike that of the crewmen of the Patna, who had leapt from the steamship in an act that privileged personal survival over honor. The reader, by this point, knows that Jim harbors this element within him, but at the same time desires to live a life of honor and ideals. The question presented by the events unfolding before the reader is, therefore: what kind of man is Jim; which path is he following? Stein's character is also a mixture of the impulse to survive with the desire to live by ideals. This tension is expressed by his struggle to begin again--successfully, after the fantastical life of the Malay court falls upon him. He persists. Again, however, note that the parallels between Stein's and Jim's situations are often reversed: if this pattern of reversal continues, we might predict that Jim's end will go the opposite way compared with Stein's. Therefore, when Brown arrives in Patusan, a sinister force has arrived: Brown is not there in order to prove himself capable of achieving romantic ideals, but he arrives in need of water and food. The opposition between the romanticism of Jim and Stein is therefore set against the Darwinian struggle to survive in Brown . Brown's arrival thus has a profoundly destabilizing effect on the community in Patusan. Neither Jim nor his influence is present to adequately protect the community. This lack reveals the degree to which Jim had become the de facto leader, primarily because of his \"racial prestige\" . Dain Waris is truly \"beloved, trusted, and admired,\" but he remains just one of the natives, in their view. According to Marlow, in contrast, \"Jim was one of us,\" and by reiterating this statement, Marlow puts Jim in a superior category: that of Western men, men of good character, men who have remained committed to higher, romantic ideals. Without him, the community does not have such a leader. Marlow thus accentuates Jim's difference from the community of Patusan, recalling his claim that Jim would always remain a mystery to them. The community has found stability and faith in the presence of a great mystery living amongst them. Fortune, however, has intervened. It is only by chance that Jim is not present at Brown's arrival, and the plot line implies that if Dain Waris had not been left to lead, the reaction to Brown might not have been a shower of gunfire, thickening the tension between Patusan and the white newcomers. When Jim had first arrived, in contrast, he had successfully diffused tensions and avoided conflict and death. Dain Waris, however, has reacted hastily. Thus the plot thickens: Brown's arrival becomes an opportunity for the less trustworthy characters in Patusan--Rajah, Kassim, and Cornelius--to make their moves."}

'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. 'It all begins, as I've told you, with the man called Brown,' ran the opening sentence of Marlow's narrative. 'You who have knocked about the Western Pacific must have heard of him. He was the show ruffian on the Australian coast--not that he was often to be seen there, but because he was always trotted out in the stories of lawless life a visitor from home is treated to; and the mildest of these stories which were told about him from Cape York to Eden Bay was more than enough to hang a man if told in the right place. They never failed to let you know, too, that he was supposed to be the son of a baronet. Be it as it may, it is certain he had deserted from a home ship in the early gold-digging days, and in a few years became talked about as the terror of this or that group of islands in Polynesia. He would kidnap natives, he would strip some lonely white trader to the very pyjamas he stood in, and after he had robbed the poor devil, he would as likely as not invite him to fight a duel with shot-guns on the beach--which would have been fair enough as these things go, if the other man hadn't been by that time already half-dead with fright. Brown was a latter-day buccaneer, sorry enough, like his more celebrated prototypes; but what distinguished him from his contemporary brother ruffians, like Bully Hayes or the mellifluous Pease, or that perfumed, Dundreary-whiskered, dandified scoundrel known as Dirty Dick, was the arrogant temper of his misdeeds and a vehement scorn for mankind at large and for his victims in particular. The others were merely vulgar and greedy brutes, but he seemed moved by some complex intention. He would rob a man as if only to demonstrate his poor opinion of the creature, and he would bring to the shooting or maiming of some quiet, unoffending stranger a savage and vengeful earnestness fit to terrify the most reckless of desperadoes. In the days of his greatest glory he owned an armed barque, manned by a mixed crew of Kanakas and runaway whalers, and boasted, I don't know with what truth, of being financed on the quiet by a most respectable firm of copra merchants. Later on he ran off--it was reported--with the wife of a missionary, a very young girl from Clapham way, who had married the mild, flat-footed fellow in a moment of enthusiasm, and, suddenly transplanted to Melanesia, lost her bearings somehow. It was a dark story. She was ill at the time he carried her off, and died on board his ship. It is said--as the most wonderful put of the tale--that over her body he gave way to an outburst of sombre and violent grief. His luck left him, too, very soon after. He lost his ship on some rocks off Malaita, and disappeared for a time as though he had gone down with her. He is heard of next at Nuka-Hiva, where he bought an old French schooner out of Government service. What creditable enterprise he might have had in view when he made that purchase I can't say, but it is evident that what with High Commissioners, consuls, men-of-war, and international control, the South Seas were getting too hot to hold gentlemen of his kidney. Clearly he must have shifted the scene of his operations farther west, because a year later he plays an incredibly audacious, but not a very profitable part, in a serio-comic business in Manila Bay, in which a peculating governor and an absconding treasurer are the principal figures; thereafter he seems to have hung around the Philippines in his rotten schooner battling with un adverse fortune, till at last, running his appointed course, he sails into Jim's history, a blind accomplice of the Dark Powers. 'His tale goes that when a Spanish patrol cutter captured him he was simply trying to run a few guns for the insurgents. If so, then I can't understand what he was doing off the south coast of Mindanao. My belief, however, is that he was blackmailing the native villages along the coast. The principal thing is that the cutter, throwing a guard on board, made him sail in company towards Zamboanga. On the way, for some reason or other, both vessels had to call at one of these new Spanish settlements--which never came to anything in the end--where there was not only a civil official in charge on shore, but a good stout coasting schooner lying at anchor in the little bay; and this craft, in every way much better than his own, Brown made up his mind to steal. 'He was down on his luck--as he told me himself. The world he had bullied for twenty years with fierce, aggressive disdain, had yielded him nothing in the way of material advantage except a small bag of silver dollars, which was concealed in his cabin so that "the devil himself couldn't smell it out." And that was all--absolutely all. He was tired of his life, and not afraid of death. But this man, who would stake his existence on a whim with a bitter and jeering recklessness, stood in mortal fear of imprisonment. He had an unreasoning cold-sweat, nerve-shaking, blood-to-water-turning sort of horror at the bare possibility of being locked up--the sort of terror a superstitious man would feel at the thought of being embraced by a spectre. Therefore the civil official who came on board to make a preliminary investigation into the capture, investigated arduously all day long, and only went ashore after dark, muffled up in a cloak, and taking great care not to let Brown's little all clink in its bag. Afterwards, being a man of his word, he contrived (the very next evening, I believe) to send off the Government cutter on some urgent bit of special service. As her commander could not spare a prize crew, he contented himself by taking away before he left all the sails of Brown's schooner to the very last rag, and took good care to tow his two boats on to the beach a couple of miles off. 'But in Brown's crew there was a Solomon Islander, kidnapped in his youth and devoted to Brown, who was the best man of the whole gang. That fellow swam off to the coaster--five hundred yards or so--with the end of a warp made up of all the running gear unrove for the purpose. The water was smooth, and the bay dark, "like the inside of a cow," as Brown described it. The Solomon Islander clambered over the bulwarks with the end of the rope in his teeth. The crew of the coaster--all Tagals--were ashore having a jollification in the native village. The two shipkeepers left on board woke up suddenly and saw the devil. It had glittering eyes and leaped quick as lightning about the deck. They fell on their knees, paralysed with fear, crossing themselves and mumbling prayers. With a long knife he found in the caboose the Solomon Islander, without interrupting their orisons, stabbed first one, then the other; with the same knife he set to sawing patiently at the coir cable till suddenly it parted under the blade with a splash. Then in the silence of the bay he let out a cautious shout, and Brown's gang, who meantime had been peering and straining their hopeful ears in the darkness, began to pull gently at their end of the warp. In less than five minutes the two schooners came together with a slight shock and a creak of spars. 'Brown's crowd transferred themselves without losing an instant, taking with them their firearms and a large supply of ammunition. They were sixteen in all: two runaway blue-jackets, a lanky deserter from a Yankee man-of-war, a couple of simple, blond Scandinavians, a mulatto of sorts, one bland Chinaman who cooked--and the rest of the nondescript spawn of the South Seas. None of them cared; Brown bent them to his will, and Brown, indifferent to gallows, was running away from the spectre of a Spanish prison. He didn't give them the time to trans-ship enough provisions; the weather was calm, the air was charged with dew, and when they cast off the ropes and set sail to a faint off-shore draught there was no flutter in the damp canvas; their old schooner seemed to detach itself gently from the stolen craft and slip away silently, together with the black mass of the coast, into the night. 'They got clear away. Brown related to me in detail their passage down the Straits of Macassar. It is a harrowing and desperate story. They were short of food and water; they boarded several native craft and got a little from each. With a stolen ship Brown did not dare to put into any port, of course. He had no money to buy anything, no papers to show, and no lie plausible enough to get him out again. An Arab barque, under the Dutch flag, surprised one night at anchor off Poulo Laut, yielded a little dirty rice, a bunch of bananas, and a cask of water; three days of squally, misty weather from the north-east shot the schooner across the Java Sea. The yellow muddy waves drenched that collection of hungry ruffians. They sighted mail-boats moving on their appointed routes; passed well-found home ships with rusty iron sides anchored in the shallow sea waiting for a change of weather or the turn of the tide; an English gunboat, white and trim, with two slim masts, crossed their bows one day in the distance; and on another occasion a Dutch corvette, black and heavily sparred, loomed up on their quarter, steaming dead slow in the mist. They slipped through unseen or disregarded, a wan, sallow-faced band of utter outcasts, enraged with hunger and hunted by fear. Brown's idea was to make for Madagascar, where he expected, on grounds not altogether illusory, to sell the schooner in Tamatave, and no questions asked, or perhaps obtain some more or less forged papers for her. Yet before he could face the long passage across the Indian Ocean food was wanted--water too. 'Perhaps he had heard of Patusan--or perhaps he just only happened to see the name written in small letters on the chart--probably that of a largish village up a river in a native state, perfectly defenceless, far from the beaten tracks of the sea and from the ends of submarine cables. He had done that kind of thing before--in the way of business; and this now was an absolute necessity, a question of life and death--or rather of liberty. Of liberty! He was sure to get provisions--bullocks--rice--sweet-potatoes. The sorry gang licked their chops. A cargo of produce for the schooner perhaps could be extorted--and, who knows?--some real ringing coined money! Some of these chiefs and village headmen can be made to part freely. He told me he would have roasted their toes rather than be baulked. I believe him. His men believed him too. They didn't cheer aloud, being a dumb pack, but made ready wolfishly. 'Luck served him as to weather. A few days of calm would have brought unmentionable horrors on board that schooner, but with the help of land and sea breezes, in less than a week after clearing the Sunda Straits, he anchored off the Batu Kring mouth within a pistol-shot of the fishing village. 'Fourteen of them packed into the schooner's long-boat (which was big, having been used for cargo-work) and started up the river, while two remained in charge of the schooner with food enough to keep starvation off for ten days. The tide and wind helped, and early one afternoon the big white boat under a ragged sail shouldered its way before the sea breeze into Patusan Reach, manned by fourteen assorted scarecrows glaring hungrily ahead, and fingering the breech-blocks of cheap rifles. Brown calculated upon the terrifying surprise of his appearance. They sailed in with the last of the flood; the Rajah's stockade gave no sign; the first houses on both sides of the stream seemed deserted. A few canoes were seen up the reach in full flight. Brown was astonished at the size of the place. A profound silence reigned. The wind dropped between the houses; two oars were got out and the boat held on up-stream, the idea being to effect a lodgment in the centre of the town before the inhabitants could think of resistance. 'It seems, however, that the headman of the fishing village at Batu Kring had managed to send off a timely warning. When the long-boat came abreast of the mosque (which Doramin had built: a structure with gables and roof finials of carved coral) the open space before it was full of people. A shout went up, and was followed by a clash of gongs all up the river. From a point above two little brass 6-pounders were discharged, and the round-shot came skipping down the empty reach, spurting glittering jets of water in the sunshine. In front of the mosque a shouting lot of men began firing in volleys that whipped athwart the current of the river; an irregular, rolling fusillade was opened on the boat from both banks, and Brown's men replied with a wild, rapid fire. The oars had been got in. 'The turn of the tide at high water comes on very quickly in that river, and the boat in mid-stream, nearly hidden in smoke, began to drift back stern foremost. Along both shores the smoke thickened also, lying below the roofs in a level streak as you may see a long cloud cutting the slope of a mountain. A tumult of war-cries, the vibrating clang of gongs, the deep snoring of drums, yells of rage, crashes of volley-firing, made an awful din, in which Brown sat confounded but steady at the tiller, working himself into a fury of hate and rage against those people who dared to defend themselves. Two of his men had been wounded, and he saw his retreat cut off below the town by some boats that had put off from Tunku Allang's stockade. There were six of them, full of men. While he was thus beset he perceived the entrance of the narrow creek (the same which Jim had jumped at low water). It was then brim full. Steering the long-boat in, they landed, and, to make a long story short, they established themselves on a little knoll about 900 yards from the stockade, which, in fact, they commanded from that position. The slopes of the knoll were bare, but there were a few trees on the summit. They went to work cutting these down for a breastwork, and were fairly intrenched before dark; meantime the Rajah's boats remained in the river with curious neutrality. When the sun set the glue of many brushwood blazes lighted on the river-front, and between the double line of houses on the land side threw into black relief the roofs, the groups of slender palms, the heavy clumps of fruit trees. Brown ordered the grass round his position to be fired; a low ring of thin flames under the slow ascending smoke wriggled rapidly down the slopes of the knoll; here and there a dry bush caught with a tall, vicious roar. The conflagration made a clear zone of fire for the rifles of the small party, and expired smouldering on the edge of the forests and along the muddy bank of the creek. A strip of jungle luxuriating in a damp hollow between the knoll and the Rajah's stockade stopped it on that side with a great crackling and detonations of bursting bamboo stems. The sky was sombre, velvety, and swarming with stars. The blackened ground smoked quietly with low creeping wisps, till a little breeze came on and blew everything away. Brown expected an attack to be delivered as soon as the tide had flowed enough again to enable the war-boats which had cut off his retreat to enter the creek. At any rate he was sure there would be an attempt to carry off his long-boat, which lay below the hill, a dark high lump on the feeble sheen of a wet mud-flat. But no move of any sort was made by the boats in the river. Over the stockade and the Rajah's buildings Brown saw their lights on the water. They seemed to be anchored across the stream. Other lights afloat were moving in the reach, crossing and recrossing from side to side. There were also lights twinkling motionless upon the long walls of houses up the reach, as far as the bend, and more still beyond, others isolated inland. The loom of the big fires disclosed buildings, roofs, black piles as far as he could see. It was an immense place. The fourteen desperate invaders lying flat behind the felled trees raised their chins to look over at the stir of that town that seemed to extend up-river for miles and swarm with thousands of angry men. They did not speak to each other. Now and then they would hear a loud yell, or a single shot rang out, fired very far somewhere. But round their position everything was still, dark, silent. They seemed to be forgotten, as if the excitement keeping awake all the population had nothing to do with them, as if they had been dead already.' 'All the events of that night have a great importance, since they brought about a situation which remained unchanged till Jim's return. Jim had been away in the interior for more than a week, and it was Dain Waris who had directed the first repulse. That brave and intelligent youth ("who knew how to fight after the manner of white men") wished to settle the business off-hand, but his people were too much for him. He had not Jim's racial prestige and the reputation of invincible, supernatural power. He was not the visible, tangible incarnation of unfailing truth and of unfailing victory. Beloved, trusted, and admired as he was, he was still one of _them_, while Jim was one of us. Moreover, the white man, a tower of strength in himself, was invulnerable, while Dain Waris could be killed. Those unexpressed thoughts guided the opinions of the chief men of the town, who elected to assemble in Jim's fort for deliberation upon the emergency, as if expecting to find wisdom and courage in the dwelling of the absent white man. The shooting of Brown's ruffians was so far good, or lucky, that there had been half-a-dozen casualties amongst the defenders. The wounded were lying on the verandah tended by their women-folk. The women and children from the lower part of the town had been sent into the fort at the first alarm. There Jewel was in command, very efficient and high-spirited, obeyed by Jim's "own people," who, quitting in a body their little settlement under the stockade, had gone in to form the garrison. The refugees crowded round her; and through the whole affair, to the very disastrous last, she showed an extraordinary martial ardour. It was to her that Dain Waris had gone at once at the first intelligence of danger, for you must know that Jim was the only one in Patusan who possessed a store of gunpowder. Stein, with whom he had kept up intimate relations by letters, had obtained from the Dutch Government a special authorisation to export five hundred kegs of it to Patusan. The powder-magazine was a small hut of rough logs covered entirely with earth, and in Jim's absence the girl had the key. In the council, held at eleven o'clock in the evening in Jim's dining-room, she backed up Waris's advice for immediate and vigorous action. I am told that she stood up by the side of Jim's empty chair at the head of the long table and made a warlike impassioned speech, which for the moment extorted murmurs of approbation from the assembled headmen. Old Doramin, who had not showed himself outside his own gate for more than a year, had been brought across with great difficulty. He was, of course, the chief man there. The temper of the council was very unforgiving, and the old man's word would have been decisive; but it is my opinion that, well aware of his son's fiery courage, he dared not pronounce the word. More dilatory counsels prevailed. A certain Haji Saman pointed out at great length that "these tyrannical and ferocious men had delivered themselves to a certain death in any case. They would stand fast on their hill and starve, or they would try to regain their boat and be shot from ambushes across the creek, or they would break and fly into the forest and perish singly there." He argued that by the use of proper stratagems these evil-minded strangers could be destroyed without the risk of a battle, and his words had a great weight, especially with the Patusan men proper. What unsettled the minds of the townsfolk was the failure of the Rajah's boats to act at the decisive moment. It was the diplomatic Kassim who represented the Rajah at the council. He spoke very little, listened smilingly, very friendly and impenetrable. During the sitting messengers kept arriving every few minutes almost, with reports of the invaders' proceedings. Wild and exaggerated rumours were flying: there was a large ship at the mouth of the river with big guns and many more men--some white, others with black skins and of bloodthirsty appearance. They were coming with many more boats to exterminate every living thing. A sense of near, incomprehensible danger affected the common people. At one moment there was a panic in the courtyard amongst the women; shrieking; a rush; children crying--Haji Sunan went out to quiet them. Then a fort sentry fired at something moving on the river, and nearly killed a villager bringing in his women-folk in a canoe together with the best of his domestic utensils and a dozen fowls. This caused more confusion. Meantime the palaver inside Jim's house went on in the presence of the girl. Doramin sat fierce-faced, heavy, looking at the speakers in turn, and breathing slow like a bull. He didn't speak till the last, after Kassim had declared that the Rajah's boats would be called in because the men were required to defend his master's stockade. Dain Waris in his father's presence would offer no opinion, though the girl entreated him in Jim's name to speak out. She offered him Jim's own men in her anxiety to have these intruders driven out at once. He only shook his head, after a glance or two at Doramin. Finally, when the council broke up it had been decided that the houses nearest the creek should be strongly occupied to obtain the command of the enemy's boat. The boat itself was not to be interfered with openly, so that the robbers on the hill should be tempted to embark, when a well-directed fire would kill most of them, no doubt. To cut off the escape of those who might survive, and to prevent more of them coming up, Dain Waris was ordered by Doramin to take an armed party of Bugis down the river to a certain spot ten miles below Patusan, and there form a camp on the shore and blockade the stream with the canoes. I don't believe for a moment that Doramin feared the arrival of fresh forces. My opinion is that his conduct was guided solely by his wish to keep his son out of harm's way. To prevent a rush being made into the town the construction of a stockade was to be commenced at daylight at the end of the street on the left bank. The old nakhoda declared his intention to command there himself. A distribution of powder, bullets, and percussion-caps was made immediately under the girl's supervision. Several messengers were to be dispatched in different directions after Jim, whose exact whereabouts were unknown. These men started at dawn, but before that time Kassim had managed to open communications with the besieged Brown. 'That accomplished diplomatist and confidant of the Rajah, on leaving the fort to go back to his master, took into his boat Cornelius, whom he found slinking mutely amongst the people in the courtyard. Kassim had a little plan of his own and wanted him for an interpreter. Thus it came about that towards morning Brown, reflecting upon the desperate nature of his position, heard from the marshy overgrown hollow an amicable, quavering, strained voice crying--in English--for permission to come up, under a promise of personal safety and on a very important errand. He was overjoyed. If he was spoken to he was no longer a hunted wild beast. These friendly sounds took off at once the awful stress of vigilant watchfulness as of so many blind men not knowing whence the deathblow might come. He pretended a great reluctance. The voice declared itself "a white man--a poor, ruined, old man who had been living here for years." A mist, wet and chilly, lay on the slopes of the hill, and after some more shouting from one to the other, Brown called out, "Come on, then, but alone, mind!" As a matter of fact--he told me, writhing with rage at the recollection of his helplessness--it made no difference. They couldn't see more than a few yards before them, and no treachery could make their position worse. By-and-by Cornelius, in his week-day attire of a ragged dirty shirt and pants, barefooted, with a broken-rimmed pith hat on his head, was made out vaguely, sidling up to the defences, hesitating, stopping to listen in a peering posture. "Come along! You are safe," yelled Brown, while his men stared. All their hopes of life became suddenly centered in that dilapidated, mean newcomer, who in profound silence clambered clumsily over a felled tree-trunk, and shivering, with his sour, mistrustful face, looked about at the knot of bearded, anxious, sleepless desperadoes. 'Half an hour's confidential talk with Cornelius opened Brown's eyes as to the home affairs of Patusan. He was on the alert at once. There were possibilities, immense possibilities; but before he would talk over Cornelius's proposals he demanded that some food should be sent up as a guarantee of good faith. Cornelius went off, creeping sluggishly down the hill on the side of the Rajah's palace, and after some delay a few of Tunku Allang's men came up, bringing a scanty supply of rice, chillies, and dried fish. This was immeasurably better than nothing. Later on Cornelius returned accompanying Kassim, who stepped out with an air of perfect good-humoured trustfulness, in sandals, and muffled up from neck to ankles in dark-blue sheeting. He shook hands with Brown discreetly, and the three drew aside for a conference. Brown's men, recovering their confidence, were slapping each other on the back, and cast knowing glances at their captain while they busied themselves with preparations for cooking. 'Kassim disliked Doramin and his Bugis very much, but he hated the new order of things still more. It had occurred to him that these whites, together with the Rajah's followers, could attack and defeat the Bugis before Jim's return. Then, he reasoned, general defection of the townsfolk was sure to follow, and the reign of the white man who protected poor people would be over. Afterwards the new allies could be dealt with. They would have no friends. The fellow was perfectly able to perceive the difference of character, and had seen enough of white men to know that these newcomers were outcasts, men without country. Brown preserved a stern and inscrutable demeanour. When he first heard Cornelius's voice demanding admittance, it brought merely the hope of a loophole for escape. In less than an hour other thoughts were seething in his head. Urged by an extreme necessity, he had come there to steal food, a few tons of rubber or gum may be, perhaps a handful of dollars, and had found himself enmeshed by deadly dangers. Now in consequence of these overtures from Kassim he began to think of stealing the whole country. Some confounded fellow had apparently accomplished something of the kind--single-handed at that. Couldn't have done it very well though. Perhaps they could work together--squeeze everything dry and then go out quietly. In the course of his negotiations with Kassim he became aware that he was supposed to have a big ship with plenty of men outside. Kassim begged him earnestly to have this big ship with his many guns and men brought up the river without delay for the Rajah's service. Brown professed himself willing, and on this basis the negotiation was carried on with mutual distrust. Three times in the course of the morning the courteous and active Kassim went down to consult the Rajah and came up busily with his long stride. Brown, while bargaining, had a sort of grim enjoyment in thinking of his wretched schooner, with nothing but a heap of dirt in her hold, that stood for an armed ship, and a Chinaman and a lame ex-beachcomber of Levuka on board, who represented all his many men. In the afternoon he obtained further doles of food, a promise of some money, and a supply of mats for his men to make shelters for themselves. They lay down and snored, protected from the burning sunshine; but Brown, sitting fully exposed on one of the felled trees, feasted his eyes upon the view of the town and the river. There was much loot there. Cornelius, who had made himself at home in the camp, talked at his elbow, pointing out the localities, imparting advice, giving his own version of Jim's character, and commenting in his own fashion upon the events of the last three years. Brown, who, apparently indifferent and gazing away, listened with attention to every word, could not make out clearly what sort of man this Jim could be. "What's his name? Jim! Jim! That's not enough for a man's name." "They call him," said Cornelius scornfully, "Tuan Jim here. As you may say Lord Jim." "What is he? Where does he come from?" inquired Brown. "What sort of man is he? Is he an Englishman?" "Yes, yes, he's an Englishman. I am an Englishman too. From Malacca. He is a fool. All you have to do is to kill him and then you are king here. Everything belongs to him," explained Cornelius. "It strikes me he may be made to share with somebody before very long," commented Brown half aloud. "No, no. The proper way is to kill him the first chance you get, and then you can do what you like," Cornelius would insist earnestly. "I have lived for many years here, and I am giving you a friend's advice." 'In such converse and in gloating over the view of Patusan, which he had determined in his mind should become his prey, Brown whiled away most of the afternoon, his men, meantime, resting. On that day Dain Waris's fleet of canoes stole one by one under the shore farthest from the creek, and went down to close the river against his retreat. Of this Brown was not aware, and Kassim, who came up the knoll an hour before sunset, took good care not to enlighten him. He wanted the white man's ship to come up the river, and this news, he feared, would be discouraging. He was very pressing with Brown to send the "order," offering at the same time a trusty messenger, who for greater secrecy (as he explained) would make his way by land to the mouth of the river and deliver the "order" on board. After some reflection Brown judged it expedient to tear a page out of his pocket-book, on which he simply wrote, "We are getting on. Big job. Detain the man." The stolid youth selected by Kassim for that service performed it faithfully, and was rewarded by being suddenly tipped, head first, into the schooner's empty hold by the ex-beachcomber and the Chinaman, who thereupon hastened to put on the hatches. What became of him afterwards Brown did not say.'

Chapters 37-39

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-37-39

The story resumes in Marlow's written form. Marlow explains in his letter that he encountered a man named Brown at the direction of Schomberg . Brown is more than ready to tell his tale. He is a suspicious character, a thief, and a kind of figure of evil. The narrative then cuts back in time, creating additional suspense. Eight months prior to this encounter with Brown in Bangkok, Marlow had gone to visit Stein at his home, where he had found Tamb' Itam, Jim's Malay servant. Marlow had hoped that Jim was not far away, but the Malay had said quietly, "He would not fight" . Stein had appeared and told Marlow that the girl Jewel was also there, and that the two had arrived two days earlier. Jewel had said to Marlow, "He has left me" . She spoke in grief and shock. "He is false!" she cried. Stein protested: "True!" . The shock of the events "seems to have changed their natures. It had turned her passion into stone" . Tamb' Itam and the Malay boat-driver who had helped them to escape were both "over-awed by a sense of deep, inexpressible wonder, by the touch of an inscrutable mystery," echoing Marlow's own statement to Jim that Jim would always remain a mystery to them . The letter concludes with Marlow's signature. Now, the "privileged reader" is able to focus on the "story" that Marlow has written of the last events. Brown has led a lawless life as a virtual "latter-day buccaneer." The story went, apparently, that Brown had once run off with the wife of a missionary, a very young girl, who had died of fever on board the ship. The girl had hoped to make a great conversion in the name of her husband. When she died, Brown had wept violently. His shipmate always comments on that scene. Brown had lost his ship on the rocks. Soon after, Brown stole a schooner. His best man, a devoted Solomon Islander, killed two shipkeepers with a long knife, and Brown's sixteen men all rushed off to sea. They planned to cross the Indian Ocean, but were low on supplies and, out of the need to replenish their water and food, headed for Patusan. The big white boat carried the "assorted scarecrows" to the Patusan Reach, whence fourteen of them took to the river in a small boat. The headman of the fishing village, by this time, sent a warning to the town, and, when Brown's men arrived to see the flourishing community, shouting men fired from the mosque. There were armed men in the river, blocking their retreat. The natives fired, and Brown's men fired in reply. Brown saw the entrance to a narrow creek and established his men in the little knoll near the Rajah's stockade. As the sun set, they cut down the few trees for protection, and Brown lay on his back, in awe at the immensity of the place. Brown's story turns to consider Jim's absence, although he has not yet met the man. Jim has been gone in the interior for more than a week, while Dain Waris has been leading the fight in his absence. Dain Waris, significantly, is not Jim: "He was not the visible, tangible incarnation of unfailing truth and of unfailing victory" . Dain Waris fails to compare favorably with Jim's mythical stature. Jim is the one everyone believes cannot die. He holds the store of gunpowder in Patusan, supplied by Stein, and Jewel takes charge as they wait. The council gathers at Doramin's, and the townspeople are disturbed that the Rajah's boat did not act when it could have. Kassim, the Rajah's diplomat at the meeting, is unreadable. Rumors fly about a large ship and many men. The danger of panic is in the air, and Doramin orders Dain Waris to take an armed party down the river, to make a camp and to blockade the stream with canoes. Doramin seems motivated most by a desire to keep his son out of harm's way. Kassim goes into open communication with Brown, taking Cornelius with him to serve as interpreter. Brown, overjoyed to hear English words, demands food as a guarantee of good faith. The Rajah sends them rice, chillies, and dried fish. It becomes clear that Kassim intends to double-deal, however, given his unhappiness with the order of things and with Jim's power, and given his dislike for Doramin. He asks Brown to quickly send for his big ship and many men, and then to attack and defeat the Bugis settlement before Jim's return. This is where Brown hears about Jim for the first time. He hears the story of Jim's accomplishments, how the whole area is basically his. Brown begins to get the idea of accomplishing something of the same. Cornelius urges him to kill Jim at the first opportunity. The men doze on the stockade, and Brown gazes greedily. Kassim presses Brown for his ship again, and Brown writes the message, "We are getting on. Big job. Detain the man." He sends this message to his two remaining men on the schooner.

Marlow's letter to the "privileged reader" provides his sources for the conclusion of the events that help him understand his subject, Jim. First, he describes a man named Brown, who had communicated his part in the story to Marlow in Bangkok. Second, upon a visit to see Stein, Marlow finds Tamb' Itam, who is Jim's servant, and Jewel. From these three characters, along with his own imagination and understanding, Marlow builds the conclusion to the story. Brown's character presents a foil against both Stein's and Jim's romantically charmed lives, particularly by way of the woman he is associated with. She is a missionary's wife who dies of fever, like Stein's wife and daughter. For Brown, however, the woman dies quickly, before there is a chance for Brown to know happiness. The forcefulness of his weeping, a poignant detail that adds depth and mystery to his character, suggests that, for Brown, fortune has always been tough. His "Eastern bride" of opportunity, also veiled in the hope of a more spiritual salvation, is lost to him before being realized. Therefore, Brown becomes decrepit, almost without hope, yet has just enough strength and anger at the world to continue to eke his way through it. Jim may very well have descended to resemble such a character, given his anger and frustration and feeling that he had been cheated of some of his opportunities, but Jim differs from Brown in that Jim was lucky enough to have found helpers in both Marlow and Stein. Brown had never come upon someone who had had this kind of encouraging faith in his underlying character. Brown is a significant figure, particularly in comparison with Jim and Brierly. While Brierly had lived the length of his life committed to a particular ideal of honor, his honest recognition of something dishonorable in his heart had led him to commit suicide. Brown, on the other hand, with little comfort or faith in the world, struggles to survive with as much effort as Brierly had struggled in order to live a life of honor. These two characters therefore delineate two paths along which a man may live. Brown's abhorrent character is not unlike that of the crewmen of the Patna, who had leapt from the steamship in an act that privileged personal survival over honor. The reader, by this point, knows that Jim harbors this element within him, but at the same time desires to live a life of honor and ideals. The question presented by the events unfolding before the reader is, therefore: what kind of man is Jim; which path is he following? Stein's character is also a mixture of the impulse to survive with the desire to live by ideals. This tension is expressed by his struggle to begin again--successfully, after the fantastical life of the Malay court falls upon him. He persists. Again, however, note that the parallels between Stein's and Jim's situations are often reversed: if this pattern of reversal continues, we might predict that Jim's end will go the opposite way compared with Stein's. Therefore, when Brown arrives in Patusan, a sinister force has arrived: Brown is not there in order to prove himself capable of achieving romantic ideals, but he arrives in need of water and food. The opposition between the romanticism of Jim and Stein is therefore set against the Darwinian struggle to survive in Brown . Brown's arrival thus has a profoundly destabilizing effect on the community in Patusan. Neither Jim nor his influence is present to adequately protect the community. This lack reveals the degree to which Jim had become the de facto leader, primarily because of his "racial prestige" . Dain Waris is truly "beloved, trusted, and admired," but he remains just one of the natives, in their view. According to Marlow, in contrast, "Jim was one of us," and by reiterating this statement, Marlow puts Jim in a superior category: that of Western men, men of good character, men who have remained committed to higher, romantic ideals. Without him, the community does not have such a leader. Marlow thus accentuates Jim's difference from the community of Patusan, recalling his claim that Jim would always remain a mystery to them. The community has found stability and faith in the presence of a great mystery living amongst them. Fortune, however, has intervened. It is only by chance that Jim is not present at Brown's arrival, and the plot line implies that if Dain Waris had not been left to lead, the reaction to Brown might not have been a shower of gunfire, thickening the tension between Patusan and the white newcomers. When Jim had first arrived, in contrast, he had successfully diffused tensions and avoided conflict and death. Dain Waris, however, has reacted hastily. Thus the plot thickens: Brown's arrival becomes an opportunity for the less trustworthy characters in Patusan--Rajah, Kassim, and Cornelius--to make their moves.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Prince/section_11_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-11", "summary": "We've arrived at the last type of state. Hurrah! But if the book is only half done, what's the rest of it about? Don't worry: it's coming. Church states are awesome because no matter what you do, you can't lose them. You don't have to defend them, or even govern them. It is totally a sweet deal being pope. Now, Machiavelli is just a little bit sarcastic when he says that, \"since Church states depend on forces beyond the reach of human reason, I shall say no more about them,\" but continues to talk about them for a couple of pages . Recently, the church has been getting more and more earthly power. We're not talking angels here, we're talking war popes. This sounds a bit weird to us, since we can't imagine Pope John Paul or Benedict XVI going all Rambo on someone, but these were hard core biker popes back in Machiavelli's day. Apparently the whole aggro-pope thing snuck up on Europe and no one noticed that they were getting so powerful that they could boss France around. We get it. They are popes. They're supposed to be goody two-shoes; plus, they only rule for like ten years. What can get done in that amount of time? Well, everything changed when Cesare Borgia's dad, Pope Alexander VI, came on the scene. He was darned determined to get his kid some land, and he did. Sure, that land was reabsorbed into the pope's territory, but oh well. So, when Julius, the next pope, took over, the church was stronger than ever. Machiavelli ends this chapter with some pretty blatant flattery to Pope Leo, the pope at the time, and the uncle of the prince Machiavelli was writing to. Tricky.", "analysis": ""}

It only remains now to speak of ecclesiastical principalities, touching which all difficulties are prior to getting possession, because they are acquired either by capacity or good fortune, and they can be held without either; for they are sustained by the ancient ordinances of religion, which are so all-powerful, and of such a character that the principalities may be held no matter how their princes behave and live. These princes alone have states and do not defend them; and they have subjects and do not rule them; and the states, although unguarded, are not taken from them, and the subjects, although not ruled, do not care, and they have neither the desire nor the ability to alienate themselves. Such principalities only are secure and happy. But being upheld by powers, to which the human mind cannot reach, I shall speak no more of them, because, being exalted and maintained by God, it would be the act of a presumptuous and rash man to discuss them. Nevertheless, if any one should ask of me how comes it that the Church has attained such greatness in temporal power, seeing that from Alexander backwards the Italian potentates (not only those who have been called potentates, but every baron and lord, though the smallest) have valued the temporal power very slightly--yet now a king of France trembles before it, and it has been able to drive him from Italy, and to ruin the Venetians--although this may be very manifest, it does not appear to me superfluous to recall it in some measure to memory. Before Charles, King of France, passed into Italy,(*) this country was under the dominion of the Pope, the Venetians, the King of Naples, the Duke of Milan, and the Florentines. These potentates had two principal anxieties: the one, that no foreigner should enter Italy under arms; the other, that none of themselves should seize more territory. Those about whom there was the most anxiety were the Pope and the Venetians. To restrain the Venetians the union of all the others was necessary, as it was for the defence of Ferrara; and to keep down the Pope they made use of the barons of Rome, who, being divided into two factions, Orsini and Colonnesi, had always a pretext for disorder, and, standing with arms in their hands under the eyes of the Pontiff, kept the pontificate weak and powerless. And although there might arise sometimes a courageous pope, such as Sixtus, yet neither fortune nor wisdom could rid him of these annoyances. And the short life of a pope is also a cause of weakness; for in the ten years, which is the average life of a pope, he can with difficulty lower one of the factions; and if, so to speak, one people should almost destroy the Colonnesi, another would arise hostile to the Orsini, who would support their opponents, and yet would not have time to ruin the Orsini. This was the reason why the temporal powers of the pope were little esteemed in Italy. (*) Charles VIII invaded Italy in 1494. Alexander the Sixth arose afterwards, who of all the pontiffs that have ever been showed how a pope with both money and arms was able to prevail; and through the instrumentality of the Duke Valentino, and by reason of the entry of the French, he brought about all those things which I have discussed above in the actions of the duke. And although his intention was not to aggrandize the Church, but the duke, nevertheless, what he did contributed to the greatness of the Church, which, after his death and the ruin of the duke, became the heir to all his labours. Pope Julius came afterwards and found the Church strong, possessing all the Romagna, the barons of Rome reduced to impotence, and, through the chastisements of Alexander, the factions wiped out; he also found the way open to accumulate money in a manner such as had never been practised before Alexander's time. Such things Julius not only followed, but improved upon, and he intended to gain Bologna, to ruin the Venetians, and to drive the French out of Italy. All of these enterprises prospered with him, and so much the more to his credit, inasmuch as he did everything to strengthen the Church and not any private person. He kept also the Orsini and Colonnesi factions within the bounds in which he found them; and although there was among them some mind to make disturbance, nevertheless he held two things firm: the one, the greatness of the Church, with which he terrified them; and the other, not allowing them to have their own cardinals, who caused the disorders among them. For whenever these factions have their cardinals they do not remain quiet for long, because cardinals foster the factions in Rome and out of it, and the barons are compelled to support them, and thus from the ambitions of prelates arise disorders and tumults among the barons. For these reasons his Holiness Pope Leo(*) found the pontificate most powerful, and it is to be hoped that, if others made it great in arms, he will make it still greater and more venerated by his goodness and infinite other virtues.

Chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-11

We've arrived at the last type of state. Hurrah! But if the book is only half done, what's the rest of it about? Don't worry: it's coming. Church states are awesome because no matter what you do, you can't lose them. You don't have to defend them, or even govern them. It is totally a sweet deal being pope. Now, Machiavelli is just a little bit sarcastic when he says that, "since Church states depend on forces beyond the reach of human reason, I shall say no more about them," but continues to talk about them for a couple of pages . Recently, the church has been getting more and more earthly power. We're not talking angels here, we're talking war popes. This sounds a bit weird to us, since we can't imagine Pope John Paul or Benedict XVI going all Rambo on someone, but these were hard core biker popes back in Machiavelli's day. Apparently the whole aggro-pope thing snuck up on Europe and no one noticed that they were getting so powerful that they could boss France around. We get it. They are popes. They're supposed to be goody two-shoes; plus, they only rule for like ten years. What can get done in that amount of time? Well, everything changed when Cesare Borgia's dad, Pope Alexander VI, came on the scene. He was darned determined to get his kid some land, and he did. Sure, that land was reabsorbed into the pope's territory, but oh well. So, when Julius, the next pope, took over, the church was stronger than ever. Machiavelli ends this chapter with some pretty blatant flattery to Pope Leo, the pope at the time, and the uncle of the prince Machiavelli was writing to. Tricky.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/chapters_12_to_13.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_8_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapters 12-13

chapters 12-13

{"name": "Chapters 12 & 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapters-12-and-13", "summary": "Late one night, Dorian runs into Basil Hallward on the street. Basil is delighted to see him, as he has been searching for Dorian all night, wanting to say goodbye before leaving on a six month trip to Paris. Basil has several hours before his train leaves, and the two adjourn to Dorian's home. The painter tells Dorian that he has been worried because \"the most dreadful things are being said against in London.\" Dorian is annoyed, and tells his friend that he doesn't care for gossip, but makes no effort to defend himself. Disconcerted by his friend's apathy, Basil goes on to assure Dorian that, vicious and damning as many of the rumors are, he doesn't believe them because he trusts that Dorian is a good person, and that \"sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. It cannot be concealed.\" Dorian looks as young and innocent as ever, and Basil believes his eyes. Once the artist begins listing the names of people whom Dorian is said to have led astray, Dorian rebukes him, saying that he doesn't know what he's talking about, and warning him to mind his own business. He argues that no person is without sin or temptation, and that corruption is not a thing that can be taught. Dorian only feels responsible for showing people their true selves. During their discussion, Basil remarks that he feels as if he doesn't know Dorian at all, and that in order to know him \"I should have to see your soul.\" This sends Dorian into an odd state of defensive paranoia. Laughing, he tells Basil that \"You shall see yourself tonight!\" Basil is confused and frightened by Dorian's words. He wants his friend to deny the charges against him, and is unsure whether Dorian's refusal to do so amounts to an admission that they are, in fact, true. To answer all of Basil's doubts, Dorian invites the painter upstairs, to view his \"diary\". They ascend the stairs in Dorian's house, and enter the attic. Dorian tells Basil to open the curtain if he wishes to see his soul. Basil, thinking his friend is mad, hesitates, and Dorian reveals the painting himself. The artist is horrified, and at first doesn't even recognize Dorian in \"the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him.\" He refuses to believe that it's actually his own painting, thinking it to be some \"foul parody,\" until he recognizes the frame, and finds his own signature at the bottom. Dorian observes Basil's horrified reaction with apathy, and reminds him of the wish he made years ago at the painter's studio, right after the portrait had been completed. Basil is overwhelmed by disgust, unsure of what to believe, and exclaims that Dorian must have been a devil all along, and that if this picture accurately reflects the man's soul, that he \"must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!\" He urges Dorian to repent, to try and save his soul, at which point \"an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips.\" In a frenzy, Dorian grabs a knife and plunges it into Basil's neck, stabbing him repeatedly, and then holds him down until he stops struggling and dies, a pool of blood spreading out across the table and weaving through the feet of his chair. Dorian is surprised at the ease with which he performed the murder. He feels relieved by the thought that the man \"who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his life.\" He leaves the attic and determines that he will be able to get away with his crime, since Basil was supposed to leave for Paris that night, and since no one knew of his visit. He will destroy Basil's bag and overcoat, but in order to get rid of the body, he must call on Alan Campbell.", "analysis": "Basil speaks at length about Dorian's alleged sins, but never actually states what these sins are, only saying that Dorian's \"name was implicated in the most terrible confession I'd ever read.\" This propensity for only indirectly acknowledging the breaking of social taboos is an interesting tendency found in Victorian society, one shared by the narrator of Dorian Gray. We have read that there are rumors of Dorian's misdeeds but unless we witness them first-hand, as we do the murder, we never learn what they actually are. Like Basil, we can only assume the worst, based on the hideousness of the portrait. That Wilde chooses to portray Dorian's transgressions in such a manner is worth noting. The narrator is clearly omniscient: he certainly appears capable of informing us about what, exactly, Dorian has done to spark so much gossip and disdain, but by only hinting at the nature of Dorian's transgressions, Wilde establishes a palpable sense of their illicitness, leading the reader to look for clues while also reinforcing the sense of Dorian's degradation. Basil's condemnation of Dorian's sins, and his fervent desire for Dorian to repent, indicate a religiosity in the artist that was absent in our last encounter with him. Basil has acquired a sharply refined ethical sensibility. This may explain the decline in his artistic output, since Wilde states in the preface that \"An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.\" This \"unpardonable mannerism\" is partially responsible for Dorian's murderous rage, as it offends his artistic sensibility, which is the only claim to purity that he now feels justified in clinging to. We are, however, told that the murder is prompted most directly by the portrait itself: \"an uncontrollable feeling of hatred...came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas.\" The image confronts Dorian with his shameful life, and Dorian blames Basil, the painter, for the pain that he feels. When the artist confronts Dorian, it is too much for him to bear, and he is driven to murder by \"the mad passions of a hunted animal.\" Ever since he first encountered Lord Henry, Dorian has made a point of surrendering to his passions. Now, even the urge towards murderous violence cannot be checked. Try as he might in later chapters, he is never able to write off this crime as simply another new and exciting \"artistic\" experience, as he was able to do with Sibyl's death. Violent images involving knives are found in several instances throughout the novel: in addition to Basil's murder, they are found when Basil threatens to destroy the portrait in chapter 2, and when Dorian reflects that he has killed Sibyl as if he had \"cut her little throat with a knife\" in chapter 8."}

It was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. He was walking home about eleven o'clock from Lord Henry's, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of his grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which he could not account, came over him. He made no sign of recognition and went on quickly in the direction of his own house. But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the pavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was on his arm. "Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you in your library ever since nine o'clock. Finally I took pity on your tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am off to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. But I wasn't quite sure. Didn't you recognize me?" "In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can't even recognize Grosvenor Square. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don't feel at all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?" "No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take a studio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture I have in my head. However, it wasn't about myself I wanted to talk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something to say to you." "I shall be charmed. But won't you miss your train?" said Dorian Gray languidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key. The lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his watch. "I have heaps of time," he answered. "The train doesn't go till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan't have any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes." Dorian looked at him and smiled. "What a way for a fashionable painter to travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get into the house. And mind you don't talk about anything serious. Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be." Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the library. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little marqueterie table. "You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is a most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?" Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I believe he married Lady Radley's maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. Anglomania is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly of the French, doesn't it? But--do you know?--he was not at all a bad servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room." "Thanks, I won't have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. "And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don't frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me." "What is it all about?" cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else." "It is about yourself," answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, "and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour." Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured. "It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in London." "I don't wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don't interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty." "They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don't want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don't believe these rumours at all. At least, I can't believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody--I won't mention his name, but you know him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth--I can't believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don't know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent's only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James's Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?" "Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent's silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend's name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite." "Dorian," cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister's name a by-word." "Take care, Basil. You go too far." "I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories--stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don't know what is said about you. I won't tell you that I don't want to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don't shrug your shoulders like that. Don't be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don't know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd--that I knew you thoroughly and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul." "To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear. "Yes," answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his voice, "to see your soul. But only God can do that." A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "You shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from the table. "Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn't you look at it? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me all the better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to face." There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous memory of what he had done. "Yes," he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, "I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing that you fancy only God can see." Hallward started back. "This is blasphemy, Dorian!" he cried. "You must not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don't mean anything." "You think so?" He laughed again. "I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your good. You know I have been always a stanch friend to you." "Don't touch me. Finish what you have to say." A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter's face. He paused for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what right had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a tithe of what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! Then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and stood there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and their throbbing cores of flame. "I am waiting, Basil," said the young man in a hard clear voice. He turned round. "What I have to say is this," he cried. "You must give me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can't you see what I am going through? My God! don't tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, and shameful." Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. "Come upstairs, Basil," he said quietly. "I keep a diary of my life from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall show it to you if you come with me." "I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my train. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don't ask me to read anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question." "That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You will not have to read long." He passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward following close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A rising wind made some of the windows rattle. When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the floor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock. "You insist on knowing, Basil?" he asked in a low voice. "Yes." "I am delighted," he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat harshly, "You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you think"; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky orange. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you," he whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table. Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a curtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty book-case--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was standing on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered with dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew. "So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that curtain back, and you will see mine." The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning. "You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young man, and he tore the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground. An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat. The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. "What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. "Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even now, I don't know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer...." "I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don't believe it is my picture." "Can't you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. "My ideal, as you call it..." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.' Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow'?" "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the window behind him. Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his life. That was enough. Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not help seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image. Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped several times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the sound of his own footsteps. When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises, and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two. He sat down and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--men were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth.... And yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months before any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything could be destroyed long before then. A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the bull's-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath. After a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In about five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very drowsy. "I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis," he said, stepping in; "but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?" "Ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and blinking. "Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine to-morrow. I have some work to do." "All right, sir." "Did any one call this evening?" "Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to catch his train." "Oh! I am sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?" "No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not find you at the club." "That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow." "No, sir." The man shambled down the passage in his slippers. Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room, biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man he wanted.

Chapters 12 & 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapters-12-and-13

Late one night, Dorian runs into Basil Hallward on the street. Basil is delighted to see him, as he has been searching for Dorian all night, wanting to say goodbye before leaving on a six month trip to Paris. Basil has several hours before his train leaves, and the two adjourn to Dorian's home. The painter tells Dorian that he has been worried because "the most dreadful things are being said against in London." Dorian is annoyed, and tells his friend that he doesn't care for gossip, but makes no effort to defend himself. Disconcerted by his friend's apathy, Basil goes on to assure Dorian that, vicious and damning as many of the rumors are, he doesn't believe them because he trusts that Dorian is a good person, and that "sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. It cannot be concealed." Dorian looks as young and innocent as ever, and Basil believes his eyes. Once the artist begins listing the names of people whom Dorian is said to have led astray, Dorian rebukes him, saying that he doesn't know what he's talking about, and warning him to mind his own business. He argues that no person is without sin or temptation, and that corruption is not a thing that can be taught. Dorian only feels responsible for showing people their true selves. During their discussion, Basil remarks that he feels as if he doesn't know Dorian at all, and that in order to know him "I should have to see your soul." This sends Dorian into an odd state of defensive paranoia. Laughing, he tells Basil that "You shall see yourself tonight!" Basil is confused and frightened by Dorian's words. He wants his friend to deny the charges against him, and is unsure whether Dorian's refusal to do so amounts to an admission that they are, in fact, true. To answer all of Basil's doubts, Dorian invites the painter upstairs, to view his "diary". They ascend the stairs in Dorian's house, and enter the attic. Dorian tells Basil to open the curtain if he wishes to see his soul. Basil, thinking his friend is mad, hesitates, and Dorian reveals the painting himself. The artist is horrified, and at first doesn't even recognize Dorian in "the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him." He refuses to believe that it's actually his own painting, thinking it to be some "foul parody," until he recognizes the frame, and finds his own signature at the bottom. Dorian observes Basil's horrified reaction with apathy, and reminds him of the wish he made years ago at the painter's studio, right after the portrait had been completed. Basil is overwhelmed by disgust, unsure of what to believe, and exclaims that Dorian must have been a devil all along, and that if this picture accurately reflects the man's soul, that he "must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He urges Dorian to repent, to try and save his soul, at which point "an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips." In a frenzy, Dorian grabs a knife and plunges it into Basil's neck, stabbing him repeatedly, and then holds him down until he stops struggling and dies, a pool of blood spreading out across the table and weaving through the feet of his chair. Dorian is surprised at the ease with which he performed the murder. He feels relieved by the thought that the man "who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his life." He leaves the attic and determines that he will be able to get away with his crime, since Basil was supposed to leave for Paris that night, and since no one knew of his visit. He will destroy Basil's bag and overcoat, but in order to get rid of the body, he must call on Alan Campbell.

Basil speaks at length about Dorian's alleged sins, but never actually states what these sins are, only saying that Dorian's "name was implicated in the most terrible confession I'd ever read." This propensity for only indirectly acknowledging the breaking of social taboos is an interesting tendency found in Victorian society, one shared by the narrator of Dorian Gray. We have read that there are rumors of Dorian's misdeeds but unless we witness them first-hand, as we do the murder, we never learn what they actually are. Like Basil, we can only assume the worst, based on the hideousness of the portrait. That Wilde chooses to portray Dorian's transgressions in such a manner is worth noting. The narrator is clearly omniscient: he certainly appears capable of informing us about what, exactly, Dorian has done to spark so much gossip and disdain, but by only hinting at the nature of Dorian's transgressions, Wilde establishes a palpable sense of their illicitness, leading the reader to look for clues while also reinforcing the sense of Dorian's degradation. Basil's condemnation of Dorian's sins, and his fervent desire for Dorian to repent, indicate a religiosity in the artist that was absent in our last encounter with him. Basil has acquired a sharply refined ethical sensibility. This may explain the decline in his artistic output, since Wilde states in the preface that "An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style." This "unpardonable mannerism" is partially responsible for Dorian's murderous rage, as it offends his artistic sensibility, which is the only claim to purity that he now feels justified in clinging to. We are, however, told that the murder is prompted most directly by the portrait itself: "an uncontrollable feeling of hatred...came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas." The image confronts Dorian with his shameful life, and Dorian blames Basil, the painter, for the pain that he feels. When the artist confronts Dorian, it is too much for him to bear, and he is driven to murder by "the mad passions of a hunted animal." Ever since he first encountered Lord Henry, Dorian has made a point of surrendering to his passions. Now, even the urge towards murderous violence cannot be checked. Try as he might in later chapters, he is never able to write off this crime as simply another new and exciting "artistic" experience, as he was able to do with Sibyl's death. Violent images involving knives are found in several instances throughout the novel: in addition to Basil's murder, they are found when Basil threatens to destroy the portrait in chapter 2, and when Dorian reflects that he has killed Sibyl as if he had "cut her little throat with a knife" in chapter 8.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/01.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_0_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 1

chapter 1

{"name": "Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-1", "summary": "Meet Jim, a young guy who works as a \"water-clerk\" at various ports in Southeast Asia. That means that he helps ships get situated with fresh drinking water and other supplies before they head out to sea. Jim is good-looking and fairly popular, but people don't seem to know much about him. Good thing our narrator is in the know, and can give us the details. Flashback alert: Jim grew up in a parsonage in England. Because he was a younger brother, he had no shot at inheriting his family's land, so he opted to become a sailor. Maybe he saw this gem and couldn't resist joining up. The early part of Jim's career goes pretty well, except for one night when he misses an opportunity to help rescue some people at sea.", "analysis": ""}

He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging bull. His voice was deep, loud, and his manner displayed a kind of dogged self-assertion which had nothing aggressive in it. It seemed a necessity, and it was directed apparently as much at himself as at anybody else. He was spotlessly neat, apparelled in immaculate white from shoes to hat, and in the various Eastern ports where he got his living as ship-chandler's water-clerk he was very popular. A water-clerk need not pass an examination in anything under the sun, but he must have Ability in the abstract and demonstrate it practically. His work consists in racing under sail, steam, or oars against other water-clerks for any ship about to anchor, greeting her captain cheerily, forcing upon him a card--the business card of the ship-chandler--and on his first visit on shore piloting him firmly but without ostentation to a vast, cavern-like shop which is full of things that are eaten and drunk on board ship; where you can get everything to make her seaworthy and beautiful, from a set of chain-hooks for her cable to a book of gold-leaf for the carvings of her stern; and where her commander is received like a brother by a ship-chandler he has never seen before. There is a cool parlour, easy-chairs, bottles, cigars, writing implements, a copy of harbour regulations, and a warmth of welcome that melts the salt of a three months' passage out of a seaman's heart. The connection thus begun is kept up, as long as the ship remains in harbour, by the daily visits of the water-clerk. To the captain he is faithful like a friend and attentive like a son, with the patience of Job, the unselfish devotion of a woman, and the jollity of a boon companion. Later on the bill is sent in. It is a beautiful and humane occupation. Therefore good water-clerks are scarce. When a water-clerk who possesses Ability in the abstract has also the advantage of having been brought up to the sea, he is worth to his employer a lot of money and some humouring. Jim had always good wages and as much humouring as would have bought the fidelity of a fiend. Nevertheless, with black ingratitude he would throw up the job suddenly and depart. To his employers the reasons he gave were obviously inadequate. They said 'Confounded fool!' as soon as his back was turned. This was their criticism on his exquisite sensibility. To the white men in the waterside business and to the captains of ships he was just Jim--nothing more. He had, of course, another name, but he was anxious that it should not be pronounced. His incognito, which had as many holes as a sieve, was not meant to hide a personality but a fact. When the fact broke through the incognito he would leave suddenly the seaport where he happened to be at the time and go to another--generally farther east. He kept to seaports because he was a seaman in exile from the sea, and had Ability in the abstract, which is good for no other work but that of a water-clerk. He retreated in good order towards the rising sun, and the fact followed him casually but inevitably. Thus in the course of years he was known successively in Bombay, in Calcutta, in Rangoon, in Penang, in Batavia--and in each of these halting-places was just Jim the water-clerk. Afterwards, when his keen perception of the Intolerable drove him away for good from seaports and white men, even into the virgin forest, the Malays of the jungle village, where he had elected to conceal his deplorable faculty, added a word to the monosyllable of his incognito. They called him Tuan Jim: as one might say--Lord Jim. Originally he came from a parsonage. Many commanders of fine merchant-ships come from these abodes of piety and peace. Jim's father possessed such certain knowledge of the Unknowable as made for the righteousness of people in cottages without disturbing the ease of mind of those whom an unerring Providence enables to live in mansions. The little church on a hill had the mossy greyness of a rock seen through a ragged screen of leaves. It had stood there for centuries, but the trees around probably remembered the laying of the first stone. Below, the red front of the rectory gleamed with a warm tint in the midst of grass-plots, flower-beds, and fir-trees, with an orchard at the back, a paved stable-yard to the left, and the sloping glass of greenhouses tacked along a wall of bricks. The living had belonged to the family for generations; but Jim was one of five sons, and when after a course of light holiday literature his vocation for the sea had declared itself, he was sent at once to a 'training-ship for officers of the mercantile marine.' He learned there a little trigonometry and how to cross top-gallant yards. He was generally liked. He had the third place in navigation and pulled stroke in the first cutter. Having a steady head with an excellent physique, he was very smart aloft. His station was in the fore-top, and often from there he looked down, with the contempt of a man destined to shine in the midst of dangers, at the peaceful multitude of roofs cut in two by the brown tide of the stream, while scattered on the outskirts of the surrounding plain the factory chimneys rose perpendicular against a grimy sky, each slender like a pencil, and belching out smoke like a volcano. He could see the big ships departing, the broad-beamed ferries constantly on the move, the little boats floating far below his feet, with the hazy splendour of the sea in the distance, and the hope of a stirring life in the world of adventure. On the lower deck in the babel of two hundred voices he would forget himself, and beforehand live in his mind the sea-life of light literature. He saw himself saving people from sinking ships, cutting away masts in a hurricane, swimming through a surf with a line; or as a lonely castaway, barefooted and half naked, walking on uncovered reefs in search of shellfish to stave off starvation. He confronted savages on tropical shores, quelled mutinies on the high seas, and in a small boat upon the ocean kept up the hearts of despairing men--always an example of devotion to duty, and as unflinching as a hero in a book. 'Something's up. Come along.' He leaped to his feet. The boys were streaming up the ladders. Above could be heard a great scurrying about and shouting, and when he got through the hatchway he stood still--as if confounded. It was the dusk of a winter's day. The gale had freshened since noon, stopping the traffic on the river, and now blew with the strength of a hurricane in fitful bursts that boomed like salvoes of great guns firing over the ocean. The rain slanted in sheets that flicked and subsided, and between whiles Jim had threatening glimpses of the tumbling tide, the small craft jumbled and tossing along the shore, the motionless buildings in the driving mist, the broad ferry-boats pitching ponderously at anchor, the vast landing-stages heaving up and down and smothered in sprays. The next gust seemed to blow all this away. The air was full of flying water. There was a fierce purpose in the gale, a furious earnestness in the screech of the wind, in the brutal tumult of earth and sky, that seemed directed at him, and made him hold his breath in awe. He stood still. It seemed to him he was whirled around. He was jostled. 'Man the cutter!' Boys rushed past him. A coaster running in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one of the ship's instructors had seen the accident. A mob of boys clambered on the rails, clustered round the davits. 'Collision. Just ahead of us. Mr. Symons saw it.' A push made him stagger against the mizzen-mast, and he caught hold of a rope. The old training-ship chained to her moorings quivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty rigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea. 'Lower away!' He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail, and rushed after her. He heard a splash. 'Let go; clear the falls!' He leaned over. The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks. The cutter could be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind, that for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship. A yelling voice in her reached him faintly: 'Keep stroke, you young whelps, if you want to save anybody! Keep stroke!' And suddenly she lifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke the spell cast upon her by the wind and tide. Jim felt his shoulder gripped firmly. 'Too late, youngster.' The captain of the ship laid a restraining hand on that boy, who seemed on the point of leaping overboard, and Jim looked up with the pain of conscious defeat in his eyes. The captain smiled sympathetically. 'Better luck next time. This will teach you to be smart.' A shrill cheer greeted the cutter. She came dancing back half full of water, and with two exhausted men washing about on her bottom boards. The tumult and the menace of wind and sea now appeared very contemptible to Jim, increasing the regret of his awe at their inefficient menace. Now he knew what to think of it. It seemed to him he cared nothing for the gale. He could affront greater perils. He would do so--better than anybody. Not a particle of fear was left. Nevertheless he brooded apart that evening while the bowman of the cutter--a boy with a face like a girl's and big grey eyes--was the hero of the lower deck. Eager questioners crowded round him. He narrated: 'I just saw his head bobbing, and I dashed my boat-hook in the water. It caught in his breeches and I nearly went overboard, as I thought I would, only old Symons let go the tiller and grabbed my legs--the boat nearly swamped. Old Symons is a fine old chap. I don't mind a bit him being grumpy with us. He swore at me all the time he held my leg, but that was only his way of telling me to stick to the boat-hook. Old Symons is awfully excitable--isn't he? No--not the little fair chap--the other, the big one with a beard. When we pulled him in he groaned, "Oh, my leg! oh, my leg!" and turned up his eyes. Fancy such a big chap fainting like a girl. Would any of you fellows faint for a jab with a boat-hook?--I wouldn't. It went into his leg so far.' He showed the boat-hook, which he had carried below for the purpose, and produced a sensation. 'No, silly! It was not his flesh that held him--his breeches did. Lots of blood, of course.' Jim thought it a pitiful display of vanity. The gale had ministered to a heroism as spurious as its own pretence of terror. He felt angry with the brutal tumult of earth and sky for taking him unawares and checking unfairly a generous readiness for narrow escapes. Otherwise he was rather glad he had not gone into the cutter, since a lower achievement had served the turn. He had enlarged his knowledge more than those who had done the work. When all men flinched, then--he felt sure--he alone would know how to deal with the spurious menace of wind and seas. He knew what to think of it. Seen dispassionately, it seemed contemptible. He could detect no trace of emotion in himself, and the final effect of a staggering event was that, unnoticed and apart from the noisy crowd of boys, he exulted with fresh certitude in his avidity for adventure, and in a sense of many-sided courage.

Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-1

Meet Jim, a young guy who works as a "water-clerk" at various ports in Southeast Asia. That means that he helps ships get situated with fresh drinking water and other supplies before they head out to sea. Jim is good-looking and fairly popular, but people don't seem to know much about him. Good thing our narrator is in the know, and can give us the details. Flashback alert: Jim grew up in a parsonage in England. Because he was a younger brother, he had no shot at inheriting his family's land, so he opted to become a sailor. Maybe he saw this gem and couldn't resist joining up. The early part of Jim's career goes pretty well, except for one night when he misses an opportunity to help rescue some people at sea.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/28.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_27_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 28

chapter 28

{"name": "Chapter 28", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-28", "summary": "At eight o'clock that midsummer evening, Bathsheba appeared in the fern hollow amid the soft, green, shoulder-high fronds. She paused, changed her mind, and was halfway home again before she caught sight of a red coat approaching. She considered Troy's disappointment were she not to appear, and she ran back to the hollow. When she reached the verge of a pit in the midst of the ferns, she saw Troy standing at the bottom and looking toward her. Troy's performance with the sword was precise and filled with bravado. It grew a bit frightening. He pretended the girl was the enemy and brandished his sword about her so realistically that she imagined herself run through. It was a dexterous feat. As a final tour-de-force, he said, \"That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying. . . . Wait: I'll do it for you.\" \"An area of silver shone on her right side; the sword had descended. The lock dropped to the ground.\" Next Troy speared a caterpillar that had settled upon Bathsheba's bosom. Only then did Troy admit that the sword was razor-sharp. \"You have been within half an inch of being pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times.\" Then the man stopped to pick up the lock of Bathsheba's hair. He tucked it inside his coat. Softly he announced that he had to leave. He disappeared, and, overcome by tumultuous emotion, \"aflame to the very hollows of her feet,\" Bathsheba wept, feeling \"like one who has sinned a great sin.\" \"The circumstances had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth downwards upon her own. He had kissed her.\"", "analysis": "Troy is so completely in command of his sword and so perfectly confident of his skill that he does not hesitate to risk Bathsheba's life for the sake of his performance. His actions have utterly overwhelmed Bathsheba: \"She felt powerless to withstand or deny him.\" We must not overlook Hardy's own showmanship. He creates a sensuous chapter, with the lush setting, textures, colors, and lighting all playing their parts. He does a masterful job of describing the flashing of lights and the lightning speed of Troy's every move. Hardy was interested in dramatics and here uses his sense of effective staging."}

THE HOLLOW AMID THE FERNS The hill opposite Bathsheba's dwelling extended, a mile off, into an uncultivated tract of land, dotted at this season with tall thickets of brake fern, plump and diaphanous from recent rapid growth, and radiant in hues of clear and untainted green. At eight o'clock this midsummer evening, whilst the bristling ball of gold in the west still swept the tips of the ferns with its long, luxuriant rays, a soft brushing-by of garments might have been heard among them, and Bathsheba appeared in their midst, their soft, feathery arms caressing her up to her shoulders. She paused, turned, went back over the hill and half-way to her own door, whence she cast a farewell glance upon the spot she had just left, having resolved not to remain near the place after all. She saw a dim spot of artificial red moving round the shoulder of the rise. It disappeared on the other side. She waited one minute--two minutes--thought of Troy's disappointment at her non-fulfilment of a promised engagement, till she again ran along the field, clambered over the bank, and followed the original direction. She was now literally trembling and panting at this her temerity in such an errant undertaking; her breath came and went quickly, and her eyes shone with an infrequent light. Yet go she must. She reached the verge of a pit in the middle of the ferns. Troy stood in the bottom, looking up towards her. "I heard you rustling through the fern before I saw you," he said, coming up and giving her his hand to help her down the slope. The pit was a saucer-shaped concave, naturally formed, with a top diameter of about thirty feet, and shallow enough to allow the sunshine to reach their heads. Standing in the centre, the sky overhead was met by a circular horizon of fern: this grew nearly to the bottom of the slope and then abruptly ceased. The middle within the belt of verdure was floored with a thick flossy carpet of moss and grass intermingled, so yielding that the foot was half-buried within it. "Now," said Troy, producing the sword, which, as he raised it into the sunlight, gleamed a sort of greeting, like a living thing, "first, we have four right and four left cuts; four right and four left thrusts. Infantry cuts and guards are more interesting than ours, to my mind; but they are not so swashing. They have seven cuts and three thrusts. So much as a preliminary. Well, next, our cut one is as if you were sowing your corn--so." Bathsheba saw a sort of rainbow, upside down in the air, and Troy's arm was still again. "Cut two, as if you were hedging--so. Three, as if you were reaping--so. Four, as if you were threshing--in that way. Then the same on the left. The thrusts are these: one, two, three, four, right; one, two, three, four, left." He repeated them. "Have 'em again?" he said. "One, two--" She hurriedly interrupted: "I'd rather not; though I don't mind your twos and fours; but your ones and threes are terrible!" "Very well. I'll let you off the ones and threes. Next, cuts, points and guards altogether." Troy duly exhibited them. "Then there's pursuing practice, in this way." He gave the movements as before. "There, those are the stereotyped forms. The infantry have two most diabolical upward cuts, which we are too humane to use. Like this--three, four." "How murderous and bloodthirsty!" "They are rather deathly. Now I'll be more interesting, and let you see some loose play--giving all the cuts and points, infantry and cavalry, quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously--with just enough rule to regulate instinct and yet not to fetter it. You are my antagonist, with this difference from real warfare, that I shall miss you every time by one hair's breadth, or perhaps two. Mind you don't flinch, whatever you do." "I'll be sure not to!" she said invincibly. He pointed to about a yard in front of him. Bathsheba's adventurous spirit was beginning to find some grains of relish in these highly novel proceedings. She took up her position as directed, facing Troy. "Now just to learn whether you have pluck enough to let me do what I wish, I'll give you a preliminary test." He flourished the sword by way of introduction number two, and the next thing of which she was conscious was that the point and blade of the sword were darting with a gleam towards her left side, just above her hip; then of their reappearance on her right side, emerging as it were from between her ribs, having apparently passed through her body. The third item of consciousness was that of seeing the same sword, perfectly clean and free from blood held vertically in Troy's hand (in the position technically called "recover swords"). All was as quick as electricity. "Oh!" she cried out in affright, pressing her hand to her side. "Have you run me through?--no, you have not! Whatever have you done!" "I have not touched you," said Troy, quietly. "It was mere sleight of hand. The sword passed behind you. Now you are not afraid, are you? Because if you are I can't perform. I give my word that I will not only not hurt you, but not once touch you." "I don't think I am afraid. You are quite sure you will not hurt me?" "Quite sure." "Is the sword very sharp?" "O no--only stand as still as a statue. Now!" In an instant the atmosphere was transformed to Bathsheba's eyes. Beams of light caught from the low sun's rays, above, around, in front of her, well-nigh shut out earth and heaven--all emitted in the marvellous evolutions of Troy's reflecting blade, which seemed everywhere at once, and yet nowhere specially. These circling gleams were accompanied by a keen rush that was almost a whistling--also springing from all sides of her at once. In short, she was enclosed in a firmament of light, and of sharp hisses, resembling a sky-full of meteors close at hand. Never since the broadsword became the national weapon had there been more dexterity shown in its management than by the hands of Sergeant Troy, and never had he been in such splendid temper for the performance as now in the evening sunshine among the ferns with Bathsheba. It may safely be asserted with respect to the closeness of his cuts, that had it been possible for the edge of the sword to leave in the air a permanent substance wherever it flew past, the space left untouched would have been almost a mould of Bathsheba's figure. Behind the luminous streams of this _aurora militaris_, she could see the hue of Troy's sword arm, spread in a scarlet haze over the space covered by its motions, like a twanged harpstring, and behind all Troy himself, mostly facing her; sometimes, to show the rear cuts, half turned away, his eye nevertheless always keenly measuring her breadth and outline, and his lips tightly closed in sustained effort. Next, his movements lapsed slower, and she could see them individually. The hissing of the sword had ceased, and he stopped entirely. "That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying," he said, before she had moved or spoken. "Wait: I'll do it for you." An arc of silver shone on her right side: the sword had descended. The lock dropped to the ground. "Bravely borne!" said Troy. "You didn't flinch a shade's thickness. Wonderful in a woman!" "It was because I didn't expect it. Oh, you have spoilt my hair!" "Only once more." "No--no! I am afraid of you--indeed I am!" she cried. "I won't touch you at all--not even your hair. I am only going to kill that caterpillar settling on you. Now: still!" It appeared that a caterpillar had come from the fern and chosen the front of her bodice as his resting place. She saw the point glisten towards her bosom, and seemingly enter it. Bathsheba closed her eyes in the full persuasion that she was killed at last. However, feeling just as usual, she opened them again. "There it is, look," said the sergeant, holding his sword before her eyes. The caterpillar was spitted upon its point. "Why, it is magic!" said Bathsheba, amazed. "Oh no--dexterity. I merely gave point to your bosom where the caterpillar was, and instead of running you through checked the extension a thousandth of an inch short of your surface." "But how could you chop off a curl of my hair with a sword that has no edge?" "No edge! This sword will shave like a razor. Look here." He touched the palm of his hand with the blade, and then, lifting it, showed her a thin shaving of scarf-skin dangling therefrom. "But you said before beginning that it was blunt and couldn't cut me!" "That was to get you to stand still, and so make sure of your safety. The risk of injuring you through your moving was too great not to force me to tell you a fib to escape it." She shuddered. "I have been within an inch of my life, and didn't know it!" "More precisely speaking, you have been within half an inch of being pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times." "Cruel, cruel, 'tis of you!" "You have been perfectly safe, nevertheless. My sword never errs." And Troy returned the weapon to the scabbard. Bathsheba, overcome by a hundred tumultuous feelings resulting from the scene, abstractedly sat down on a tuft of heather. "I must leave you now," said Troy, softly. "And I'll venture to take and keep this in remembrance of you." She saw him stoop to the grass, pick up the winding lock which he had severed from her manifold tresses, twist it round his fingers, unfasten a button in the breast of his coat, and carefully put it inside. She felt powerless to withstand or deny him. He was altogether too much for her, and Bathsheba seemed as one who, facing a reviving wind, finds it blow so strongly that it stops the breath. He drew near and said, "I must be leaving you." He drew nearer still. A minute later and she saw his scarlet form disappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand swiftly waved. That minute's interval had brought the blood beating into her face, set her stinging as if aflame to the very hollows of her feet, and enlarged emotion to a compass which quite swamped thought. It had brought upon her a stroke resulting, as did that of Moses in Horeb, in a liquid stream--here a stream of tears. She felt like one who has sinned a great sin. The circumstance had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth downwards upon her own. He had kissed her.

Chapter 28

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-28

At eight o'clock that midsummer evening, Bathsheba appeared in the fern hollow amid the soft, green, shoulder-high fronds. She paused, changed her mind, and was halfway home again before she caught sight of a red coat approaching. She considered Troy's disappointment were she not to appear, and she ran back to the hollow. When she reached the verge of a pit in the midst of the ferns, she saw Troy standing at the bottom and looking toward her. Troy's performance with the sword was precise and filled with bravado. It grew a bit frightening. He pretended the girl was the enemy and brandished his sword about her so realistically that she imagined herself run through. It was a dexterous feat. As a final tour-de-force, he said, "That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying. . . . Wait: I'll do it for you." "An area of silver shone on her right side; the sword had descended. The lock dropped to the ground." Next Troy speared a caterpillar that had settled upon Bathsheba's bosom. Only then did Troy admit that the sword was razor-sharp. "You have been within half an inch of being pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times." Then the man stopped to pick up the lock of Bathsheba's hair. He tucked it inside his coat. Softly he announced that he had to leave. He disappeared, and, overcome by tumultuous emotion, "aflame to the very hollows of her feet," Bathsheba wept, feeling "like one who has sinned a great sin." "The circumstances had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth downwards upon her own. He had kissed her."

Troy is so completely in command of his sword and so perfectly confident of his skill that he does not hesitate to risk Bathsheba's life for the sake of his performance. His actions have utterly overwhelmed Bathsheba: "She felt powerless to withstand or deny him." We must not overlook Hardy's own showmanship. He creates a sensuous chapter, with the lush setting, textures, colors, and lighting all playing their parts. He does a masterful job of describing the flashing of lights and the lightning speed of Troy's every move. Hardy was interested in dramatics and here uses his sense of effective staging.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_2_part_2.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter xiii

chapter xiii

{"name": "Chapter XIII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22", "summary": "An outing is planned to the house of a relative of Colonel Brandon. The party consists of the Dashwood sisters, Willoughby, Sir John and Lady Middleton, Colonel Brandon, and Mrs. Jennings. But the visit is called off suddenly when Colonel Brandon receives a letter that means he has to leave for town at once. Willoughby mutters to Marianne that Colonel Brandon has invented this excuse to avoid a pleasure trip. Mrs. Jennings speculates that the Colonel's sudden departure is to do with Miss Williams, whom she believes to be the Colonel's illegitimate daughter. Not wanting to waste an opportunity for a social event, Sir John organizes a carriage drive. Marianne and Willoughby disappear in Willoughby's carriage and return later than everyone else. At dinner, Mrs. Jennings says that she knows that Marianne and Willoughby went to see the house that Marianne will live in one day, Allenham Court. Elinor thinks it improper for them to have visited the house while Mrs. Smith is still living there", "analysis": ""}

Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. "What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John. Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma'am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." "No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying." "Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?" "My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a blow upon them all was this! "But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?" He shook his head. "We must go," said Sir John.--"It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all." "I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!" "If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not." "You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return." "I cannot afford to lose ONE hour."-- Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing." "I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne. "There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell." Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable. "Well, then, when will you come back again?" "I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return." "You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all." "Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him." "Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is." "I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of." Colonel Brandon's horses were announced. "You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John. "No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post." "Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind." "I assure you it is not in my power." He then took leave of the whole party. "Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" "I am afraid, none at all." "Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing. "Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about." He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body. "Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure." "And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural daughter." "Indeed!" "Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune." When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs. It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning." Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"-- "Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my curricle?" "Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago." Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr. Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the garden and going all over the house. Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance. As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it; and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it. "Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?" "Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby." "Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life." "I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety." "On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure." "But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?" "If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and--" "If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be justified in what you have done." She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England." Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.

Chapter XIII

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22

An outing is planned to the house of a relative of Colonel Brandon. The party consists of the Dashwood sisters, Willoughby, Sir John and Lady Middleton, Colonel Brandon, and Mrs. Jennings. But the visit is called off suddenly when Colonel Brandon receives a letter that means he has to leave for town at once. Willoughby mutters to Marianne that Colonel Brandon has invented this excuse to avoid a pleasure trip. Mrs. Jennings speculates that the Colonel's sudden departure is to do with Miss Williams, whom she believes to be the Colonel's illegitimate daughter. Not wanting to waste an opportunity for a social event, Sir John organizes a carriage drive. Marianne and Willoughby disappear in Willoughby's carriage and return later than everyone else. At dinner, Mrs. Jennings says that she knows that Marianne and Willoughby went to see the house that Marianne will live in one day, Allenham Court. Elinor thinks it improper for them to have visited the house while Mrs. Smith is still living there

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Prince/section_5_part_4.txt

The Prince.chapter xix

chapter xix

{"name": "Chapter XIX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210417004655/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-prince/study-guide/summary-section-6-chapters-xv-xix", "summary": "\"On Avoiding Contempt and Hatred,\" brings this line of reasoning full circle, noting off the bat that a prince should be sure not to be hated, for conspiracies fail if the prince is loved. A prince should delegate unpleasant jobs to others and keep the pleasant ones - the ones that look good - for himself. France's use of a third judicial force which was not the king's direct responsibility is an example of such a tactic", "analysis": "If The Prince is often characterized as a treatise on unscrupulous politics and a manual of ruthless power games, Chapter XV, \"On the Reasons Why Men Are Praised or Blamed - Especially Princes,\" is a particularly crucial chapter. It is here that Machiavelli directly addresses the question that has been bubbling underneath the surface of his book thus far - namely, to what extent does being good matter? Machiavelli's answer: as long as it contributes to holding onto power. The key notion here is that good is a relative concept; surface virtuosity, of the kind often showcased by rulers, is often but a disguise, and the greatest good lies in the end - the all-inclusive goal of maintaining the state and securing the reins of power. In other words, good is good insofar as it is politically expedient. The categorical crumbles in the face of efficiency, for the latter is the only true barometer. The ends justify the means, and utilitarianism is the dominant mode of reasoning. If a prince needs to indulge a vice to save his state, so be it. \"For if you look at matters carefully,\" Machiavelli writes, \"you will see that something resembling virtue, if you follow it, may be your ruin, while something resembling vice will lead, if you follow it, to your security and well-being.\" One might compare this argument to the thrust of Chapter XIII, \"On Those Who Have Become Princes By Crime,\" which measures when and to what extent a prince's cruelty can be justified. Machiavelli is arguing something far more complex than a call to disregard morality. His example of the generous prince begins as a seemingly hard-lined argument and emerges as a humanist consideration of the faults of man. A prince should not be miserly just for the sake of it; miserliness, by resulting in the safeguarding of funds and greater financial security, winds up helping the people in quite direct ways. It is up to the prince to see beyond short-run desires and superficial appearances and to not give away money he cannot afford to spend just to put on a lovable face and to curry favor, but instead to weather the occasional criticism and plan for the future. It is all about the greater good. Machiavelli sublimates the individualistic treatment of the prince as solitary agent into a larger view of society as contingent on long-term planning and sacrifice. The Prince reads here as less a how-to for the aspiring prince than a social manifesto; Machiavelli puts faith in the people's judgment, arguing that they will come around to loving the miserly prince who saves money out of necessity. As in his earlier distinctions between the common people and the nobles, he emerges as more of a populist and democrat than popular conceptions of The Prince tend to allow for. That said, Chapter XVII, \"On Cruelty and Clemency,\" presents a thoroughly pessimistic view of humanity. Men are inherently \"rotten,\" Machiavelli argues, explaining that they are \"ungrateful, fickle, liars and deceivers, fearful of danger and greedy for gain.\" For this reason, it is safer for a prince to be feared than to be loved: \"love is link of obligation which men, because they are rotten, will break any time they think doing so serves their advantage.\" Fear, on the other hand, \"involves dread of punishment, from which they can never escape.\" As always, Machiavelli tempers what seems at first like a thoroughly cynical position, noting that moderation is the key, and that a prince should try to make himself feared in a way that does not make him hated. More specifically, he should only shed blood when he has good reason to, he should not confiscate property, and he should keep his hands off his subjects' women. Certain lines cannot be crossed. As Machiavelli writes a few pages later, a prince \"should be ready to enter on evil if he has to,\" but he must have to. In any case, virtues are often difficult to define; they are only virtuous insofar as they help people. Virtue for its own sake can be harmful, and for a prince to possess and exercise all virtues at all times is a mistake. Appearances are a different matter: the masses are impressed by the superficial appearance of things so long as the prince's ends are achieved. It matters little, therefore, who the prince really is. Machiavelli closes Chapter XVIII with a reference that deserves mention. \"A certain prince of our own time,\" he writes, \"whom it's just as well not to name, preaches nothing but peace and mutual trust, yet he is the determined enemy of both.\" This seems to be a condemnation, but Machiavelli continues: \"if on several different occasions he had observed either, he would have lost both his reputation and his throne.\" The prince in question is Ferdinand of Spain, and the passage is something of a swipe at him. The first line suggests untempered scorn, while the second modifies this position and recasts Ferdinand as an example of how hypocrisy can be useful. These last few words are perhaps the veil Machiavelli uses to hide a more acute criticism of Ferdinand, who secured his power through often bloodthirsty tactics, expelling the Muslims and Jews from Spain, waging war, and persecuting the masses. These repellent maneuvers, Machiavelli is forced to admit, did work. We can sense here the writer having reached a sort of theoretical impasse: how to both condemn and praise? How to reconcile a need for human goodness with the demands of power and the vicissitudes of international relations? Ferdinand provides a particularly difficult case, since Machiavelli, writing of him as a \"determined enemy\" of peace and trust, seems to disapprove of him, while his own writings provide a framework whereby Ferdinand's actions are thoroughly justifiable. What is perhaps most important is that Machiavelli faces Ferdinand head-on. Contradictions may abound as Machiavelli maps out his philosophy, but he seems to implicitly acknowledge this. The Prince is more than a simplistic argument for cold-heartedness in politics, and these chapters reflect Machiavelli's efforts to grapple with the various problems his more cynical positions engender."}

Now, concerning the characteristics of which mention is made above, I have spoken of the more important ones, the others I wish to discuss briefly under this generality, that the prince must consider, as has been in part said before, how to avoid those things which will make him hated or contemptible; and as often as he shall have succeeded he will have fulfilled his part, and he need not fear any danger in other reproaches. It makes him hated above all things, as I have said, to be rapacious, and to be a violator of the property and women of his subjects, from both of which he must abstain. And when neither their property nor their honor is touched, the majority of men live content, and he has only to contend with the ambition of a few, whom he can curb with ease in many ways. It makes him contemptible to be considered fickle, frivolous, effeminate, mean-spirited, irresolute, from all of which a prince should guard himself as from a rock; and he should endeavour to show in his actions greatness, courage, gravity, and fortitude; and in his private dealings with his subjects let him show that his judgments are irrevocable, and maintain himself in such reputation that no one can hope either to deceive him or to get round him. That prince is highly esteemed who conveys this impression of himself, and he who is highly esteemed is not easily conspired against; for, provided it is well known that he is an excellent man and revered by his people, he can only be attacked with difficulty. For this reason a prince ought to have two fears, one from within, on account of his subjects, the other from without, on account of external powers. From the latter he is defended by being well armed and having good allies, and if he is well armed he will have good friends, and affairs will always remain quiet within when they are quiet without, unless they should have been already disturbed by conspiracy; and even should affairs outside be disturbed, if he has carried out his preparations and has lived as I have said, as long as he does not despair, he will resist every attack, as I said Nabis the Spartan did. But concerning his subjects, when affairs outside are disturbed he has only to fear that they will conspire secretly, from which a prince can easily secure himself by avoiding being hated and despised, and by keeping the people satisfied with him, which it is most necessary for him to accomplish, as I said above at length. And one of the most efficacious remedies that a prince can have against conspiracies is not to be hated and despised by the people, for he who conspires against a prince always expects to please them by his removal; but when the conspirator can only look forward to offending them, he will not have the courage to take such a course, for the difficulties that confront a conspirator are infinite. And as experience shows, many have been the conspiracies, but few have been successful; because he who conspires cannot act alone, nor can he take a companion except from those whom he believes to be malcontents, and as soon as you have opened your mind to a malcontent you have given him the material with which to content himself, for by denouncing you he can look for every advantage; so that, seeing the gain from this course to be assured, and seeing the other to be doubtful and full of dangers, he must be a very rare friend, or a thoroughly obstinate enemy of the prince, to keep faith with you. And, to reduce the matter into a small compass, I say that, on the side of the conspirator, there is nothing but fear, jealousy, prospect of punishment to terrify him; but on the side of the prince there is the majesty of the principality, the laws, the protection of friends and the state to defend him; so that, adding to all these things the popular goodwill, it is impossible that any one should be so rash as to conspire. For whereas in general the conspirator has to fear before the execution of his plot, in this case he has also to fear the sequel to the crime; because on account of it he has the people for an enemy, and thus cannot hope for any escape. Endless examples could be given on this subject, but I will be content with one, brought to pass within the memory of our fathers. Messer Annibale Bentivogli, who was prince in Bologna (grandfather of the present Annibale), having been murdered by the Canneschi, who had conspired against him, not one of his family survived but Messer Giovanni,(*) who was in childhood: immediately after his assassination the people rose and murdered all the Canneschi. This sprung from the popular goodwill which the house of Bentivogli enjoyed in those days in Bologna; which was so great that, although none remained there after the death of Annibale who was able to rule the state, the Bolognese, having information that there was one of the Bentivogli family in Florence, who up to that time had been considered the son of a blacksmith, sent to Florence for him and gave him the government of their city, and it was ruled by him until Messer Giovanni came in due course to the government. (*) Giovanni Bentivogli, born in Bologna 1438, died at Milan 1508. He ruled Bologna from 1462 to 1506. Machiavelli's strong condemnation of conspiracies may get its edge from his own very recent experience (February 1513), when he had been arrested and tortured for his alleged complicity in the Boscoli conspiracy. For this reason I consider that a prince ought to reckon conspiracies of little account when his people hold him in esteem; but when it is hostile to him, and bears hatred towards him, he ought to fear everything and everybody. And well-ordered states and wise princes have taken every care not to drive the nobles to desperation, and to keep the people satisfied and contented, for this is one of the most important objects a prince can have. Among the best ordered and governed kingdoms of our times is France, and in it are found many good institutions on which depend the liberty and security of the king; of these the first is the parliament and its authority, because he who founded the kingdom, knowing the ambition of the nobility and their boldness, considered that a bit to their mouths would be necessary to hold them in; and, on the other side, knowing the hatred of the people, founded in fear, against the nobles, he wished to protect them, yet he was not anxious for this to be the particular care of the king; therefore, to take away the reproach which he would be liable to from the nobles for favouring the people, and from the people for favouring the nobles, he set up an arbiter, who should be one who could beat down the great and favour the lesser without reproach to the king. Neither could you have a better or a more prudent arrangement, or a greater source of security to the king and kingdom. From this one can draw another important conclusion, that princes ought to leave affairs of reproach to the management of others, and keep those of grace in their own hands. And further, I consider that a prince ought to cherish the nobles, but not so as to make himself hated by the people. It may appear, perhaps, to some who have examined the lives and deaths of the Roman emperors that many of them would be an example contrary to my opinion, seeing that some of them lived nobly and showed great qualities of soul, nevertheless they have lost their empire or have been killed by subjects who have conspired against them. Wishing, therefore, to answer these objections, I will recall the characters of some of the emperors, and will show that the causes of their ruin were not different to those alleged by me; at the same time I will only submit for consideration those things that are noteworthy to him who studies the affairs of those times. It seems to me sufficient to take all those emperors who succeeded to the empire from Marcus the philosopher down to Maximinus; they were Marcus and his son Commodus, Pertinax, Julian, Severus and his son Antoninus Caracalla, Macrinus, Heliogabalus, Alexander, and Maximinus. There is first to note that, whereas in other principalities the ambition of the nobles and the insolence of the people only have to be contended with, the Roman emperors had a third difficulty in having to put up with the cruelty and avarice of their soldiers, a matter so beset with difficulties that it was the ruin of many; for it was a hard thing to give satisfaction both to soldiers and people; because the people loved peace, and for this reason they loved the unaspiring prince, whilst the soldiers loved the warlike prince who was bold, cruel, and rapacious, which qualities they were quite willing he should exercise upon the people, so that they could get double pay and give vent to their own greed and cruelty. Hence it arose that those emperors were always overthrown who, either by birth or training, had no great authority, and most of them, especially those who came new to the principality, recognizing the difficulty of these two opposing humours, were inclined to give satisfaction to the soldiers, caring little about injuring the people. Which course was necessary, because, as princes cannot help being hated by someone, they ought, in the first place, to avoid being hated by every one, and when they cannot compass this, they ought to endeavour with the utmost diligence to avoid the hatred of the most powerful. Therefore, those emperors who through inexperience had need of special favour adhered more readily to the soldiers than to the people; a course which turned out advantageous to them or not, accordingly as the prince knew how to maintain authority over them. From these causes it arose that Marcus, Pertinax, and Alexander, being all men of modest life, lovers of justice, enemies to cruelty, humane, and benignant, came to a sad end except Marcus; he alone lived and died honoured, because he had succeeded to the throne by hereditary title, and owed nothing either to the soldiers or the people; and afterwards, being possessed of many virtues which made him respected, he always kept both orders in their places whilst he lived, and was neither hated nor despised. But Pertinax was created emperor against the wishes of the soldiers, who, being accustomed to live licentiously under Commodus, could not endure the honest life to which Pertinax wished to reduce them; thus, having given cause for hatred, to which hatred there was added contempt for his old age, he was overthrown at the very beginning of his administration. And here it should be noted that hatred is acquired as much by good works as by bad ones, therefore, as I said before, a prince wishing to keep his state is very often forced to do evil; for when that body is corrupt whom you think you have need of to maintain yourself--it may be either the people or the soldiers or the nobles--you have to submit to its humours and to gratify them, and then good works will do you harm. But let us come to Alexander, who was a man of such great goodness, that among the other praises which are accorded him is this, that in the fourteen years he held the empire no one was ever put to death by him unjudged; nevertheless, being considered effeminate and a man who allowed himself to be governed by his mother, he became despised, the army conspired against him, and murdered him. Turning now to the opposite characters of Commodus, Severus, Antoninus Caracalla, and Maximinus, you will find them all cruel and rapacious-men who, to satisfy their soldiers, did not hesitate to commit every kind of iniquity against the people; and all, except Severus, came to a bad end; but in Severus there was so much valour that, keeping the soldiers friendly, although the people were oppressed by him, he reigned successfully; for his valour made him so much admired in the sight of the soldiers and people that the latter were kept in a way astonished and awed and the former respectful and satisfied. And because the actions of this man, as a new prince, were great, I wish to show briefly that he knew well how to counterfeit the fox and the lion, which natures, as I said above, it is necessary for a prince to imitate. Knowing the sloth of the Emperor Julian, he persuaded the army in Sclavonia, of which he was captain, that it would be right to go to Rome and avenge the death of Pertinax, who had been killed by the praetorian soldiers; and under this pretext, without appearing to aspire to the throne, he moved the army on Rome, and reached Italy before it was known that he had started. On his arrival at Rome, the Senate, through fear, elected him emperor and killed Julian. After this there remained for Severus, who wished to make himself master of the whole empire, two difficulties; one in Asia, where Niger, head of the Asiatic army, had caused himself to be proclaimed emperor; the other in the west where Albinus was, who also aspired to the throne. And as he considered it dangerous to declare himself hostile to both, he decided to attack Niger and to deceive Albinus. To the latter he wrote that, being elected emperor by the Senate, he was willing to share that dignity with him and sent him the title of Caesar; and, moreover, that the Senate had made Albinus his colleague; which things were accepted by Albinus as true. But after Severus had conquered and killed Niger, and settled oriental affairs, he returned to Rome and complained to the Senate that Albinus, little recognizing the benefits that he had received from him, had by treachery sought to murder him, and for this ingratitude he was compelled to punish him. Afterwards he sought him out in France, and took from him his government and life. He who will, therefore, carefully examine the actions of this man will find him a most valiant lion and a most cunning fox; he will find him feared and respected by every one, and not hated by the army; and it need not be wondered at that he, a new man, was able to hold the empire so well, because his supreme renown always protected him from that hatred which the people might have conceived against him for his violence. But his son Antoninus was a most eminent man, and had very excellent qualities, which made him admirable in the sight of the people and acceptable to the soldiers, for he was a warlike man, most enduring of fatigue, a despiser of all delicate food and other luxuries, which caused him to be beloved by the armies. Nevertheless, his ferocity and cruelties were so great and so unheard of that, after endless single murders, he killed a large number of the people of Rome and all those of Alexandria. He became hated by the whole world, and also feared by those he had around him, to such an extent that he was murdered in the midst of his army by a centurion. And here it must be noted that such-like deaths, which are deliberately inflicted with a resolved and desperate courage, cannot be avoided by princes, because any one who does not fear to die can inflict them; but a prince may fear them the less because they are very rare; he has only to be careful not to do any grave injury to those whom he employs or has around him in the service of the state. Antoninus had not taken this care, but had contumeliously killed a brother of that centurion, whom also he daily threatened, yet retained in his bodyguard; which, as it turned out, was a rash thing to do, and proved the emperor's ruin. But let us come to Commodus, to whom it should have been very easy to hold the empire, for, being the son of Marcus, he had inherited it, and he had only to follow in the footsteps of his father to please his people and soldiers; but, being by nature cruel and brutal, he gave himself up to amusing the soldiers and corrupting them, so that he might indulge his rapacity upon the people; on the other hand, not maintaining his dignity, often descending to the theatre to compete with gladiators, and doing other vile things, little worthy of the imperial majesty, he fell into contempt with the soldiers, and being hated by one party and despised by the other, he was conspired against and was killed. It remains to discuss the character of Maximinus. He was a very warlike man, and the armies, being disgusted with the effeminacy of Alexander, of whom I have already spoken, killed him and elected Maximinus to the throne. This he did not possess for long, for two things made him hated and despised; the one, his having kept sheep in Thrace, which brought him into contempt (it being well known to all, and considered a great indignity by every one), and the other, his having at the accession to his dominions deferred going to Rome and taking possession of the imperial seat; he had also gained a reputation for the utmost ferocity by having, through his prefects in Rome and elsewhere in the empire, practised many cruelties, so that the whole world was moved to anger at the meanness of his birth and to fear at his barbarity. First Africa rebelled, then the Senate with all the people of Rome, and all Italy conspired against him, to which may be added his own army; this latter, besieging Aquileia and meeting with difficulties in taking it, were disgusted with his cruelties, and fearing him less when they found so many against him, murdered him. I do not wish to discuss Heliogabalus, Macrinus, or Julian, who, being thoroughly contemptible, were quickly wiped out; but I will bring this discourse to a conclusion by saying that princes in our times have this difficulty of giving inordinate satisfaction to their soldiers in a far less degree, because, notwithstanding one has to give them some indulgence, that is soon done; none of these princes have armies that are veterans in the governance and administration of provinces, as were the armies of the Roman Empire; and whereas it was then more necessary to give satisfaction to the soldiers than to the people, it is now more necessary to all princes, except the Turk and the Soldan, to satisfy the people rather the soldiers, because the people are the more powerful. From the above I have excepted the Turk, who always keeps round him twelve thousand infantry and fifteen thousand cavalry on which depend the security and strength of the kingdom, and it is necessary that, putting aside every consideration for the people, he should keep them his friends. The kingdom of the Soldan is similar; being entirely in the hands of soldiers, it follows again that, without regard to the people, he must keep them his friends. But you must note that the state of the Soldan is unlike all other principalities, for the reason that it is like the Christian pontificate, which cannot be called either an hereditary or a newly formed principality; because the sons of the old prince are not the heirs, but he who is elected to that position by those who have authority, and the sons remain only noblemen. And this being an ancient custom, it cannot be called a new principality, because there are none of those difficulties in it that are met with in new ones; for although the prince is new, the constitution of the state is old, and it is framed so as to receive him as if he were its hereditary lord. But returning to the subject of our discourse, I say that whoever will consider it will acknowledge that either hatred or contempt has been fatal to the above-named emperors, and it will be recognized also how it happened that, a number of them acting in one way and a number in another, only one in each way came to a happy end and the rest to unhappy ones. Because it would have been useless and dangerous for Pertinax and Alexander, being new princes, to imitate Marcus, who was heir to the principality; and likewise it would have been utterly destructive to Caracalla, Commodus, and Maximinus to have imitated Severus, they not having sufficient valour to enable them to tread in his footsteps. Therefore a prince, new to the principality, cannot imitate the actions of Marcus, nor, again, is it necessary to follow those of Severus, but he ought to take from Severus those parts which are necessary to found his state, and from Marcus those which are proper and glorious to keep a state that may already be stable and firm.

Chapter XIX

https://web.archive.org/web/20210417004655/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-prince/study-guide/summary-section-6-chapters-xv-xix

"On Avoiding Contempt and Hatred," brings this line of reasoning full circle, noting off the bat that a prince should be sure not to be hated, for conspiracies fail if the prince is loved. A prince should delegate unpleasant jobs to others and keep the pleasant ones - the ones that look good - for himself. France's use of a third judicial force which was not the king's direct responsibility is an example of such a tactic

If The Prince is often characterized as a treatise on unscrupulous politics and a manual of ruthless power games, Chapter XV, "On the Reasons Why Men Are Praised or Blamed - Especially Princes," is a particularly crucial chapter. It is here that Machiavelli directly addresses the question that has been bubbling underneath the surface of his book thus far - namely, to what extent does being good matter? Machiavelli's answer: as long as it contributes to holding onto power. The key notion here is that good is a relative concept; surface virtuosity, of the kind often showcased by rulers, is often but a disguise, and the greatest good lies in the end - the all-inclusive goal of maintaining the state and securing the reins of power. In other words, good is good insofar as it is politically expedient. The categorical crumbles in the face of efficiency, for the latter is the only true barometer. The ends justify the means, and utilitarianism is the dominant mode of reasoning. If a prince needs to indulge a vice to save his state, so be it. "For if you look at matters carefully," Machiavelli writes, "you will see that something resembling virtue, if you follow it, may be your ruin, while something resembling vice will lead, if you follow it, to your security and well-being." One might compare this argument to the thrust of Chapter XIII, "On Those Who Have Become Princes By Crime," which measures when and to what extent a prince's cruelty can be justified. Machiavelli is arguing something far more complex than a call to disregard morality. His example of the generous prince begins as a seemingly hard-lined argument and emerges as a humanist consideration of the faults of man. A prince should not be miserly just for the sake of it; miserliness, by resulting in the safeguarding of funds and greater financial security, winds up helping the people in quite direct ways. It is up to the prince to see beyond short-run desires and superficial appearances and to not give away money he cannot afford to spend just to put on a lovable face and to curry favor, but instead to weather the occasional criticism and plan for the future. It is all about the greater good. Machiavelli sublimates the individualistic treatment of the prince as solitary agent into a larger view of society as contingent on long-term planning and sacrifice. The Prince reads here as less a how-to for the aspiring prince than a social manifesto; Machiavelli puts faith in the people's judgment, arguing that they will come around to loving the miserly prince who saves money out of necessity. As in his earlier distinctions between the common people and the nobles, he emerges as more of a populist and democrat than popular conceptions of The Prince tend to allow for. That said, Chapter XVII, "On Cruelty and Clemency," presents a thoroughly pessimistic view of humanity. Men are inherently "rotten," Machiavelli argues, explaining that they are "ungrateful, fickle, liars and deceivers, fearful of danger and greedy for gain." For this reason, it is safer for a prince to be feared than to be loved: "love is link of obligation which men, because they are rotten, will break any time they think doing so serves their advantage." Fear, on the other hand, "involves dread of punishment, from which they can never escape." As always, Machiavelli tempers what seems at first like a thoroughly cynical position, noting that moderation is the key, and that a prince should try to make himself feared in a way that does not make him hated. More specifically, he should only shed blood when he has good reason to, he should not confiscate property, and he should keep his hands off his subjects' women. Certain lines cannot be crossed. As Machiavelli writes a few pages later, a prince "should be ready to enter on evil if he has to," but he must have to. In any case, virtues are often difficult to define; they are only virtuous insofar as they help people. Virtue for its own sake can be harmful, and for a prince to possess and exercise all virtues at all times is a mistake. Appearances are a different matter: the masses are impressed by the superficial appearance of things so long as the prince's ends are achieved. It matters little, therefore, who the prince really is. Machiavelli closes Chapter XVIII with a reference that deserves mention. "A certain prince of our own time," he writes, "whom it's just as well not to name, preaches nothing but peace and mutual trust, yet he is the determined enemy of both." This seems to be a condemnation, but Machiavelli continues: "if on several different occasions he had observed either, he would have lost both his reputation and his throne." The prince in question is Ferdinand of Spain, and the passage is something of a swipe at him. The first line suggests untempered scorn, while the second modifies this position and recasts Ferdinand as an example of how hypocrisy can be useful. These last few words are perhaps the veil Machiavelli uses to hide a more acute criticism of Ferdinand, who secured his power through often bloodthirsty tactics, expelling the Muslims and Jews from Spain, waging war, and persecuting the masses. These repellent maneuvers, Machiavelli is forced to admit, did work. We can sense here the writer having reached a sort of theoretical impasse: how to both condemn and praise? How to reconcile a need for human goodness with the demands of power and the vicissitudes of international relations? Ferdinand provides a particularly difficult case, since Machiavelli, writing of him as a "determined enemy" of peace and trust, seems to disapprove of him, while his own writings provide a framework whereby Ferdinand's actions are thoroughly justifiable. What is perhaps most important is that Machiavelli faces Ferdinand head-on. Contradictions may abound as Machiavelli maps out his philosophy, but he seems to implicitly acknowledge this. The Prince is more than a simplistic argument for cold-heartedness in politics, and these chapters reflect Machiavelli's efforts to grapple with the various problems his more cynical positions engender.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/34.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_13_part_2.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 34

chapter 34

{"name": "CHAPTER 34", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD43.asp", "summary": "After the wedding, Angel and Tess go to the D'Urberville mansion as planned. Tess is very upset by the mansion, especially the two life-size portraits of two female D'Urbervilles. Even though Tess tries to act happy and light-hearted betraying her true concerns, Angel regrets bringing his bride to the mansion. The marriage is not off to a good start. In the evening, a package arrives that is addressed to Mrs. Angel Clare. Inside are diamonds and a note from Angel's father. Angel's godmother, Mrs. Pitney, had left the jewels to Angel for his future wife, who she knows will be noble. Once again Tess feels guilty and unworthy to be Angel's wife. When Tess puts the diamonds on, Angel says she is beautiful in them. Jonathan Kail arrives from the dairy with their luggage and distressing news. Retty, one of the milkmaids, has tried to drown herself and Marian, another milkmaid, has been drinking heavily. Tess feels ashamed, for she knows that she is the cause of these actions; the women are miserable because they have lost Angel to Tess. Tess now feels more guilty and miserable than ever. The wedding day is turning from bad to worse. Before retiring for the night, Angel talks to Tess about the importance of good morals and pure character. He then tells Tess that he falls short of his own ideals and confesses his affair in London as he promised he would do. He apologizes that he has failed to tell Tess about his past before the wedding, but he was afraid of losing her. Angel asks Tess to forgive him, which she gladly does. In truth, she is delighted that his confession is very much like the one she needs to make. Encouraged by his confession, Tess tells Angel everything about her troublesome past. It is clear that Angel will not be forgiving like Tess has been. Everything seems to be colored by her confession. Even the diamonds on Tess's neck seems to give \"a sinister wink like a toad's.", "analysis": "Notes The wedding day is a total disaster for Tess. It begins with her finding the unopened letter of confession, followed by Angel's refusal to hear her out. The wedding takes place with Tess feeling terrible that she is marrying under false pretense. When she leaves the church with Angel, a D'Urberville carriage waits for them, reminding her of the past, and a cock crows, foreshadowing ill fate. The D'Urberville mansion is upsetting to Tess, especially the large portraits of her two female ancestors. The news of Retty and Marian upset her further and add to her guilt. Angel also keeps saying how he hates impurity and insists in good morals. Ironically, for Tess the only good news of the day is her husband's confession about having an affair. She is relieved to know that he has sinned, much like herself. It makes her own confession much easier, and Tess feels certain Angel will easily forgive her, just as she has done him. Such is not the case. Angel is horrified at her confession. It is obvious that the news completely changes his feelings for his wife. It is the double standard at work in the worst way"}

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

CHAPTER 34

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD43.asp

After the wedding, Angel and Tess go to the D'Urberville mansion as planned. Tess is very upset by the mansion, especially the two life-size portraits of two female D'Urbervilles. Even though Tess tries to act happy and light-hearted betraying her true concerns, Angel regrets bringing his bride to the mansion. The marriage is not off to a good start. In the evening, a package arrives that is addressed to Mrs. Angel Clare. Inside are diamonds and a note from Angel's father. Angel's godmother, Mrs. Pitney, had left the jewels to Angel for his future wife, who she knows will be noble. Once again Tess feels guilty and unworthy to be Angel's wife. When Tess puts the diamonds on, Angel says she is beautiful in them. Jonathan Kail arrives from the dairy with their luggage and distressing news. Retty, one of the milkmaids, has tried to drown herself and Marian, another milkmaid, has been drinking heavily. Tess feels ashamed, for she knows that she is the cause of these actions; the women are miserable because they have lost Angel to Tess. Tess now feels more guilty and miserable than ever. The wedding day is turning from bad to worse. Before retiring for the night, Angel talks to Tess about the importance of good morals and pure character. He then tells Tess that he falls short of his own ideals and confesses his affair in London as he promised he would do. He apologizes that he has failed to tell Tess about his past before the wedding, but he was afraid of losing her. Angel asks Tess to forgive him, which she gladly does. In truth, she is delighted that his confession is very much like the one she needs to make. Encouraged by his confession, Tess tells Angel everything about her troublesome past. It is clear that Angel will not be forgiving like Tess has been. Everything seems to be colored by her confession. Even the diamonds on Tess's neck seems to give "a sinister wink like a toad's.

Notes The wedding day is a total disaster for Tess. It begins with her finding the unopened letter of confession, followed by Angel's refusal to hear her out. The wedding takes place with Tess feeling terrible that she is marrying under false pretense. When she leaves the church with Angel, a D'Urberville carriage waits for them, reminding her of the past, and a cock crows, foreshadowing ill fate. The D'Urberville mansion is upsetting to Tess, especially the large portraits of her two female ancestors. The news of Retty and Marian upset her further and add to her guilt. Angel also keeps saying how he hates impurity and insists in good morals. Ironically, for Tess the only good news of the day is her husband's confession about having an affair. She is relieved to know that he has sinned, much like herself. It makes her own confession much easier, and Tess feels certain Angel will easily forgive her, just as she has done him. Such is not the case. Angel is horrified at her confession. It is obvious that the news completely changes his feelings for his wife. It is the double standard at work in the worst way

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/06.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_5_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 6

chapter 6

{"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-6", "summary": "After a gloomy journey, the Dashwoods arrive at Barton Cottage, their new home. It turns out to be a pretty nice place - it's not that impressive after their former grand abode at Norland, nor is it the romantic, picturesque story-book cottage they'd imagined, but it'll do. The Dashwood servants, who'd arrived earlier to set up the house, manage to cheer up the girls, and everyone actually feels OK about their new living situation. The family goes about its business settling in to the house and making plans for improvements . The next day, the girls meet their landlord/cousin, Sir John Middleton. He's a nice guy - maybe not the most graceful or elegant, but definitely a kind and good-natured man. Sir John's wife, Lady Middleton, is certainly elegant and lovely to look at, but she's not as personable as her husband; she's kind of a cold fish. Fortunately, Lady Middleton brings along the couple's oldest son on their visit to the cottage - and when you've got a bunch of women cooing over a little kid, there's always something to talk about. The Middletons leave, after asking the Dashwoods to dinner at their house, Barton Park, the next day.", "analysis": ""}

The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it. As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation. The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them. With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly." In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room. In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day. Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day. They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark. Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the others. An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.

Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-6

After a gloomy journey, the Dashwoods arrive at Barton Cottage, their new home. It turns out to be a pretty nice place - it's not that impressive after their former grand abode at Norland, nor is it the romantic, picturesque story-book cottage they'd imagined, but it'll do. The Dashwood servants, who'd arrived earlier to set up the house, manage to cheer up the girls, and everyone actually feels OK about their new living situation. The family goes about its business settling in to the house and making plans for improvements . The next day, the girls meet their landlord/cousin, Sir John Middleton. He's a nice guy - maybe not the most graceful or elegant, but definitely a kind and good-natured man. Sir John's wife, Lady Middleton, is certainly elegant and lovely to look at, but she's not as personable as her husband; she's kind of a cold fish. Fortunately, Lady Middleton brings along the couple's oldest son on their visit to the cottage - and when you've got a bunch of women cooing over a little kid, there's always something to talk about. The Middletons leave, after asking the Dashwoods to dinner at their house, Barton Park, the next day.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_14_part_3.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 37

chapter 37

{"name": "CHAPTER 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD45.asp", "summary": "The night before Tess is to leave, she sees her husband sleep- walking. He assumes her to be dead and places her in a stone coffin after wrapping her up in a sheet and carrying her to the old Abbey church. She handles the situation very boldly and with subtle persuasion brings him back to the house. She does not mention the incident the next morning, and Angel does not seem to remember it. On their way to Marlott the next morning, Tess and Angel visit with the Cricks, but keep their separation a secret from them. When they draw near to Tess's hometown, Angel turns to go. He leaves Tess with a good sum of money, takes the diamonds from her, and then forbids her to approach him in person. He tells her to communicate only through letters until he decides to come for her. Tess agrees to his commands, departs for home, and slips again into her suffering, melancholy mood.", "analysis": "Notes Love survives on mutual trust, and since Tess has broken that trust, Angel has difficulty dealing with her. His sleepwalking expresses his state of mind. His heart refuses to believe that the girl he loves could cause him so much agony. He is convinced that the real Tess is dead; therefore, he subconsciously buries her. It is a far-fetched and melodramatic scene. Tess suffers through the whole incident in silence. Through years of practice, she has learned to accept her punishment gracefully. On the day of their separation, Angel is a picture of practicality. He goes to the dairy and completes his business with Mr. Crick, not mentioning the fact that he and Tess are separating. He accompanies his wife on her journey until they reach the outskirts of Marlott. Then Angel gives her some money, retrieves his diamonds, and tells Tess not to contact him in person, only through letters. He says he will try to accept their situation and will contact her in the future. Tess feels totally devastated and hopeless"}

Midnight came and passed silently, for there was nothing to announce it in the Valley of the Froom. Not long after one o'clock there was a slight creak in the darkened farmhouse once the mansion of the d'Urbervilles. Tess, who used the upper chamber, heard it and awoke. It had come from the corner step of the staircase, which, as usual, was loosely nailed. She saw the door of her bedroom open, and the figure of her husband crossed the stream of moonlight with a curiously careful tread. He was in his shirt and trousers only, and her first flush of joy died when she perceived that his eyes were fixed in an unnatural stare on vacancy. When he reached the middle of the room he stood still and murmured in tones of indescribable sadness-- "Dead! dead! dead!" Under the influence of any strongly-disturbing force, Clare would occasionally walk in his sleep, and even perform strange feats, such as he had done on the night of their return from market just before their marriage, when he re-enacted in his bedroom his combat with the man who had insulted her. Tess saw that continued mental distress had wrought him into that somnambulistic state now. Her loyal confidence in him lay so deep down in her heart, that, awake or asleep, he inspired her with no sort of personal fear. If he had entered with a pistol in his hand he would scarcely have disturbed her trust in his protectiveness. Clare came close, and bent over her. "Dead, dead, dead!" he murmured. After fixedly regarding her for some moments with the same gaze of unmeasurable woe, he bent lower, enclosed her in his arms, and rolled her in the sheet as in a shroud. Then lifting her from the bed with as much respect as one would show to a dead body, he carried her across the room, murmuring-- "My poor, poor Tess--my dearest, darling Tess! So sweet, so good, so true!" The words of endearment, withheld so severely in his waking hours, were inexpressibly sweet to her forlorn and hungry heart. If it had been to save her weary life she would not, by moving or struggling, have put an end to the position she found herself in. Thus she lay in absolute stillness, scarcely venturing to breathe, and, wondering what he was going to do with her, suffered herself to be borne out upon the landing. "My wife--dead, dead!" he said. He paused in his labours for a moment to lean with her against the banister. Was he going to throw her down? Self-solicitude was near extinction in her, and in the knowledge that he had planned to depart on the morrow, possibly for always, she lay in his arms in this precarious position with a sense rather of luxury than of terror. If they could only fall together, and both be dashed to pieces, how fit, how desirable. However, he did not let her fall, but took advantage of the support of the handrail to imprint a kiss upon her lips--lips in the day-time scorned. Then he clasped her with a renewed firmness of hold, and descended the staircase. The creak of the loose stair did not awaken him, and they reached the ground-floor safely. Freeing one of his hands from his grasp of her for a moment, he slid back the door-bar and passed out, slightly striking his stockinged toe against the edge of the door. But this he seemed not to mind, and, having room for extension in the open air, he lifted her against his shoulder, so that he could carry her with ease, the absence of clothes taking much from his burden. Thus he bore her off the premises in the direction of the river a few yards distant. His ultimate intention, if he had any, she had not yet divined; and she found herself conjecturing on the matter as a third person might have done. So easefully had she delivered her whole being up to him that it pleased her to think he was regarding her as his absolute possession, to dispose of as he should choose. It was consoling, under the hovering terror of to-morrow's separation, to feel that he really recognized her now as his wife Tess, and did not cast her off, even if in that recognition he went so far as to arrogate to himself the right of harming her. Ah! now she knew what he was dreaming of--that Sunday morning when he had borne her along through the water with the other dairymaids, who had loved him nearly as much as she, if that were possible, which Tess could hardly admit. Clare did not cross the bridge with her, but proceeding several paces on the same side towards the adjoining mill, at length stood still on the brink of the river. Its waters, in creeping down these miles of meadowland, frequently divided, serpentining in purposeless curves, looping themselves around little islands that had no name, returning and re-embodying themselves as a broad main stream further on. Opposite the spot to which he had brought her was such a general confluence, and the river was proportionately voluminous and deep. Across it was a narrow foot-bridge; but now the autumn flood had washed the handrail away, leaving the bare plank only, which, lying a few inches above the speeding current, formed a giddy pathway for even steady heads; and Tess had noticed from the window of the house in the day-time young men walking across upon it as a feat in balancing. Her husband had possibly observed the same performance; anyhow, he now mounted the plank, and, sliding one foot forward, advanced along it. Was he going to drown her? Probably he was. The spot was lonely, the river deep and wide enough to make such a purpose easy of accomplishment. He might drown her if he would; it would be better than parting to-morrow to lead severed lives. The swift stream raced and gyrated under them, tossing, distorting, and splitting the moon's reflected face. Spots of froth travelled past, and intercepted weeds waved behind the piles. If they could both fall together into the current now, their arms would be so tightly clasped together that they could not be saved; they would go out of the world almost painlessly, and there would be no more reproach to her, or to him for marrying her. His last half-hour with her would have been a loving one, while if they lived till he awoke, his day-time aversion would return, and this hour would remain to be contemplated only as a transient dream. The impulse stirred in her, yet she dared not indulge it, to make a movement that would have precipitated them both into the gulf. How she valued her own life had been proved; but his--she had no right to tamper with it. He reached the other side with her in safety. Here they were within a plantation which formed the Abbey grounds, and taking a new hold of her he went onward a few steps till they reached the ruined choir of the Abbey-church. Against the north wall was the empty stone coffin of an abbot, in which every tourist with a turn for grim humour was accustomed to stretch himself. In this Clare carefully laid Tess. Having kissed her lips a second time he breathed deeply, as if a greatly desired end were attained. Clare then lay down on the ground alongside, when he immediately fell into the deep dead slumber of exhaustion, and remained motionless as a log. The spurt of mental excitement which had produced the effort was now over. Tess sat up in the coffin. The night, though dry and mild for the season, was more than sufficiently cold to make it dangerous for him to remain here long, in his half-clothed state. If he were left to himself he would in all probability stay there till the morning, and be chilled to certain death. She had heard of such deaths after sleep-walking. But how could she dare to awaken him, and let him know what he had been doing, when it would mortify him to discover his folly in respect of her? Tess, however, stepping out of her stone confine, shook him slightly, but was unable to arouse him without being violent. It was indispensable to do something, for she was beginning to shiver, the sheet being but a poor protection. Her excitement had in a measure kept her warm during the few minutes' adventure; but that beatific interval was over. It suddenly occurred to her to try persuasion; and accordingly she whispered in his ear, with as much firmness and decision as she could summon-- "Let us walk on, darling," at the same time taking him suggestively by the arm. To her relief, he unresistingly acquiesced; her words had apparently thrown him back into his dream, which thenceforward seemed to enter on a new phase, wherein he fancied she had risen as a spirit, and was leading him to Heaven. Thus she conducted him by the arm to the stone bridge in front of their residence, crossing which they stood at the manor-house door. Tess's feet were quite bare, and the stones hurt her, and chilled her to the bone; but Clare was in his woollen stockings, and appeared to feel no discomfort. There was no further difficulty. She induced him to lie down on his own sofa bed, and covered him up warmly, lighting a temporary fire of wood, to dry any dampness out of him. The noise of these attentions she thought might awaken him, and secretly wished that they might. But the exhaustion of his mind and body was such that he remained undisturbed. As soon as they met the next morning Tess divined that Angel knew little or nothing of how far she had been concerned in the night's excursion, though, as regarded himself, he may have been aware that he had not lain still. In truth, he had awakened that morning from a sleep deep as annihilation; and during those first few moments in which the brain, like a Samson shaking himself, is trying its strength, he had some dim notion of an unusual nocturnal proceeding. But the realities of his situation soon displaced conjecture on the other subject. He waited in expectancy to discern some mental pointing; he knew that if any intention of his, concluded over-night, did not vanish in the light of morning, it stood on a basis approximating to one of pure reason, even if initiated by impulse of feeling; that it was so far, therefore, to be trusted. He thus beheld in the pale morning light the resolve to separate from her; not as a hot and indignant instinct, but denuded of the passionateness which had made it scorch and burn; standing in its bones; nothing but a skeleton, but none the less there. Clare no longer hesitated. At breakfast, and while they were packing the few remaining articles, he showed his weariness from the night's effort so unmistakeably that Tess was on the point of revealing all that had happened; but the reflection that it would anger him, grieve him, stultify him, to know that he had instinctively manifested a fondness for her of which his common-sense did not approve, that his inclination had compromised his dignity when reason slept, again deterred her. It was too much like laughing at a man when sober for his erratic deeds during intoxication. It just crossed her mind, too, that he might have a faint recollection of his tender vagary, and was disinclined to allude to it from a conviction that she would take amatory advantage of the opportunity it gave her of appealing to him anew not to go. He had ordered by letter a vehicle from the nearest town, and soon after breakfast it arrived. She saw in it the beginning of the end--the temporary end, at least, for the revelation of his tenderness by the incident of the night raised dreams of a possible future with him. The luggage was put on the top, and the man drove them off, the miller and the old waiting-woman expressing some surprise at their precipitate departure, which Clare attributed to his discovery that the mill-work was not of the modern kind which he wished to investigate, a statement that was true so far as it went. Beyond this there was nothing in the manner of their leaving to suggest a fiasco, or that they were not going together to visit friends. Their route lay near the dairy from which they had started with such solemn joy in each other a few days back, and as Clare wished to wind up his business with Mr Crick, Tess could hardly avoid paying Mrs Crick a call at the same time, unless she would excite suspicion of their unhappy state. To make the call as unobtrusive as possible, they left the carriage by the wicket leading down from the high road to the dairy-house, and descended the track on foot, side by side. The withy-bed had been cut, and they could see over the stumps the spot to which Clare had followed her when he pressed her to be his wife; to the left the enclosure in which she had been fascinated by his harp; and far away behind the cow-stalls the mead which had been the scene of their first embrace. The gold of the summer picture was now gray, the colours mean, the rich soil mud, and the river cold. Over the barton-gate the dairyman saw them, and came forward, throwing into his face the kind of jocularity deemed appropriate in Talbothays and its vicinity on the re-appearance of the newly-married. Then Mrs Crick emerged from the house, and several others of their old acquaintance, though Marian and Retty did not seem to be there. Tess valiantly bore their sly attacks and friendly humours, which affected her far otherwise than they supposed. In the tacit agreement of husband and wife to keep their estrangement a secret they behaved as would have been ordinary. And then, although she would rather there had been no word spoken on the subject, Tess had to hear in detail the story of Marian and Retty. The later had gone home to her father's, and Marian had left to look for employment elsewhere. They feared she would come to no good. To dissipate the sadness of this recital Tess went and bade all her favourite cows goodbye, touching each of them with her hand, and as she and Clare stood side by side at leaving, as if united body and soul, there would have been something peculiarly sorry in their aspect to one who should have seen it truly; two limbs of one life, as they outwardly were, his arm touching hers, her skirts touching him, facing one way, as against all the dairy facing the other, speaking in their adieux as "we", and yet sundered like the poles. Perhaps something unusually stiff and embarrassed in their attitude, some awkwardness in acting up to their profession of unity, different from the natural shyness of young couples, may have been apparent, for when they were gone Mrs Crick said to her husband-- "How onnatural the brightness of her eyes did seem, and how they stood like waxen images and talked as if they were in a dream! Didn't it strike 'ee that 'twas so? Tess had always sommat strange in her, and she's not now quite like the proud young bride of a well-be-doing man." They re-entered the vehicle, and were driven along the roads towards Weatherbury and Stagfoot Lane, till they reached the Lane inn, where Clare dismissed the fly and man. They rested here a while, and entering the Vale were next driven onward towards her home by a stranger who did not know their relations. At a midway point, when Nuttlebury had been passed, and where there were cross-roads, Clare stopped the conveyance and said to Tess that if she meant to return to her mother's house it was here that he would leave her. As they could not talk with freedom in the driver's presence he asked her to accompany him for a few steps on foot along one of the branch roads; she assented, and directing the man to wait a few minutes they strolled away. "Now, let us understand each other," he said gently. "There is no anger between us, though there is that which I cannot endure at present. I will try to bring myself to endure it. I will let you know where I go to as soon as I know myself. And if I can bring myself to bear it--if it is desirable, possible--I will come to you. But until I come to you it will be better that you should not try to come to me." The severity of the decree seemed deadly to Tess; she saw his view of her clearly enough; he could regard her in no other light than that of one who had practised gross deceit upon him. Yet could a woman who had done even what she had done deserve all this? But she could contest the point with him no further. She simply repeated after him his own words. "Until you come to me I must not try to come to you?" "Just so." "May I write to you?" "O yes--if you are ill, or want anything at all. I hope that will not be the case; so that it may happen that I write first to you." "I agree to the conditions, Angel; because you know best what my punishment ought to be; only--only--don't make it more than I can bear!" That was all she said on the matter. If Tess had been artful, had she made a scene, fainted, wept hysterically, in that lonely lane, notwithstanding the fury of fastidiousness with which he was possessed, he would probably not have withstood her. But her mood of long-suffering made his way easy for him, and she herself was his best advocate. Pride, too, entered into her submission--which perhaps was a symptom of that reckless acquiescence in chance too apparent in the whole d'Urberville family--and the many effective chords which she could have stirred by an appeal were left untouched. The remainder of their discourse was on practical matters only. He now handed her a packet containing a fairly good sum of money, which he had obtained from his bankers for the purpose. The brilliants, the interest in which seemed to be Tess's for her life only (if he understood the wording of the will), he advised her to let him send to a bank for safety; and to this she readily agreed. These things arranged, he walked with Tess back to the carriage, and handed her in. The coachman was paid and told where to drive her. Taking next his own bag and umbrella--the sole articles he had brought with him hitherwards--he bade her goodbye; and they parted there and then. The fly moved creepingly up a hill, and Clare watched it go with an unpremeditated hope that Tess would look out of the window for one moment. But that she never thought of doing, would not have ventured to do, lying in a half-dead faint inside. Thus he beheld her recede, and in the anguish of his heart quoted a line from a poet, with peculiar emendations of his own-- God's NOT in his heaven: All's WRONG with the world! When Tess had passed over the crest of the hill he turned to go his own way, and hardly knew that he loved her still.

CHAPTER 37

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD45.asp

The night before Tess is to leave, she sees her husband sleep- walking. He assumes her to be dead and places her in a stone coffin after wrapping her up in a sheet and carrying her to the old Abbey church. She handles the situation very boldly and with subtle persuasion brings him back to the house. She does not mention the incident the next morning, and Angel does not seem to remember it. On their way to Marlott the next morning, Tess and Angel visit with the Cricks, but keep their separation a secret from them. When they draw near to Tess's hometown, Angel turns to go. He leaves Tess with a good sum of money, takes the diamonds from her, and then forbids her to approach him in person. He tells her to communicate only through letters until he decides to come for her. Tess agrees to his commands, departs for home, and slips again into her suffering, melancholy mood.

Notes Love survives on mutual trust, and since Tess has broken that trust, Angel has difficulty dealing with her. His sleepwalking expresses his state of mind. His heart refuses to believe that the girl he loves could cause him so much agony. He is convinced that the real Tess is dead; therefore, he subconsciously buries her. It is a far-fetched and melodramatic scene. Tess suffers through the whole incident in silence. Through years of practice, she has learned to accept her punishment gracefully. On the day of their separation, Angel is a picture of practicality. He goes to the dairy and completes his business with Mr. Crick, not mentioning the fact that he and Tess are separating. He accompanies his wife on her journey until they reach the outskirts of Marlott. Then Angel gives her some money, retrieves his diamonds, and tells Tess not to contact him in person, only through letters. He says he will try to accept their situation and will contact her in the future. Tess feels totally devastated and hopeless

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_1.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Brothers Karamazov/section_0_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 1.chapter 1-chapter 5

book 1

{"name": "Book 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-1", "summary": "Fyodor Karamazov and his three sons have just been reunited after many years, and the novel's first chapters concern themselves mostly with the family's backstory. We meet Fyodor, a \"muddle-headed\" eccentric who has led a reckless and selfish life. Though many thought him too impulsive to be crafty, he died with 100,000 rubles, proving that he must have been keen in some ways. He has few friends and many enemies, and he is an enigma to all. He married a fiery, romantic woman named Adelaida, who thought his lifestyle was \"bold.\" After bearing him a son whom they named Dmitri, she ran off with a tutor. Fyodor was crushed by her desertion, but he also relished the idea of his humiliation so much that those who heard him talking about his situation thought that he somehow enjoyed his position as a cuckold. Neglected by his father, young Dmitri fell under the care of various servants and relatives through the years. He grew up \"unruly\" and \"impatient.\" When he was old enough, he joined the military. His impassioned character led him to be demoted for dueling, but he was re-promoted for \"gallantry.\" His extravagant lifestyle had put him far into debt by the time he left the military, and he came home to collect his inheritance from his father. After Adelaida left him, Fyodor married a beautiful innocent named Sofia. He was won by the sixteen-year-old's innocence, and he said of her, \"those innocent eyes of hers slit my soul open like a razor.\" She had two sons, Ivan and Alyosha. Because Fyodor felt that she should be \"indebted to him\" for saving her from a bad situation, he felt justified in treating her cruelly, sleeping with other women in the house, sometimes in front of her. His mistreatment of his young wife eventually led to her having a nervous breakdown. With both parents unsuitable for taking care of their children, General Vorohkov's widow--Sofia's former benefactress--took in the children. She left each of the boys 1,000 rubles for his education. Ivan grew up sullen and quiet, embarrassed about living on charity from others and more embarrassed about his father. He was a fiercely intelligent boy, and he made money by tutoring, freelancing, and reviewing books for money. He wrote a relatively famous article about the ecclesiastical courts that was debated in political and religious circles alike. He came to town rather unexpectedly. The youngest boy, Alyosha, was well-loved by Fyodor. He was popular, fearless of others, and, unlike his brothers, unconcerned with money. Instead of finishing school, he became quite taken with an elder named Father Zossima in the nearby monastery. He decided to join the monastery, and Fyodor gave him his blessing. Alyosha was the sort of boy who believed in miracles, but he was curiously very much a realist. Alyosha was a \"member of the younger generation.\" Many believed that studying under an elder in a monastery was a \"terrible apprenticeship\"--by self-annihilation, one might achieve self-realization. Father Zossima was sixty-five years old and a former officer in the army. He was kind to even the worst sinners, and he was locally famous for his saint-like status. When Alyosha meets his brothers for the first time, he quickly takes a liking to Dmitri. He finds Ivan \"absorbed in something within himself, something very important, that he was pursuing some goal, perhaps a very difficult goal, which left no room for Alyosha in his thoughts.\" Dmitri, however, likes Ivan. Because of the dispute between Dmitri and Fyodor over Dmitri's inheritance, the newly reunited family decides to see Father Zossima to help resolve the issue. Alyosha, who is very close with Father Zossima, fears that the family is going to make a ridiculous scene and treat a serious occasion like a farce. But Dmitri assures his brother that he will act respectfully and calmly and that everything will go fine.", "analysis": "In this first book, the reader gets to know the Karamazovs. The eldest Karamazov is a licentious old curmudgeon and a bad father. Readers begin to wonder how his behavior and treatment of his sons will be reflected in their own personalities and lives. These early chapters serve as introductions, and they do not focus much on the present. Interestingly, Fyodor and his three sons have not been together for some time, so the reader knows that any interactions they have will not be the tried, worn conversations of longtime acquaintances. Instead, it is clear that the conversations the family share will be new and telling of future relationships. There is drama and suspense leading up to the meeting with Father Zossima, for not only will a family dispute be mediated, but all four Karamazovs will be in the same place. This will be the first legitimate gathering at which the reader will see all the Karamazovs. Dmitri seems very much his father's son. His inconsistent nature and his inclination to violence and sex remind the reader very much of Fyodor. Still, he seems to have a noble streak that is absent in Fyodor. Even though he was demoted in the army, he was re-promoted \"for gallantry.\" The disparity between Dmitri's extremes is great. He seems like he will be a loose cannon, and the reader is anxious to see how he will deal with a formal meeting about a hotly-contested issue; he seems capable of both civility and wild rage. Ivan is less obviously observable. He is quieter than his older brother, and he is very much ruled by his intellect, not his viscera. He seems to be very proud, refusing to ask his father for money and working very hard to make it. He and his older brother are also the sons of different mothers, and the significance of this detail is undeniable. It is not entirely clear yet how his personality is different from his brother's because of this fact, though. His mother was an innocent woman, not a passionate woman like Dmitri's mother. Ivan does not seem innocent, for he seems to understand the world enough to find a way to fend for himself. He also seems to understand the concept of reputations, for he is deeply embarrassed by his own father. Dmitri does have a predilection to follow his whims that Ivan does not have. Ivan seems very measured and in control of himself. He is the brother whose story is most concise. Alyosha and Dmitri are described at length, but Ivan has only a small section devoted to him. This is not because he is a lesser character--his role becomes clear later--but because he is more of an enigma. His motivations and actions are not as open and forthright as his brothers'. Dostoevsky thus leads us to want to unlock Ivan's mysterious character. Alyosha seems to be the hero of the novel even at this early stage. In fact, most of the novel will revolve around his experiences, for he is involved in everyone's problems. When a character is described as having very few flaws, jaded modern readers suspect that one of his flaws might hurt him by the end, and we become interested to see how Alyosha might fall. But Alyosha never fully compromises his character. He retains a grand love for all mankind throughout the novel, and any missteps are minimal. He remains likeable and admirable throughout the novel, and his integrity is constant. The three brothers thus may represent three distinct ideologies. Dostoevsky is prone to making his characters embody certain ideas, and at this point in the novel, we can start to make such identifications. While it is very interesting to see how these different \"character-ideologies\" will cope with the situations presented to them, it is even more interesting to see how characters who might seem two-dimensional and clearly pigeonholed will become more complexly human. The introduction to this novel makes every character's future a fascinating one."}

PART I Book I. The History Of A Family Chapter I. Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, a land owner well known in our district in his own day, and still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper place. For the present I will only say that this "landowner"--for so we used to call him, although he hardly spent a day of his life on his own estate--was a strange type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a type abject and vicious and at the same time senseless. But he was one of those senseless persons who are very well capable of looking after their worldly affairs, and, apparently, after nothing else. Fyodor Pavlovitch, for instance, began with next to nothing; his estate was of the smallest; he ran to dine at other men's tables, and fastened on them as a toady, yet at his death it appeared that he had a hundred thousand roubles in hard cash. At the same time, he was all his life one of the most senseless, fantastical fellows in the whole district. I repeat, it was not stupidity--the majority of these fantastical fellows are shrewd and intelligent enough--but just senselessness, and a peculiar national form of it. He was married twice, and had three sons, the eldest, Dmitri, by his first wife, and two, Ivan and Alexey, by his second. Fyodor Pavlovitch's first wife, Adelaida Ivanovna, belonged to a fairly rich and distinguished noble family, also landowners in our district, the Miuesovs. How it came to pass that an heiress, who was also a beauty, and moreover one of those vigorous, intelligent girls, so common in this generation, but sometimes also to be found in the last, could have married such a worthless, puny weakling, as we all called him, I won't attempt to explain. I knew a young lady of the last "romantic" generation who after some years of an enigmatic passion for a gentleman, whom she might quite easily have married at any moment, invented insuperable obstacles to their union, and ended by throwing herself one stormy night into a rather deep and rapid river from a high bank, almost a precipice, and so perished, entirely to satisfy her own caprice, and to be like Shakespeare's Ophelia. Indeed, if this precipice, a chosen and favorite spot of hers, had been less picturesque, if there had been a prosaic flat bank in its place, most likely the suicide would never have taken place. This is a fact, and probably there have been not a few similar instances in the last two or three generations. Adelaida Ivanovna Miuesov's action was similarly, no doubt, an echo of other people's ideas, and was due to the irritation caused by lack of mental freedom. She wanted, perhaps, to show her feminine independence, to override class distinctions and the despotism of her family. And a pliable imagination persuaded her, we must suppose, for a brief moment, that Fyodor Pavlovitch, in spite of his parasitic position, was one of the bold and ironical spirits of that progressive epoch, though he was, in fact, an ill-natured buffoon and nothing more. What gave the marriage piquancy was that it was preceded by an elopement, and this greatly captivated Adelaida Ivanovna's fancy. Fyodor Pavlovitch's position at the time made him specially eager for any such enterprise, for he was passionately anxious to make a career in one way or another. To attach himself to a good family and obtain a dowry was an alluring prospect. As for mutual love it did not exist apparently, either in the bride or in him, in spite of Adelaida Ivanovna's beauty. This was, perhaps, a unique case of the kind in the life of Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was always of a voluptuous temper, and ready to run after any petticoat on the slightest encouragement. She seems to have been the only woman who made no particular appeal to his senses. Immediately after the elopement Adelaida Ivanovna discerned in a flash that she had no feeling for her husband but contempt. The marriage accordingly showed itself in its true colors with extraordinary rapidity. Although the family accepted the event pretty quickly and apportioned the runaway bride her dowry, the husband and wife began to lead a most disorderly life, and there were everlasting scenes between them. It was said that the young wife showed incomparably more generosity and dignity than Fyodor Pavlovitch, who, as is now known, got hold of all her money up to twenty-five thousand roubles as soon as she received it, so that those thousands were lost to her for ever. The little village and the rather fine town house which formed part of her dowry he did his utmost for a long time to transfer to his name, by means of some deed of conveyance. He would probably have succeeded, merely from her moral fatigue and desire to get rid of him, and from the contempt and loathing he aroused by his persistent and shameless importunity. But, fortunately, Adelaida Ivanovna's family intervened and circumvented his greediness. It is known for a fact that frequent fights took place between the husband and wife, but rumor had it that Fyodor Pavlovitch did not beat his wife but was beaten by her, for she was a hot-tempered, bold, dark-browed, impatient woman, possessed of remarkable physical strength. Finally, she left the house and ran away from Fyodor Pavlovitch with a destitute divinity student, leaving Mitya, a child of three years old, in her husband's hands. Immediately Fyodor Pavlovitch introduced a regular harem into the house, and abandoned himself to orgies of drunkenness. In the intervals he used to drive all over the province, complaining tearfully to each and all of Adelaida Ivanovna's having left him, going into details too disgraceful for a husband to mention in regard to his own married life. What seemed to gratify him and flatter his self-love most was to play the ridiculous part of the injured husband, and to parade his woes with embellishments. "One would think that you'd got a promotion, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you seem so pleased in spite of your sorrow," scoffers said to him. Many even added that he was glad of a new comic part in which to play the buffoon, and that it was simply to make it funnier that he pretended to be unaware of his ludicrous position. But, who knows, it may have been simplicity. At last he succeeded in getting on the track of his runaway wife. The poor woman turned out to be in Petersburg, where she had gone with her divinity student, and where she had thrown herself into a life of complete emancipation. Fyodor Pavlovitch at once began bustling about, making preparations to go to Petersburg, with what object he could not himself have said. He would perhaps have really gone; but having determined to do so he felt at once entitled to fortify himself for the journey by another bout of reckless drinking. And just at that time his wife's family received the news of her death in Petersburg. She had died quite suddenly in a garret, according to one story, of typhus, or as another version had it, of starvation. Fyodor Pavlovitch was drunk when he heard of his wife's death, and the story is that he ran out into the street and began shouting with joy, raising his hands to Heaven: "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace," but others say he wept without restraint like a little child, so much so that people were sorry for him, in spite of the repulsion he inspired. It is quite possible that both versions were true, that he rejoiced at his release, and at the same time wept for her who released him. As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naive and simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too. Chapter II. He Gets Rid Of His Eldest Son You can easily imagine what a father such a man could be and how he would bring up his children. His behavior as a father was exactly what might be expected. He completely abandoned the child of his marriage with Adelaida Ivanovna, not from malice, nor because of his matrimonial grievances, but simply because he forgot him. While he was wearying every one with his tears and complaints, and turning his house into a sink of debauchery, a faithful servant of the family, Grigory, took the three-year-old Mitya into his care. If he hadn't looked after him there would have been no one even to change the baby's little shirt. It happened moreover that the child's relations on his mother's side forgot him too at first. His grandfather was no longer living, his widow, Mitya's grandmother, had moved to Moscow, and was seriously ill, while his daughters were married, so that Mitya remained for almost a whole year in old Grigory's charge and lived with him in the servant's cottage. But if his father had remembered him (he could not, indeed, have been altogether unaware of his existence) he would have sent him back to the cottage, as the child would only have been in the way of his debaucheries. But a cousin of Mitya's mother, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, happened to return from Paris. He lived for many years afterwards abroad, but was at that time quite a young man, and distinguished among the Miuesovs as a man of enlightened ideas and of European culture, who had been in the capitals and abroad. Towards the end of his life he became a Liberal of the type common in the forties and fifties. In the course of his career he had come into contact with many of the most Liberal men of his epoch, both in Russia and abroad. He had known Proudhon and Bakunin personally, and in his declining years was very fond of describing the three days of the Paris Revolution of February 1848, hinting that he himself had almost taken part in the fighting on the barricades. This was one of the most grateful recollections of his youth. He had an independent property of about a thousand souls, to reckon in the old style. His splendid estate lay on the outskirts of our little town and bordered on the lands of our famous monastery, with which Pyotr Alexandrovitch began an endless lawsuit, almost as soon as he came into the estate, concerning the rights of fishing in the river or wood-cutting in the forest, I don't know exactly which. He regarded it as his duty as a citizen and a man of culture to open an attack upon the "clericals." Hearing all about Adelaida Ivanovna, whom he, of course, remembered, and in whom he had at one time been interested, and learning of the existence of Mitya, he intervened, in spite of all his youthful indignation and contempt for Fyodor Pavlovitch. He made the latter's acquaintance for the first time, and told him directly that he wished to undertake the child's education. He used long afterwards to tell as a characteristic touch, that when he began to speak of Mitya, Fyodor Pavlovitch looked for some time as though he did not understand what child he was talking about, and even as though he was surprised to hear that he had a little son in the house. The story may have been exaggerated, yet it must have been something like the truth. Fyodor Pavlovitch was all his life fond of acting, of suddenly playing an unexpected part, sometimes without any motive for doing so, and even to his own direct disadvantage, as, for instance, in the present case. This habit, however, is characteristic of a very great number of people, some of them very clever ones, not like Fyodor Pavlovitch. Pyotr Alexandrovitch carried the business through vigorously, and was appointed, with Fyodor Pavlovitch, joint guardian of the child, who had a small property, a house and land, left him by his mother. Mitya did, in fact, pass into this cousin's keeping, but as the latter had no family of his own, and after securing the revenues of his estates was in haste to return at once to Paris, he left the boy in charge of one of his cousins, a lady living in Moscow. It came to pass that, settling permanently in Paris he, too, forgot the child, especially when the Revolution of February broke out, making an impression on his mind that he remembered all the rest of his life. The Moscow lady died, and Mitya passed into the care of one of her married daughters. I believe he changed his home a fourth time later on. I won't enlarge upon that now, as I shall have much to tell later of Fyodor Pavlovitch's firstborn, and must confine myself now to the most essential facts about him, without which I could not begin my story. In the first place, this Mitya, or rather Dmitri Fyodorovitch, was the only one of Fyodor Pavlovitch's three sons who grew up in the belief that he had property, and that he would be independent on coming of age. He spent an irregular boyhood and youth. He did not finish his studies at the gymnasium, he got into a military school, then went to the Caucasus, was promoted, fought a duel, and was degraded to the ranks, earned promotion again, led a wild life, and spent a good deal of money. He did not begin to receive any income from Fyodor Pavlovitch until he came of age, and until then got into debt. He saw and knew his father, Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the first time on coming of age, when he visited our neighborhood on purpose to settle with him about his property. He seems not to have liked his father. He did not stay long with him, and made haste to get away, having only succeeded in obtaining a sum of money, and entering into an agreement for future payments from the estate, of the revenues and value of which he was unable (a fact worthy of note), upon this occasion, to get a statement from his father. Fyodor Pavlovitch remarked for the first time then (this, too, should be noted) that Mitya had a vague and exaggerated idea of his property. Fyodor Pavlovitch was very well satisfied with this, as it fell in with his own designs. He gathered only that the young man was frivolous, unruly, of violent passions, impatient, and dissipated, and that if he could only obtain ready money he would be satisfied, although only, of course, for a short time. So Fyodor Pavlovitch began to take advantage of this fact, sending him from time to time small doles, installments. In the end, when four years later, Mitya, losing patience, came a second time to our little town to settle up once for all with his father, it turned out to his amazement that he had nothing, that it was difficult to get an account even, that he had received the whole value of his property in sums of money from Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was perhaps even in debt to him, that by various agreements into which he had, of his own desire, entered at various previous dates, he had no right to expect anything more, and so on, and so on. The young man was overwhelmed, suspected deceit and cheating, and was almost beside himself. And, indeed, this circumstance led to the catastrophe, the account of which forms the subject of my first introductory story, or rather the external side of it. But before I pass to that story I must say a little of Fyodor Pavlovitch's other two sons, and of their origin. Chapter III. The Second Marriage And The Second Family Very shortly after getting his four-year-old Mitya off his hands Fyodor Pavlovitch married a second time. His second marriage lasted eight years. He took this second wife, Sofya Ivanovna, also a very young girl, from another province, where he had gone upon some small piece of business in company with a Jew. Though Fyodor Pavlovitch was a drunkard and a vicious debauchee he never neglected investing his capital, and managed his business affairs very successfully, though, no doubt, not over- scrupulously. Sofya Ivanovna was the daughter of an obscure deacon, and was left from childhood an orphan without relations. She grew up in the house of a general's widow, a wealthy old lady of good position, who was at once her benefactress and tormentor. I do not know the details, but I have only heard that the orphan girl, a meek and gentle creature, was once cut down from a halter in which she was hanging from a nail in the loft, so terrible were her sufferings from the caprice and everlasting nagging of this old woman, who was apparently not bad-hearted but had become an insufferable tyrant through idleness. Fyodor Pavlovitch made her an offer; inquiries were made about him and he was refused. But again, as in his first marriage, he proposed an elopement to the orphan girl. There is very little doubt that she would not on any account have married him if she had known a little more about him in time. But she lived in another province; besides, what could a little girl of sixteen know about it, except that she would be better at the bottom of the river than remaining with her benefactress. So the poor child exchanged a benefactress for a benefactor. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not get a penny this time, for the general's widow was furious. She gave them nothing and cursed them both. But he had not reckoned on a dowry; what allured him was the remarkable beauty of the innocent girl, above all her innocent appearance, which had a peculiar attraction for a vicious profligate, who had hitherto admired only the coarser types of feminine beauty. "Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor," he used to say afterwards, with his loathsome snigger. In a man so depraved this might, of course, mean no more than sensual attraction. As he had received no dowry with his wife, and had, so to speak, taken her "from the halter," he did not stand on ceremony with her. Making her feel that she had "wronged" him, he took advantage of her phenomenal meekness and submissiveness to trample on the elementary decencies of marriage. He gathered loose women into his house, and carried on orgies of debauchery in his wife's presence. To show what a pass things had come to, I may mention that Grigory, the gloomy, stupid, obstinate, argumentative servant, who had always hated his first mistress, Adelaida Ivanovna, took the side of his new mistress. He championed her cause, abusing Fyodor Pavlovitch in a manner little befitting a servant, and on one occasion broke up the revels and drove all the disorderly women out of the house. In the end this unhappy young woman, kept in terror from her childhood, fell into that kind of nervous disease which is most frequently found in peasant women who are said to be "possessed by devils." At times after terrible fits of hysterics she even lost her reason. Yet she bore Fyodor Pavlovitch two sons, Ivan and Alexey, the eldest in the first year of marriage and the second three years later. When she died, little Alexey was in his fourth year, and, strange as it seems, I know that he remembered his mother all his life, like a dream, of course. At her death almost exactly the same thing happened to the two little boys as to their elder brother, Mitya. They were completely forgotten and abandoned by their father. They were looked after by the same Grigory and lived in his cottage, where they were found by the tyrannical old lady who had brought up their mother. She was still alive, and had not, all those eight years, forgotten the insult done her. All that time she was obtaining exact information as to her Sofya's manner of life, and hearing of her illness and hideous surroundings she declared aloud two or three times to her retainers: "It serves her right. God has punished her for her ingratitude." Exactly three months after Sofya Ivanovna's death the general's widow suddenly appeared in our town, and went straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch's house. She spent only half an hour in the town but she did a great deal. It was evening. Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom she had not seen for those eight years, came in to her drunk. The story is that instantly upon seeing him, without any sort of explanation, she gave him two good, resounding slaps on the face, seized him by a tuft of hair, and shook him three times up and down. Then, without a word, she went straight to the cottage to the two boys. Seeing, at the first glance, that they were unwashed and in dirty linen, she promptly gave Grigory, too, a box on the ear, and announcing that she would carry off both the children she wrapped them just as they were in a rug, put them in the carriage, and drove off to her own town. Grigory accepted the blow like a devoted slave, without a word, and when he escorted the old lady to her carriage he made her a low bow and pronounced impressively that, "God would repay her for the orphans." "You are a blockhead all the same," the old lady shouted to him as she drove away. Fyodor Pavlovitch, thinking it over, decided that it was a good thing, and did not refuse the general's widow his formal consent to any proposition in regard to his children's education. As for the slaps she had given him, he drove all over the town telling the story. It happened that the old lady died soon after this, but she left the boys in her will a thousand roubles each "for their instruction, and so that all be spent on them exclusively, with the condition that it be so portioned out as to last till they are twenty-one, for it is more than adequate provision for such children. If other people think fit to throw away their money, let them." I have not read the will myself, but I heard there was something queer of the sort, very whimsically expressed. The principal heir, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, the Marshal of Nobility of the province, turned out, however, to be an honest man. Writing to Fyodor Pavlovitch, and discerning at once that he could extract nothing from him for his children's education (though the latter never directly refused but only procrastinated as he always did in such cases, and was, indeed, at times effusively sentimental), Yefim Petrovitch took a personal interest in the orphans. He became especially fond of the younger, Alexey, who lived for a long while as one of his family. I beg the reader to note this from the beginning. And to Yefim Petrovitch, a man of a generosity and humanity rarely to be met with, the young people were more indebted for their education and bringing up than to any one. He kept the two thousand roubles left to them by the general's widow intact, so that by the time they came of age their portions had been doubled by the accumulation of interest. He educated them both at his own expense, and certainly spent far more than a thousand roubles upon each of them. I won't enter into a detailed account of their boyhood and youth, but will only mention a few of the most important events. Of the elder, Ivan, I will only say that he grew into a somewhat morose and reserved, though far from timid boy. At ten years old he had realized that they were living not in their own home but on other people's charity, and that their father was a man of whom it was disgraceful to speak. This boy began very early, almost in his infancy (so they say at least), to show a brilliant and unusual aptitude for learning. I don't know precisely why, but he left the family of Yefim Petrovitch when he was hardly thirteen, entering a Moscow gymnasium, and boarding with an experienced and celebrated teacher, an old friend of Yefim Petrovitch. Ivan used to declare afterwards that this was all due to the "ardor for good works" of Yefim Petrovitch, who was captivated by the idea that the boy's genius should be trained by a teacher of genius. But neither Yefim Petrovitch nor this teacher was living when the young man finished at the gymnasium and entered the university. As Yefim Petrovitch had made no provision for the payment of the tyrannical old lady's legacy, which had grown from one thousand to two, it was delayed, owing to formalities inevitable in Russia, and the young man was in great straits for the first two years at the university, as he was forced to keep himself all the time he was studying. It must be noted that he did not even attempt to communicate with his father, perhaps from pride, from contempt for him, or perhaps from his cool common sense, which told him that from such a father he would get no real assistance. However that may have been, the young man was by no means despondent and succeeded in getting work, at first giving sixpenny lessons and afterwards getting paragraphs on street incidents into the newspapers under the signature of "Eye-Witness." These paragraphs, it was said, were so interesting and piquant that they were soon taken. This alone showed the young man's practical and intellectual superiority over the masses of needy and unfortunate students of both sexes who hang about the offices of the newspapers and journals, unable to think of anything better than everlasting entreaties for copying and translations from the French. Having once got into touch with the editors Ivan Fyodorovitch always kept up his connection with them, and in his latter years at the university he published brilliant reviews of books upon various special subjects, so that he became well known in literary circles. But only in his last year he suddenly succeeded in attracting the attention of a far wider circle of readers, so that a great many people noticed and remembered him. It was rather a curious incident. When he had just left the university and was preparing to go abroad upon his two thousand roubles, Ivan Fyodorovitch published in one of the more important journals a strange article, which attracted general notice, on a subject of which he might have been supposed to know nothing, as he was a student of natural science. The article dealt with a subject which was being debated everywhere at the time--the position of the ecclesiastical courts. After discussing several opinions on the subject he went on to explain his own view. What was most striking about the article was its tone, and its unexpected conclusion. Many of the Church party regarded him unquestioningly as on their side. And yet not only the secularists but even atheists joined them in their applause. Finally some sagacious persons opined that the article was nothing but an impudent satirical burlesque. I mention this incident particularly because this article penetrated into the famous monastery in our neighborhood, where the inmates, being particularly interested in the question of the ecclesiastical courts, were completely bewildered by it. Learning the author's name, they were interested in his being a native of the town and the son of "that Fyodor Pavlovitch." And just then it was that the author himself made his appearance among us. Why Ivan Fyodorovitch had come amongst us I remember asking myself at the time with a certain uneasiness. This fateful visit, which was the first step leading to so many consequences, I never fully explained to myself. It seemed strange on the face of it that a young man so learned, so proud, and apparently so cautious, should suddenly visit such an infamous house and a father who had ignored him all his life, hardly knew him, never thought of him, and would not under any circumstances have given him money, though he was always afraid that his sons Ivan and Alexey would also come to ask him for it. And here the young man was staying in the house of such a father, had been living with him for two months, and they were on the best possible terms. This last fact was a special cause of wonder to many others as well as to me. Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, of whom we have spoken already, the cousin of Fyodor Pavlovitch's first wife, happened to be in the neighborhood again on a visit to his estate. He had come from Paris, which was his permanent home. I remember that he was more surprised than any one when he made the acquaintance of the young man, who interested him extremely, and with whom he sometimes argued and not without an inner pang compared himself in acquirements. "He is proud," he used to say, "he will never be in want of pence; he has got money enough to go abroad now. What does he want here? Every one can see that he hasn't come for money, for his father would never give him any. He has no taste for drink and dissipation, and yet his father can't do without him. They get on so well together!" That was the truth; the young man had an unmistakable influence over his father, who positively appeared to be behaving more decently and even seemed at times ready to obey his son, though often extremely and even spitefully perverse. It was only later that we learned that Ivan had come partly at the request of, and in the interests of, his elder brother, Dmitri, whom he saw for the first time on this very visit, though he had before leaving Moscow been in correspondence with him about an important matter of more concern to Dmitri than himself. What that business was the reader will learn fully in due time. Yet even when I did know of this special circumstance I still felt Ivan Fyodorovitch to be an enigmatic figure, and thought his visit rather mysterious. I may add that Ivan appeared at the time in the light of a mediator between his father and his elder brother Dmitri, who was in open quarrel with his father and even planning to bring an action against him. The family, I repeat, was now united for the first time, and some of its members met for the first time in their lives. The younger brother, Alexey, had been a year already among us, having been the first of the three to arrive. It is of that brother Alexey I find it most difficult to speak in this introduction. Yet I must give some preliminary account of him, if only to explain one queer fact, which is that I have to introduce my hero to the reader wearing the cassock of a novice. Yes, he had been for the last year in our monastery, and seemed willing to be cloistered there for the rest of his life. Chapter IV. The Third Son, Alyosha He was only twenty, his brother Ivan was in his twenty-fourth year at the time, while their elder brother Dmitri was twenty-seven. First of all, I must explain that this young man, Alyosha, was not a fanatic, and, in my opinion at least, was not even a mystic. I may as well give my full opinion from the beginning. He was simply an early lover of humanity, and that he adopted the monastic life was simply because at that time it struck him, so to say, as the ideal escape for his soul struggling from the darkness of worldly wickedness to the light of love. And the reason this life struck him in this way was that he found in it at that time, as he thought, an extraordinary being, our celebrated elder, Zossima, to whom he became attached with all the warm first love of his ardent heart. But I do not dispute that he was very strange even at that time, and had been so indeed from his cradle. I have mentioned already, by the way, that though he lost his mother in his fourth year he remembered her all his life--her face, her caresses, "as though she stood living before me." Such memories may persist, as every one knows, from an even earlier age, even from two years old, but scarcely standing out through a whole lifetime like spots of light out of darkness, like a corner torn out of a huge picture, which has all faded and disappeared except that fragment. That is how it was with him. He remembered one still summer evening, an open window, the slanting rays of the setting sun (that he recalled most vividly of all); in a corner of the room the holy image, before it a lighted lamp, and on her knees before the image his mother, sobbing hysterically with cries and moans, snatching him up in both arms, squeezing him close till it hurt, and praying for him to the Mother of God, holding him out in both arms to the image as though to put him under the Mother's protection ... and suddenly a nurse runs in and snatches him from her in terror. That was the picture! And Alyosha remembered his mother's face at that minute. He used to say that it was frenzied but beautiful as he remembered. But he rarely cared to speak of this memory to any one. In his childhood and youth he was by no means expansive, and talked little indeed, but not from shyness or a sullen unsociability; quite the contrary, from something different, from a sort of inner preoccupation entirely personal and unconcerned with other people, but so important to him that he seemed, as it were, to forget others on account of it. But he was fond of people: he seemed throughout his life to put implicit trust in people: yet no one ever looked on him as a simpleton or naive person. There was something about him which made one feel at once (and it was so all his life afterwards) that he did not care to be a judge of others--that he would never take it upon himself to criticize and would never condemn any one for anything. He seemed, indeed, to accept everything without the least condemnation though often grieving bitterly: and this was so much so that no one could surprise or frighten him even in his earliest youth. Coming at twenty to his father's house, which was a very sink of filthy debauchery, he, chaste and pure as he was, simply withdrew in silence when to look on was unbearable, but without the slightest sign of contempt or condemnation. His father, who had once been in a dependent position, and so was sensitive and ready to take offense, met him at first with distrust and sullenness. "He does not say much," he used to say, "and thinks the more." But soon, within a fortnight indeed, he took to embracing him and kissing him terribly often, with drunken tears, with sottish sentimentality, yet he evidently felt a real and deep affection for him, such as he had never been capable of feeling for any one before. Every one, indeed, loved this young man wherever he went, and it was so from his earliest childhood. When he entered the household of his patron and benefactor, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, he gained the hearts of all the family, so that they looked on him quite as their own child. Yet he entered the house at such a tender age that he could not have acted from design nor artfulness in winning affection. So that the gift of making himself loved directly and unconsciously was inherent in him, in his very nature, so to speak. It was the same at school, though he seemed to be just one of those children who are distrusted, sometimes ridiculed, and even disliked by their schoolfellows. He was dreamy, for instance, and rather solitary. From his earliest childhood he was fond of creeping into a corner to read, and yet he was a general favorite all the while he was at school. He was rarely playful or merry, but any one could see at the first glance that this was not from any sullenness. On the contrary he was bright and good-tempered. He never tried to show off among his schoolfellows. Perhaps because of this, he was never afraid of any one, yet the boys immediately understood that he was not proud of his fearlessness and seemed to be unaware that he was bold and courageous. He never resented an insult. It would happen that an hour after the offense he would address the offender or answer some question with as trustful and candid an expression as though nothing had happened between them. And it was not that he seemed to have forgotten or intentionally forgiven the affront, but simply that he did not regard it as an affront, and this completely conquered and captivated the boys. He had one characteristic which made all his schoolfellows from the bottom class to the top want to mock at him, not from malice but because it amused them. This characteristic was a wild fanatical modesty and chastity. He could not bear to hear certain words and certain conversations about women. There are "certain" words and conversations unhappily impossible to eradicate in schools. Boys pure in mind and heart, almost children, are fond of talking in school among themselves, and even aloud, of things, pictures, and images of which even soldiers would sometimes hesitate to speak. More than that, much that soldiers have no knowledge or conception of is familiar to quite young children of our intellectual and higher classes. There is no moral depravity, no real corrupt inner cynicism in it, but there is the appearance of it, and it is often looked upon among them as something refined, subtle, daring, and worthy of imitation. Seeing that Alyosha Karamazov put his fingers in his ears when they talked of "that," they used sometimes to crowd round him, pull his hands away, and shout nastiness into both ears, while he struggled, slipped to the floor, tried to hide himself without uttering one word of abuse, enduring their insults in silence. But at last they left him alone and gave up taunting him with being a "regular girl," and what's more they looked upon it with compassion as a weakness. He was always one of the best in the class but was never first. At the time of Yefim Petrovitch's death Alyosha had two more years to complete at the provincial gymnasium. The inconsolable widow went almost immediately after his death for a long visit to Italy with her whole family, which consisted only of women and girls. Alyosha went to live in the house of two distant relations of Yefim Petrovitch, ladies whom he had never seen before. On what terms he lived with them he did not know himself. It was very characteristic of him, indeed, that he never cared at whose expense he was living. In that respect he was a striking contrast to his elder brother Ivan, who struggled with poverty for his first two years in the university, maintained himself by his own efforts, and had from childhood been bitterly conscious of living at the expense of his benefactor. But this strange trait in Alyosha's character must not, I think, be criticized too severely, for at the slightest acquaintance with him any one would have perceived that Alyosha was one of those youths, almost of the type of religious enthusiast, who, if they were suddenly to come into possession of a large fortune, would not hesitate to give it away for the asking, either for good works or perhaps to a clever rogue. In general he seemed scarcely to know the value of money, not, of course, in a literal sense. When he was given pocket-money, which he never asked for, he was either terribly careless of it so that it was gone in a moment, or he kept it for weeks together, not knowing what to do with it. In later years Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, a man very sensitive on the score of money and bourgeois honesty, pronounced the following judgment, after getting to know Alyosha: "Here is perhaps the one man in the world whom you might leave alone without a penny, in the center of an unknown town of a million inhabitants, and he would not come to harm, he would not die of cold and hunger, for he would be fed and sheltered at once; and if he were not, he would find a shelter for himself, and it would cost him no effort or humiliation. And to shelter him would be no burden, but, on the contrary, would probably be looked on as a pleasure." He did not finish his studies at the gymnasium. A year before the end of the course he suddenly announced to the ladies that he was going to see his father about a plan which had occurred to him. They were sorry and unwilling to let him go. The journey was not an expensive one, and the ladies would not let him pawn his watch, a parting present from his benefactor's family. They provided him liberally with money and even fitted him out with new clothes and linen. But he returned half the money they gave him, saying that he intended to go third class. On his arrival in the town he made no answer to his father's first inquiry why he had come before completing his studies, and seemed, so they say, unusually thoughtful. It soon became apparent that he was looking for his mother's tomb. He practically acknowledged at the time that that was the only object of his visit. But it can hardly have been the whole reason of it. It is more probable that he himself did not understand and could not explain what had suddenly arisen in his soul, and drawn him irresistibly into a new, unknown, but inevitable path. Fyodor Pavlovitch could not show him where his second wife was buried, for he had never visited her grave since he had thrown earth upon her coffin, and in the course of years had entirely forgotten where she was buried. Fyodor Pavlovitch, by the way, had for some time previously not been living in our town. Three or four years after his wife's death he had gone to the south of Russia and finally turned up in Odessa, where he spent several years. He made the acquaintance at first, in his own words, "of a lot of low Jews, Jewesses, and Jewkins," and ended by being received by "Jews high and low alike." It may be presumed that at this period he developed a peculiar faculty for making and hoarding money. He finally returned to our town only three years before Alyosha's arrival. His former acquaintances found him looking terribly aged, although he was by no means an old man. He behaved not exactly with more dignity but with more effrontery. The former buffoon showed an insolent propensity for making buffoons of others. His depravity with women was not simply what it used to be, but even more revolting. In a short time he opened a great number of new taverns in the district. It was evident that he had perhaps a hundred thousand roubles or not much less. Many of the inhabitants of the town and district were soon in his debt, and, of course, had given good security. Of late, too, he looked somehow bloated and seemed more irresponsible, more uneven, had sunk into a sort of incoherence, used to begin one thing and go on with another, as though he were letting himself go altogether. He was more and more frequently drunk. And, if it had not been for the same servant Grigory, who by that time had aged considerably too, and used to look after him sometimes almost like a tutor, Fyodor Pavlovitch might have got into terrible scrapes. Alyosha's arrival seemed to affect even his moral side, as though something had awakened in this prematurely old man which had long been dead in his soul. "Do you know," he used often to say, looking at Alyosha, "that you are like her, 'the crazy woman' "--that was what he used to call his dead wife, Alyosha's mother. Grigory it was who pointed out the "crazy woman's" grave to Alyosha. He took him to our town cemetery and showed him in a remote corner a cast-iron tombstone, cheap but decently kept, on which were inscribed the name and age of the deceased and the date of her death, and below a four-lined verse, such as are commonly used on old-fashioned middle-class tombs. To Alyosha's amazement this tomb turned out to be Grigory's doing. He had put it up on the poor "crazy woman's" grave at his own expense, after Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom he had often pestered about the grave, had gone to Odessa, abandoning the grave and all his memories. Alyosha showed no particular emotion at the sight of his mother's grave. He only listened to Grigory's minute and solemn account of the erection of the tomb; he stood with bowed head and walked away without uttering a word. It was perhaps a year before he visited the cemetery again. But this little episode was not without an influence upon Fyodor Pavlovitch--and a very original one. He suddenly took a thousand roubles to our monastery to pay for requiems for the soul of his wife; but not for the second, Alyosha's mother, the "crazy woman," but for the first, Adelaida Ivanovna, who used to thrash him. In the evening of the same day he got drunk and abused the monks to Alyosha. He himself was far from being religious; he had probably never put a penny candle before the image of a saint. Strange impulses of sudden feeling and sudden thought are common in such types. I have mentioned already that he looked bloated. His countenance at this time bore traces of something that testified unmistakably to the life he had led. Besides the long fleshy bags under his little, always insolent, suspicious, and ironical eyes; besides the multitude of deep wrinkles in his little fat face, the Adam's apple hung below his sharp chin like a great, fleshy goiter, which gave him a peculiar, repulsive, sensual appearance; add to that a long rapacious mouth with full lips, between which could be seen little stumps of black decayed teeth. He slobbered every time he began to speak. He was fond indeed of making fun of his own face, though, I believe, he was well satisfied with it. He used particularly to point to his nose, which was not very large, but very delicate and conspicuously aquiline. "A regular Roman nose," he used to say, "with my goiter I've quite the countenance of an ancient Roman patrician of the decadent period." He seemed proud of it. Not long after visiting his mother's grave Alyosha suddenly announced that he wanted to enter the monastery, and that the monks were willing to receive him as a novice. He explained that this was his strong desire, and that he was solemnly asking his consent as his father. The old man knew that the elder Zossima, who was living in the monastery hermitage, had made a special impression upon his "gentle boy." "That is the most honest monk among them, of course," he observed, after listening in thoughtful silence to Alyosha, and seeming scarcely surprised at his request. "H'm!... So that's where you want to be, my gentle boy?" He was half drunk, and suddenly he grinned his slow half-drunken grin, which was not without a certain cunning and tipsy slyness. "H'm!... I had a presentiment that you would end in something like this. Would you believe it? You were making straight for it. Well, to be sure you have your own two thousand. That's a dowry for you. And I'll never desert you, my angel. And I'll pay what's wanted for you there, if they ask for it. But, of course, if they don't ask, why should we worry them? What do you say? You know, you spend money like a canary, two grains a week. H'm!... Do you know that near one monastery there's a place outside the town where every baby knows there are none but 'the monks' wives' living, as they are called. Thirty women, I believe. I have been there myself. You know, it's interesting in its own way, of course, as a variety. The worst of it is it's awfully Russian. There are no French women there. Of course they could get them fast enough, they have plenty of money. If they get to hear of it they'll come along. Well, there's nothing of that sort here, no 'monks' wives,' and two hundred monks. They're honest. They keep the fasts. I admit it.... H'm.... So you want to be a monk? And do you know I'm sorry to lose you, Alyosha; would you believe it, I've really grown fond of you? Well, it's a good opportunity. You'll pray for us sinners; we have sinned too much here. I've always been thinking who would pray for me, and whether there's any one in the world to do it. My dear boy, I'm awfully stupid about that. You wouldn't believe it. Awfully. You see, however stupid I am about it, I keep thinking, I keep thinking--from time to time, of course, not all the while. It's impossible, I think, for the devils to forget to drag me down to hell with their hooks when I die. Then I wonder--hooks? Where would they get them? What of? Iron hooks? Where do they forge them? Have they a foundry there of some sort? The monks in the monastery probably believe that there's a ceiling in hell, for instance. Now I'm ready to believe in hell, but without a ceiling. It makes it more refined, more enlightened, more Lutheran that is. And, after all, what does it matter whether it has a ceiling or hasn't? But, do you know, there's a damnable question involved in it? If there's no ceiling there can be no hooks, and if there are no hooks it all breaks down, which is unlikely again, for then there would be none to drag me down to hell, and if they don't drag me down what justice is there in the world? _Il faudrait les inventer_, those hooks, on purpose for me alone, for, if you only knew, Alyosha, what a blackguard I am." "But there are no hooks there," said Alyosha, looking gently and seriously at his father. "Yes, yes, only the shadows of hooks, I know, I know. That's how a Frenchman described hell: '_J'ai bu l'ombre d'un cocher qui avec l'ombre d'une brosse frottait l'ombre d'une carrosse._' How do you know there are no hooks, darling? When you've lived with the monks you'll sing a different tune. But go and get at the truth there, and then come and tell me. Anyway it's easier going to the other world if one knows what there is there. Besides, it will be more seemly for you with the monks than here with me, with a drunken old man and young harlots ... though you're like an angel, nothing touches you. And I dare say nothing will touch you there. That's why I let you go, because I hope for that. You've got all your wits about you. You will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again. And I will wait for you. I feel that you're the only creature in the world who has not condemned me. My dear boy, I feel it, you know. I can't help feeling it." And he even began blubbering. He was sentimental. He was wicked and sentimental. Chapter V. Elders Some of my readers may imagine that my young man was a sickly, ecstatic, poorly developed creature, a pale, consumptive dreamer. On the contrary, Alyosha was at this time a well-grown, red-cheeked, clear-eyed lad of nineteen, radiant with health. He was very handsome, too, graceful, moderately tall, with hair of a dark brown, with a regular, rather long, oval-shaped face, and wide-set dark gray, shining eyes; he was very thoughtful, and apparently very serene. I shall be told, perhaps, that red cheeks are not incompatible with fanaticism and mysticism; but I fancy that Alyosha was more of a realist than any one. Oh! no doubt, in the monastery he fully believed in miracles, but, to my thinking, miracles are never a stumbling-block to the realist. It is not miracles that dispose realists to belief. The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will always find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather disbelieve his own senses than admit the fact. Even if he admits it, he admits it as a fact of nature till then unrecognized by him. Faith does not, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith. If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to admit the miraculous also. The Apostle Thomas said that he would not believe till he saw, but when he did see he said, "My Lord and my God!" Was it the miracle forced him to believe? Most likely not, but he believed solely because he desired to believe and possibly he fully believed in his secret heart even when he said, "I do not believe till I see." I shall be told, perhaps, that Alyosha was stupid, undeveloped, had not finished his studies, and so on. That he did not finish his studies is true, but to say that he was stupid or dull would be a great injustice. I'll simply repeat what I have said above. He entered upon this path only because, at that time, it alone struck his imagination and presented itself to him as offering an ideal means of escape for his soul from darkness to light. Add to that that he was to some extent a youth of our last epoch--that is, honest in nature, desiring the truth, seeking for it and believing in it, and seeking to serve it at once with all the strength of his soul, seeking for immediate action, and ready to sacrifice everything, life itself, for it. Though these young men unhappily fail to understand that the sacrifice of life is, in many cases, the easiest of all sacrifices, and that to sacrifice, for instance, five or six years of their seething youth to hard and tedious study, if only to multiply tenfold their powers of serving the truth and the cause they have set before them as their goal--such a sacrifice is utterly beyond the strength of many of them. The path Alyosha chose was a path going in the opposite direction, but he chose it with the same thirst for swift achievement. As soon as he reflected seriously he was convinced of the existence of God and immortality, and at once he instinctively said to himself: "I want to live for immortality, and I will accept no compromise." In the same way, if he had decided that God and immortality did not exist, he would at once have become an atheist and a socialist. For socialism is not merely the labor question, it is before all things the atheistic question, the question of the form taken by atheism to-day, the question of the tower of Babel built without God, not to mount to heaven from earth but to set up heaven on earth. Alyosha would have found it strange and impossible to go on living as before. It is written: "Give all that thou hast to the poor and follow Me, if thou wouldst be perfect." Alyosha said to himself: "I can't give two roubles instead of 'all,' and only go to mass instead of 'following Him.' " Perhaps his memories of childhood brought back our monastery, to which his mother may have taken him to mass. Perhaps the slanting sunlight and the holy image to which his poor "crazy" mother had held him up still acted upon his imagination. Brooding on these things he may have come to us perhaps only to see whether here he could sacrifice all or only "two roubles," and in the monastery he met this elder. I must digress to explain what an "elder" is in Russian monasteries, and I am sorry that I do not feel very competent to do so. I will try, however, to give a superficial account of it in a few words. Authorities on the subject assert that the institution of "elders" is of recent date, not more than a hundred years old in our monasteries, though in the orthodox East, especially in Sinai and Athos, it has existed over a thousand years. It is maintained that it existed in ancient times in Russia also, but through the calamities which overtook Russia--the Tartars, civil war, the interruption of relations with the East after the destruction of Constantinople--this institution fell into oblivion. It was revived among us towards the end of last century by one of the great "ascetics," as they called him, Paissy Velitchkovsky, and his disciples. But to this day it exists in few monasteries only, and has sometimes been almost persecuted as an innovation in Russia. It flourished especially in the celebrated Kozelski Optin Monastery. When and how it was introduced into our monastery I cannot say. There had already been three such elders and Zossima was the last of them. But he was almost dying of weakness and disease, and they had no one to take his place. The question for our monastery was an important one, for it had not been distinguished by anything in particular till then: they had neither relics of saints, nor wonder-working ikons, nor glorious traditions, nor historical exploits. It had flourished and been glorious all over Russia through its elders, to see and hear whom pilgrims had flocked for thousands of miles from all parts. What was such an elder? An elder was one who took your soul, your will, into his soul and his will. When you choose an elder, you renounce your own will and yield it to him in complete submission, complete self- abnegation. This novitiate, this terrible school of abnegation, is undertaken voluntarily, in the hope of self-conquest, of self-mastery, in order, after a life of obedience, to attain perfect freedom, that is, from self; to escape the lot of those who have lived their whole life without finding their true selves in themselves. This institution of elders is not founded on theory, but was established in the East from the practice of a thousand years. The obligations due to an elder are not the ordinary "obedience" which has always existed in our Russian monasteries. The obligation involves confession to the elder by all who have submitted themselves to him, and to the indissoluble bond between him and them. The story is told, for instance, that in the early days of Christianity one such novice, failing to fulfill some command laid upon him by his elder, left his monastery in Syria and went to Egypt. There, after great exploits, he was found worthy at last to suffer torture and a martyr's death for the faith. When the Church, regarding him as a saint, was burying him, suddenly, at the deacon's exhortation, "Depart all ye unbaptized," the coffin containing the martyr's body left its place and was cast forth from the church, and this took place three times. And only at last they learnt that this holy man had broken his vow of obedience and left his elder, and, therefore, could not be forgiven without the elder's absolution in spite of his great deeds. Only after this could the funeral take place. This, of course, is only an old legend. But here is a recent instance. A monk was suddenly commanded by his elder to quit Athos, which he loved as a sacred place and a haven of refuge, and to go first to Jerusalem to do homage to the Holy Places and then to go to the north to Siberia: "There is the place for thee and not here." The monk, overwhelmed with sorrow, went to the OEcumenical Patriarch at Constantinople and besought him to release him from his obedience. But the Patriarch replied that not only was he unable to release him, but there was not and could not be on earth a power which could release him except the elder who had himself laid that duty upon him. In this way the elders are endowed in certain cases with unbounded and inexplicable authority. That is why in many of our monasteries the institution was at first resisted almost to persecution. Meantime the elders immediately began to be highly esteemed among the people. Masses of the ignorant people as well as men of distinction flocked, for instance, to the elders of our monastery to confess their doubts, their sins, and their sufferings, and ask for counsel and admonition. Seeing this, the opponents of the elders declared that the sacrament of confession was being arbitrarily and frivolously degraded, though the continual opening of the heart to the elder by the monk or the layman had nothing of the character of the sacrament. In the end, however, the institution of elders has been retained and is becoming established in Russian monasteries. It is true, perhaps, that this instrument which had stood the test of a thousand years for the moral regeneration of a man from slavery to freedom and to moral perfectibility may be a two-edged weapon and it may lead some not to humility and complete self-control but to the most Satanic pride, that is, to bondage and not to freedom. The elder Zossima was sixty-five. He came of a family of landowners, had been in the army in early youth, and served in the Caucasus as an officer. He had, no doubt, impressed Alyosha by some peculiar quality of his soul. Alyosha lived in the cell of the elder, who was very fond of him and let him wait upon him. It must be noted that Alyosha was bound by no obligation and could go where he pleased and be absent for whole days. Though he wore the monastic dress it was voluntarily, not to be different from others. No doubt he liked to do so. Possibly his youthful imagination was deeply stirred by the power and fame of his elder. It was said that so many people had for years past come to confess their sins to Father Zossima and to entreat him for words of advice and healing, that he had acquired the keenest intuition and could tell from an unknown face what a new-comer wanted, and what was the suffering on his conscience. He sometimes astounded and almost alarmed his visitors by his knowledge of their secrets before they had spoken a word. Alyosha noticed that many, almost all, went in to the elder for the first time with apprehension and uneasiness, but came out with bright and happy faces. Alyosha was particularly struck by the fact that Father Zossima was not at all stern. On the contrary, he was always almost gay. The monks used to say that he was more drawn to those who were more sinful, and the greater the sinner the more he loved him. There were, no doubt, up to the end of his life, among the monks some who hated and envied him, but they were few in number and they were silent, though among them were some of great dignity in the monastery, one, for instance, of the older monks distinguished for his strict keeping of fasts and vows of silence. But the majority were on Father Zossima's side and very many of them loved him with all their hearts, warmly and sincerely. Some were almost fanatically devoted to him, and declared, though not quite aloud, that he was a saint, that there could be no doubt of it, and, seeing that his end was near, they anticipated miracles and great glory to the monastery in the immediate future from his relics. Alyosha had unquestioning faith in the miraculous power of the elder, just as he had unquestioning faith in the story of the coffin that flew out of the church. He saw many who came with sick children or relatives and besought the elder to lay hands on them and to pray over them, return shortly after--some the next day--and, falling in tears at the elder's feet, thank him for healing their sick. Whether they had really been healed or were simply better in the natural course of the disease was a question which did not exist for Alyosha, for he fully believed in the spiritual power of his teacher and rejoiced in his fame, in his glory, as though it were his own triumph. His heart throbbed, and he beamed, as it were, all over when the elder came out to the gates of the hermitage into the waiting crowd of pilgrims of the humbler class who had flocked from all parts of Russia on purpose to see the elder and obtain his blessing. They fell down before him, wept, kissed his feet, kissed the earth on which he stood, and wailed, while the women held up their children to him and brought him the sick "possessed with devils." The elder spoke to them, read a brief prayer over them, blessed them, and dismissed them. Of late he had become so weak through attacks of illness that he was sometimes unable to leave his cell, and the pilgrims waited for him to come out for several days. Alyosha did not wonder why they loved him so, why they fell down before him and wept with emotion merely at seeing his face. Oh! he understood that for the humble soul of the Russian peasant, worn out by grief and toil, and still more by the everlasting injustice and everlasting sin, his own and the world's, it was the greatest need and comfort to find some one or something holy to fall down before and worship. "Among us there is sin, injustice, and temptation, but yet, somewhere on earth there is some one holy and exalted. He has the truth; he knows the truth; so it is not dead upon the earth; so it will come one day to us, too, and rule over all the earth according to the promise." Alyosha knew that this was just how the people felt and even reasoned. He understood it, but that the elder Zossima was this saint and custodian of God's truth--of that he had no more doubt than the weeping peasants and the sick women who held out their children to the elder. The conviction that after his death the elder would bring extraordinary glory to the monastery was even stronger in Alyosha than in any one there, and, of late, a kind of deep flame of inner ecstasy burnt more and more strongly in his heart. He was not at all troubled at this elder's standing as a solitary example before him. "No matter. He is holy. He carries in his heart the secret of renewal for all: that power which will, at last, establish truth on the earth, and all men will be holy and love one another, and there will be no more rich nor poor, no exalted nor humbled, but all will be as the children of God, and the true Kingdom of Christ will come." That was the dream in Alyosha's heart. The arrival of his two brothers, whom he had not known till then, seemed to make a great impression on Alyosha. He more quickly made friends with his half-brother Dmitri (though he arrived later) than with his own brother Ivan. He was extremely interested in his brother Ivan, but when the latter had been two months in the town, though they had met fairly often, they were still not intimate. Alyosha was naturally silent, and he seemed to be expecting something, ashamed about something, while his brother Ivan, though Alyosha noticed at first that he looked long and curiously at him, seemed soon to have left off thinking of him. Alyosha noticed it with some embarrassment. He ascribed his brother's indifference at first to the disparity of their age and education. But he also wondered whether the absence of curiosity and sympathy in Ivan might be due to some other cause entirely unknown to him. He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something--something inward and important--that he was striving towards some goal, perhaps very hard to attain, and that that was why he had no thought for him. Alyosha wondered, too, whether there was not some contempt on the part of the learned atheist for him--a foolish novice. He knew for certain that his brother was an atheist. He could not take offense at this contempt, if it existed; yet, with an uneasy embarrassment which he did not himself understand, he waited for his brother to come nearer to him. Dmitri used to speak of Ivan with the deepest respect and with a peculiar earnestness. From him Alyosha learnt all the details of the important affair which had of late formed such a close and remarkable bond between the two elder brothers. Dmitri's enthusiastic references to Ivan were the more striking in Alyosha's eyes since Dmitri was, compared with Ivan, almost uneducated, and the two brothers were such a contrast in personality and character that it would be difficult to find two men more unlike. It was at this time that the meeting, or, rather gathering of the members of this inharmonious family took place in the cell of the elder who had such an extraordinary influence on Alyosha. The pretext for this gathering was a false one. It was at this time that the discord between Dmitri and his father seemed at its acutest stage and their relations had become insufferably strained. Fyodor Pavlovitch seems to have been the first to suggest, apparently in joke, that they should all meet in Father Zossima's cell, and that, without appealing to his direct intervention, they might more decently come to an understanding under the conciliating influence of the elder's presence. Dmitri, who had never seen the elder, naturally supposed that his father was trying to intimidate him, but, as he secretly blamed himself for his outbursts of temper with his father on several recent occasions, he accepted the challenge. It must be noted that he was not, like Ivan, staying with his father, but living apart at the other end of the town. It happened that Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, who was staying in the district at the time, caught eagerly at the idea. A Liberal of the forties and fifties, a freethinker and atheist, he may have been led on by boredom or the hope of frivolous diversion. He was suddenly seized with the desire to see the monastery and the holy man. As his lawsuit with the monastery still dragged on, he made it the pretext for seeing the Superior, in order to attempt to settle it amicably. A visitor coming with such laudable intentions might be received with more attention and consideration than if he came from simple curiosity. Influences from within the monastery were brought to bear on the elder, who of late had scarcely left his cell, and had been forced by illness to deny even his ordinary visitors. In the end he consented to see them, and the day was fixed. "Who has made me a judge over them?" was all he said, smilingly, to Alyosha. Alyosha was much perturbed when he heard of the proposed visit. Of all the wrangling, quarrelsome party, Dmitri was the only one who could regard the interview seriously. All the others would come from frivolous motives, perhaps insulting to the elder. Alyosha was well aware of that. Ivan and Miuesov would come from curiosity, perhaps of the coarsest kind, while his father might be contemplating some piece of buffoonery. Though he said nothing, Alyosha thoroughly understood his father. The boy, I repeat, was far from being so simple as every one thought him. He awaited the day with a heavy heart. No doubt he was always pondering in his mind how the family discord could be ended. But his chief anxiety concerned the elder. He trembled for him, for his glory, and dreaded any affront to him, especially the refined, courteous irony of Miuesov and the supercilious half-utterances of the highly educated Ivan. He even wanted to venture on warning the elder, telling him something about them, but, on second thoughts, said nothing. He only sent word the day before, through a friend, to his brother Dmitri, that he loved him and expected him to keep his promise. Dmitri wondered, for he could not remember what he had promised, but he answered by letter that he would do his utmost not to let himself be provoked "by vileness," but that, although he had a deep respect for the elder and for his brother Ivan, he was convinced that the meeting was either a trap for him or an unworthy farce. "Nevertheless I would rather bite out my tongue than be lacking in respect to the sainted man whom you reverence so highly," he wrote in conclusion. Alyosha was not greatly cheered by the letter.

Book 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-1

Fyodor Karamazov and his three sons have just been reunited after many years, and the novel's first chapters concern themselves mostly with the family's backstory. We meet Fyodor, a "muddle-headed" eccentric who has led a reckless and selfish life. Though many thought him too impulsive to be crafty, he died with 100,000 rubles, proving that he must have been keen in some ways. He has few friends and many enemies, and he is an enigma to all. He married a fiery, romantic woman named Adelaida, who thought his lifestyle was "bold." After bearing him a son whom they named Dmitri, she ran off with a tutor. Fyodor was crushed by her desertion, but he also relished the idea of his humiliation so much that those who heard him talking about his situation thought that he somehow enjoyed his position as a cuckold. Neglected by his father, young Dmitri fell under the care of various servants and relatives through the years. He grew up "unruly" and "impatient." When he was old enough, he joined the military. His impassioned character led him to be demoted for dueling, but he was re-promoted for "gallantry." His extravagant lifestyle had put him far into debt by the time he left the military, and he came home to collect his inheritance from his father. After Adelaida left him, Fyodor married a beautiful innocent named Sofia. He was won by the sixteen-year-old's innocence, and he said of her, "those innocent eyes of hers slit my soul open like a razor." She had two sons, Ivan and Alyosha. Because Fyodor felt that she should be "indebted to him" for saving her from a bad situation, he felt justified in treating her cruelly, sleeping with other women in the house, sometimes in front of her. His mistreatment of his young wife eventually led to her having a nervous breakdown. With both parents unsuitable for taking care of their children, General Vorohkov's widow--Sofia's former benefactress--took in the children. She left each of the boys 1,000 rubles for his education. Ivan grew up sullen and quiet, embarrassed about living on charity from others and more embarrassed about his father. He was a fiercely intelligent boy, and he made money by tutoring, freelancing, and reviewing books for money. He wrote a relatively famous article about the ecclesiastical courts that was debated in political and religious circles alike. He came to town rather unexpectedly. The youngest boy, Alyosha, was well-loved by Fyodor. He was popular, fearless of others, and, unlike his brothers, unconcerned with money. Instead of finishing school, he became quite taken with an elder named Father Zossima in the nearby monastery. He decided to join the monastery, and Fyodor gave him his blessing. Alyosha was the sort of boy who believed in miracles, but he was curiously very much a realist. Alyosha was a "member of the younger generation." Many believed that studying under an elder in a monastery was a "terrible apprenticeship"--by self-annihilation, one might achieve self-realization. Father Zossima was sixty-five years old and a former officer in the army. He was kind to even the worst sinners, and he was locally famous for his saint-like status. When Alyosha meets his brothers for the first time, he quickly takes a liking to Dmitri. He finds Ivan "absorbed in something within himself, something very important, that he was pursuing some goal, perhaps a very difficult goal, which left no room for Alyosha in his thoughts." Dmitri, however, likes Ivan. Because of the dispute between Dmitri and Fyodor over Dmitri's inheritance, the newly reunited family decides to see Father Zossima to help resolve the issue. Alyosha, who is very close with Father Zossima, fears that the family is going to make a ridiculous scene and treat a serious occasion like a farce. But Dmitri assures his brother that he will act respectfully and calmly and that everything will go fine.

In this first book, the reader gets to know the Karamazovs. The eldest Karamazov is a licentious old curmudgeon and a bad father. Readers begin to wonder how his behavior and treatment of his sons will be reflected in their own personalities and lives. These early chapters serve as introductions, and they do not focus much on the present. Interestingly, Fyodor and his three sons have not been together for some time, so the reader knows that any interactions they have will not be the tried, worn conversations of longtime acquaintances. Instead, it is clear that the conversations the family share will be new and telling of future relationships. There is drama and suspense leading up to the meeting with Father Zossima, for not only will a family dispute be mediated, but all four Karamazovs will be in the same place. This will be the first legitimate gathering at which the reader will see all the Karamazovs. Dmitri seems very much his father's son. His inconsistent nature and his inclination to violence and sex remind the reader very much of Fyodor. Still, he seems to have a noble streak that is absent in Fyodor. Even though he was demoted in the army, he was re-promoted "for gallantry." The disparity between Dmitri's extremes is great. He seems like he will be a loose cannon, and the reader is anxious to see how he will deal with a formal meeting about a hotly-contested issue; he seems capable of both civility and wild rage. Ivan is less obviously observable. He is quieter than his older brother, and he is very much ruled by his intellect, not his viscera. He seems to be very proud, refusing to ask his father for money and working very hard to make it. He and his older brother are also the sons of different mothers, and the significance of this detail is undeniable. It is not entirely clear yet how his personality is different from his brother's because of this fact, though. His mother was an innocent woman, not a passionate woman like Dmitri's mother. Ivan does not seem innocent, for he seems to understand the world enough to find a way to fend for himself. He also seems to understand the concept of reputations, for he is deeply embarrassed by his own father. Dmitri does have a predilection to follow his whims that Ivan does not have. Ivan seems very measured and in control of himself. He is the brother whose story is most concise. Alyosha and Dmitri are described at length, but Ivan has only a small section devoted to him. This is not because he is a lesser character--his role becomes clear later--but because he is more of an enigma. His motivations and actions are not as open and forthright as his brothers'. Dostoevsky thus leads us to want to unlock Ivan's mysterious character. Alyosha seems to be the hero of the novel even at this early stage. In fact, most of the novel will revolve around his experiences, for he is involved in everyone's problems. When a character is described as having very few flaws, jaded modern readers suspect that one of his flaws might hurt him by the end, and we become interested to see how Alyosha might fall. But Alyosha never fully compromises his character. He retains a grand love for all mankind throughout the novel, and any missteps are minimal. He remains likeable and admirable throughout the novel, and his integrity is constant. The three brothers thus may represent three distinct ideologies. Dostoevsky is prone to making his characters embody certain ideas, and at this point in the novel, we can start to make such identifications. While it is very interesting to see how these different "character-ideologies" will cope with the situations presented to them, it is even more interesting to see how characters who might seem two-dimensional and clearly pigeonholed will become more complexly human. The introduction to this novel makes every character's future a fascinating one.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_43_to_45.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Lord Jim/section_11_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 43-45

chapters 43 -45

{"name": "Chapters 43 -45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210126121516/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/lordjim/section12/", "summary": "Swayed by the people's faith in Jim and his own fear of risking his son Dain Waris, Doramin agrees to let Gentleman Brown and his men escape. Preparations are made. Jewel begs an exhausted Jim not to take active command. He tells her that every life in Patusan is his responsibility now, since the people have placed their trust in his opinion. Tamb'Itam is sent downriver to notify Dain Waris that Brown is to be allowed to pass. He takes with him Stein's silver ring as a token of his identity. Jim sends Cornelius to Brown with a note informing him that he will be allowed to go. Cornelius delivers the note, then tells Brown that an armed party headed by Dain Waris, the very man who ambushed Brown initially, waits downstream. Cornelius also tells Brown that there is an alternate river channel that will take him directly behind Dain Waris's camp, and that he, Cornelius, can guide Brown's men down it. Two hours before dawn, in a thick fog, Brown and his men head down the river. Jim calls out that he will try to send them some food. Unbeknownst to those ashore, Cornelius accompanies Brown. When they reach the alternate channel, Cornelius takes over the navigation. Meanwhile, Tamb'Itam reaches Dain Waris's camp with news of the truce. He gives Dain Waris the silver ring, which Dain Waris slips on his finger. A moment later, Gentleman Brown lands his boat behind the camp to take his revenge \"upon the world.\" He and his men open fire. Many fall dead, including Dain Waris, who takes a bullet in the forehead. Brown and his men leave as quickly as they came. Tamb'Itam, who has not been hurt, rushes to his canoe to get the news to Doramin and Jim. At the water's edge, he finds Cornelius struggling to launch a boat and escape. Tamb'Itam strikes him twice, killing him. Marlow digresses for a moment to report that a ship's boat was picked up a month after the massacre in the middle of the Indian Ocean. On board were Brown and two of his men, who claimed that they had been transporting a cargo of sugar when their ship sprung a leak and sunk. The two men died aboard the rescue vehicle; Brown has survived to tell Marlow this story. Returning to the main narrative, Marlow recounts Tamb'Itam's arrival back in Patusan. He finds Jewel, who immediately fears Doramin's wrath for the death of his son. Next he carries the news to Jim, who prepares to go fight. Tamb'Itam reluctantly informs him that he is no longer safe among the people of Patusan. This realization hits Jim hard. Tamb'Itam and Jewel urge Jim to fight for his life. Jim seems not to hear them and orders that the gates of his compound be opened and his men dismissed. Dain Waris's body is brought to Doramin's courtyard. Stein's silver ring is found on his finger. Doramin lets out a bellow and the crowd begins to murmur, realizing that the ring could only have come from Jim. Jim prepares to leave his house. Jewel reminds him of his promise not to leave her, and he tells her that he would no longer be worth having if he didn't leave. He departs for Doramin's. Tamb'Itam recalls the frightful aspect of the sky, and Marlow notes that a cyclone passed near Patusan on that very day. Jim arrives at Doramin's. Approaching the old man, he declares himself sorrowful and unarmed. Doramin stands, sending the silver ring rolling toward Jim. Doramin shoots Jim through the heart, and Jim falls dead. Marlow ends the narrative reiterating the dark, romantic nature of Jim's life and his \"extraordinary success.\" Yet, for Marlow, Jim remains \"inscrutable at heart,\" and the meaning of the narrative is still in question.", "analysis": "Commentary It is Marlow, not Jim, who has the last word on Jim's life, noting simply that \"e is gone, inscrutable at heart. \" The word \"heart\" has been associated with Jim over and over again. He is described both as having a core, or \"heart,\" that is in some way unknowable or confusing, and also as being at the \"heart\" of some vast puzzle. The doubled use of this word points back to some of the earlier incidents of confusion over language and the failure of language to have a definitive meaning. Jim's life has no definitive meaning either. The two \"hearts\" associated with Jim are also suggestive of one of the fundamental problems of the novel: is Jim in fact representative of something larger than himself? Is there an \"us\" that he is \"one of\"? Whether he is at the heart of the inscrutable or merely inscrutable at heart is the fundamental question Marlow must answer. By deferring to Stein, and speaking of Stein's approaching end, and by finishing the narrative in a manuscript rather than in another session of storytelling, Marlow avoids the question. Perhaps it is a question that cannot be answered at all; as Marlow notes, some days Jim seems very real to him, some days Jim seems not to have existed at all. As Marlow notes, Jim has \" away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct.\" Marlow thus assigns Jim's story to the realm of romance. The ending of Lord Jim suggests more of a fatal collision between romance and realism than any sort of viable, pure romance, though. Jim's choice of the \"shadowy ideal of conduct\" has led to the deaths of Dain Waris and other men, and to the destruction of Jewel's world. Had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on his failure in the Patna incident, he would have ordered the deaths of Brown and his men, and all would have been well in Patusan. On the other hand, had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on the Patna, he would never have come to Patusan, and arguably not only he but also the people of Patusan are better off for his presence. Idealism and notions of heroism lead to nothing but paradox and sadness. This novel has more in common with Hemingway's tales of damaged and disillusioned men or T.S. Eliot's narratives of the forlorn and impotent than it does with earlier works in which moral upstandingness leads to death with honor, if not a happy ending complete with riches and beautiful women. That this section contains more of the trappings of traditional swashbuckling romance is meant to highlight the contrast. The ending is a mixed one: Jim dies, with a curious mixture of honor and shame, in a manner at least somewhat similar to an old-fashioned hero, while Marlow, like one of Hemingway's protagonists, is left alive, sadder but not necessarily wiser. This is also a section heavier in symbolism than most. The fog which envelops Brown and his men as they head downriver contrasts with the extreme clarity with which Marlow last sees Jim, on the beach with the fishermen. It is also indicative of the amorphous morality of both Brown's and Jim's actions. Brown, after all, thinks he has been double-crossed, based on the information Cornelius has given him. Jim, as we have already seen, is caught in a bind. The night of the Patna's accident was crystal-clear and still; nothing should have obscured Jim's decision-making then. Because he failed then, yet has held on to his ideals, situations no longer have clear solutions. Brown, too, although he seems to be acting logically, is also punished, by being shipwrecked soon afterward and dying a long, drawn-out death. Weather, though, is the primary vehicle for symbolic content. When the fog clears off, Tamb'Itam reports, the sky is in turmoil. Marlow attributes this to a cyclone passing nearby. This is another moment when romance and realism are at odds. In a romantic world, the cyclone would have descended upon Patusan at the moment of Jim's death, symbolizing the disorder in the world that led to the destruction of our hero. In a realistic world, weather would be ordinary and meaningless. The cyclone's close approach suggests a failure of both models; somehow, Jim's death must be given import, yet the issues surrounding it are too muddled and romance too outmoded for the full symbolic performance to occur. This cyclone should be contrasted to the squall that hits the Patna, as well as to the rumored hurricane that wipes out Chester and Robinson's guano-collecting expedition to the Walpole Reef. Here, finally, the storm--the symbol of higher powers or order--fails to impose its meaning."}

'Tamb' Itam behind his chair was thunderstruck. The declaration produced an immense sensation. "Let them go because this is best in my knowledge which has never deceived you," Jim insisted. There was a silence. In the darkness of the courtyard could be heard the subdued whispering, shuffling noise of many people. Doramin raised his heavy head and said that there was no more reading of hearts than touching the sky with the hand, but--he consented. The others gave their opinion in turn. "It is best," "Let them go," and so on. But most of them simply said that they "believed Tuan Jim." 'In this simple form of assent to his will lies the whole gist of the situation; their creed, his truth; and the testimony to that faithfulness which made him in his own eyes the equal of the impeccable men who never fall out of the ranks. Stein's words, "Romantic!--Romantic!" seem to ring over those distances that will never give him up now to a world indifferent to his failings and his virtues, and to that ardent and clinging affection that refuses him the dole of tears in the bewilderment of a great grief and of eternal separation. From the moment the sheer truthfulness of his last three years of life carries the day against the ignorance, the fear, and the anger of men, he appears no longer to me as I saw him last--a white speck catching all the dim light left upon a sombre coast and the darkened sea--but greater and more pitiful in the loneliness of his soul, that remains even for her who loved him best a cruel and insoluble mystery. 'It is evident that he did not mistrust Brown; there was no reason to doubt the story, whose truth seemed warranted by the rough frankness, by a sort of virile sincerity in accepting the morality and the consequences of his acts. But Jim did not know the almost inconceivable egotism of the man which made him, when resisted and foiled in his will, mad with the indignant and revengeful rage of a thwarted autocrat. But if Jim did not mistrust Brown, he was evidently anxious that some misunderstanding should not occur, ending perhaps in collision and bloodshed. It was for this reason that directly the Malay chiefs had gone he asked Jewel to get him something to eat, as he was going out of the fort to take command in the town. On her remonstrating against this on the score of his fatigue, he said that something might happen for which he would never forgive himself. "I am responsible for every life in the land," he said. He was moody at first; she served him with her own hands, taking the plates and dishes (of the dinner-service presented him by Stein) from Tamb' Itam. He brightened up after a while; told her she would be again in command of the fort for another night. "There's no sleep for us, old girl," he said, "while our people are in danger." Later on he said jokingly that she was the best man of them all. "If you and Dain Waris had done what you wanted, not one of these poor devils would be alive to-day." "Are they very bad?" she asked, leaning over his chair. "Men act badly sometimes without being much worse than others," he said after some hesitation. 'Tamb' Itam followed his master to the landing-stage outside the fort. The night was clear but without a moon, and the middle of the river was dark, while the water under each bank reflected the light of many fires "as on a night of Ramadan," Tamb' Itam said. War-boats drifted silently in the dark lane or, anchored, floated motionless with a loud ripple. That night there was much paddling in a canoe and walking at his master's heels for Tamb' Itam: up and down the street they tramped, where the fires were burning, inland on the outskirts of the town where small parties of men kept guard in the fields. Tuan Jim gave his orders and was obeyed. Last of all they went to the Rajah's stockade, which a detachment of Jim's people manned on that night. The old Rajah had fled early in the morning with most of his women to a small house he had near a jungle village on a tributary stream. Kassim, left behind, had attended the council with his air of diligent activity to explain away the diplomacy of the day before. He was considerably cold-shouldered, but managed to preserve his smiling, quiet alertness, and professed himself highly delighted when Jim told him sternly that he proposed to occupy the stockade on that night with his own men. After the council broke up he was heard outside accosting this and that deputing chief, and speaking in a loud, gratified tone of the Rajah's property being protected in the Rajah's absence. 'About ten or so Jim's men marched in. The stockade commanded the mouth of the creek, and Jim meant to remain there till Brown had passed below. A small fire was lit on the flat, grassy point outside the wall of stakes, and Tamb' Itam placed a little folding-stool for his master. Jim told him to try and sleep. Tamb' Itam got a mat and lay down a little way off; but he could not sleep, though he knew he had to go on an important journey before the night was out. His master walked to and fro before the fire with bowed head and with his hands behind his back. His face was sad. Whenever his master approached him Tamb' Itam pretended to sleep, not wishing his master to know he had been watched. At last his master stood still, looking down on him as he lay, and said softly, "It is time." 'Tamb' Itam arose directly and made his preparations. His mission was to go down the river, preceding Brown's boat by an hour or more, to tell Dain Waris finally and formally that the whites were to be allowed to pass out unmolested. Jim would not trust anybody else with that service. Before starting, Tamb' Itam, more as a matter of form (since his position about Jim made him perfectly known), asked for a token. "Because, Tuan," he said, "the message is important, and these are thy very words I carry." His master first put his hand into one pocket, then into another, and finally took off his forefinger Stein's silver ring, which he habitually wore, and gave it to Tamb' Itam. When Tamb' Itam left on his mission, Brown's camp on the knoll was dark but for a single small glow shining through the branches of one of the trees the white men had cut down. 'Early in the evening Brown had received from Jim a folded piece of paper on which was written, "You get the clear road. Start as soon as your boat floats on the morning tide. Let your men be careful. The bushes on both sides of the creek and the stockade at the mouth are full of well-armed men. You would have no chance, but I don't believe you want bloodshed." Brown read it, tore the paper into small pieces, and, turning to Cornelius, who had brought it, said jeeringly, "Good-bye, my excellent friend." Cornelius had been in the fort, and had been sneaking around Jim's house during the afternoon. Jim chose him to carry the note because he could speak English, was known to Brown, and was not likely to be shot by some nervous mistake of one of the men as a Malay, approaching in the dusk, perhaps might have been. 'Cornelius didn't go away after delivering the paper. Brown was sitting up over a tiny fire; all the others were lying down. "I could tell you something you would like to know," Cornelius mumbled crossly. Brown paid no attention. "You did not kill him," went on the other, "and what do you get for it? You might have had money from the Rajah, besides the loot of all the Bugis houses, and now you get nothing." "You had better clear out from here," growled Brown, without even looking at him. But Cornelius let himself drop by his side and began to whisper very fast, touching his elbow from time to time. What he had to say made Brown sit up at first, with a curse. He had simply informed him of Dain Waris's armed party down the river. At first Brown saw himself completely sold and betrayed, but a moment's reflection convinced him that there could be no treachery intended. He said nothing, and after a while Cornelius remarked, in a tone of complete indifference, that there was another way out of the river which he knew very well. "A good thing to know, too," said Brown, pricking up his ears; and Cornelius began to talk of what went on in town and repeated all that had been said in council, gossiping in an even undertone at Brown's ear as you talk amongst sleeping men you do not wish to wake. "He thinks he has made me harmless, does he?" mumbled Brown very low. . . . "Yes. He is a fool. A little child. He came here and robbed me," droned on Cornelius, "and he made all the people believe him. But if something happened that they did not believe him any more, where would he be? And the Bugis Dain who is waiting for you down the river there, captain, is the very man who chased you up here when you first came." Brown observed nonchalantly that it would be just as well to avoid him, and with the same detached, musing air Cornelius declared himself acquainted with a backwater broad enough to take Brown's boat past Waris's camp. "You will have to be quiet," he said as an afterthought, "for in one place we pass close behind his camp. Very close. They are camped ashore with their boats hauled up." "Oh, we know how to be as quiet as mice; never fear," said Brown. Cornelius stipulated that in case he were to pilot Brown out, his canoe should be towed. "I'll have to get back quick," he explained. 'It was two hours before the dawn when word was passed to the stockade from outlying watchers that the white robbers were coming down to their boat. In a very short time every armed man from one end of Patusan to the other was on the alert, yet the banks of the river remained so silent that but for the fires burning with sudden blurred flares the town might have been asleep as if in peace-time. A heavy mist lay very low on the water, making a sort of illusive grey light that showed nothing. When Brown's long-boat glided out of the creek into the river, Jim was standing on the low point of land before the Rajah's stockade--on the very spot where for the first time he put his foot on Patusan shore. A shadow loomed up, moving in the greyness, solitary, very bulky, and yet constantly eluding the eye. A murmur of low talking came out of it. Brown at the tiller heard Jim speak calmly: "A clear road. You had better trust to the current while the fog lasts; but this will lift presently." "Yes, presently we shall see clear," replied Brown. 'The thirty or forty men standing with muskets at ready outside the stockade held their breath. The Bugis owner of the prau, whom I saw on Stein's verandah, and who was amongst them, told me that the boat, shaving the low point close, seemed for a moment to grow big and hang over it like a mountain. "If you think it worth your while to wait a day outside," called out Jim, "I'll try to send you down something--a bullock, some yams--what I can." The shadow went on moving. "Yes. Do," said a voice, blank and muffled out of the fog. Not one of the many attentive listeners understood what the words meant; and then Brown and his men in their boat floated away, fading spectrally without the slightest sound. 'Thus Brown, invisible in the mist, goes out of Patusan elbow to elbow with Cornelius in the stern-sheets of the long-boat. "Perhaps you shall get a small bullock," said Cornelius. "Oh yes. Bullock. Yam. You'll get it if he said so. He always speaks the truth. He stole everything I had. I suppose you like a small bullock better than the loot of many houses." "I would advise you to hold your tongue, or somebody here may fling you overboard into this damned fog," said Brown. The boat seemed to be standing still; nothing could be seen, not even the river alongside, only the water-dust flew and trickled, condensed, down their beards and faces. It was weird, Brown told me. Every individual man of them felt as though he were adrift alone in a boat, haunted by an almost imperceptible suspicion of sighing, muttering ghosts. "Throw me out, would you? But I would know where I was," mumbled Cornelius surlily. "I've lived many years here." "Not long enough to see through a fog like this," Brown said, lolling back with his arm swinging to and fro on the useless tiller. "Yes. Long enough for that," snarled Cornelius. "That's very useful," commented Brown. "Am I to believe you could find that backway you spoke of blindfold, like this?" Cornelius grunted. "Are you too tired to row?" he asked after a silence. "No, by God!" shouted Brown suddenly. "Out with your oars there." There was a great knocking in the fog, which after a while settled into a regular grind of invisible sweeps against invisible thole-pins. Otherwise nothing was changed, and but for the slight splash of a dipped blade it was like rowing a balloon car in a cloud, said Brown. Thereafter Cornelius did not open his lips except to ask querulously for somebody to bale out his canoe, which was towing behind the long-boat. Gradually the fog whitened and became luminous ahead. To the left Brown saw a darkness as though he had been looking at the back of the departing night. All at once a big bough covered with leaves appeared above his head, and ends of twigs, dripping and still, curved slenderly close alongside. Cornelius, without a word, took the tiller from his hand.' 'I don't think they spoke together again. The boat entered a narrow by-channel, where it was pushed by the oar-blades set into crumbling banks, and there was a gloom as if enormous black wings had been outspread above the mist that filled its depth to the summits of the trees. The branches overhead showered big drops through the gloomy fog. At a mutter from Cornelius, Brown ordered his men to load. "I'll give you a chance to get even with them before we're done, you dismal cripples, you," he said to his gang. "Mind you don't throw it away--you hounds." Low growls answered that speech. Cornelius showed much fussy concern for the safety of his canoe. 'Meantime Tamb' Itam had reached the end of his journey. The fog had delayed him a little, but he had paddled steadily, keeping in touch with the south bank. By-and-by daylight came like a glow in a ground glass globe. The shores made on each side of the river a dark smudge, in which one could detect hints of columnar forms and shadows of twisted branches high up. The mist was still thick on the water, but a good watch was being kept, for as Iamb' Itam approached the camp the figures of two men emerged out of the white vapour, and voices spoke to him boisterously. He answered, and presently a canoe lay alongside, and he exchanged news with the paddlers. All was well. The trouble was over. Then the men in the canoe let go their grip on the side of his dug-out and incontinently fell out of sight. He pursued his way till he heard voices coming to him quietly over the water, and saw, under the now lifting, swirling mist, the glow of many little fires burning on a sandy stretch, backed by lofty thin timber and bushes. There again a look-out was kept, for he was challenged. He shouted his name as the two last sweeps of his paddle ran his canoe up on the strand. It was a big camp. Men crouched in many little knots under a subdued murmur of early morning talk. Many thin threads of smoke curled slowly on the white mist. Little shelters, elevated above the ground, had been built for the chiefs. Muskets were stacked in small pyramids, and long spears were stuck singly into the sand near the fires. 'Tamb' Itam, assuming an air of importance, demanded to be led to Dain Waris. He found the friend of his white lord lying on a raised couch made of bamboo, and sheltered by a sort of shed of sticks covered with mats. Dain Waris was awake, and a bright fire was burning before his sleeping-place, which resembled a rude shrine. The only son of nakhoda Doramin answered his greeting kindly. Tamb' Itam began by handing him the ring which vouched for the truth of the messenger's words. Dain Waris, reclining on his elbow, bade him speak and tell all the news. Beginning with the consecrated formula, "The news is good," Tamb' Itam delivered Jim's own words. The white men, deputing with the consent of all the chiefs, were to be allowed to pass down the river. In answer to a question or two Tamb' Itam then reported the proceedings of the last council. Dain Waris listened attentively to the end, toying with the ring which ultimately he slipped on the forefinger of his right hand. After hearing all he had to say he dismissed Tamb' Itam to have food and rest. Orders for the return in the afternoon were given immediately. Afterwards Dain Waris lay down again, open-eyed, while his personal attendants were preparing his food at the fire, by which Tamb' Itam also sat talking to the men who lounged up to hear the latest intelligence from the town. The sun was eating up the mist. A good watch was kept upon the reach of the main stream where the boat of the whites was expected to appear every moment. 'It was then that Brown took his revenge upon the world which, after twenty years of contemptuous and reckless bullying, refused him the tribute of a common robber's success. It was an act of cold-blooded ferocity, and it consoled him on his deathbed like a memory of an indomitable defiance. Stealthily he landed his men on the other side of the island opposite to the Bugis camp, and led them across. After a short but quite silent scuffle, Cornelius, who had tried to slink away at the moment of landing, resigned himself to show the way where the undergrowth was most sparse. Brown held both his skinny hands together behind his back in the grip of one vast fist, and now and then impelled him forward with a fierce push. Cornelius remained as mute as a fish, abject but faithful to his purpose, whose accomplishment loomed before him dimly. At the edge of the patch of forest Brown's men spread themselves out in cover and waited. The camp was plain from end to end before their eyes, and no one looked their way. Nobody even dreamed that the white men could have any knowledge of the narrow channel at the back of the island. When he judged the moment come, Brown yelled, "Let them have it," and fourteen shots rang out like one. 'Tamb' Itam told me the surprise was so great that, except for those who fell dead or wounded, not a soul of them moved for quite an appreciable time after the first discharge. Then a man screamed, and after that scream a great yell of amazement and fear went up from all the throats. A blind panic drove these men in a surging swaying mob to and fro along the shore like a herd of cattle afraid of the water. Some few jumped into the river then, but most of them did so only after the last discharge. Three times Brown's men fired into the ruck, Brown, the only one in view, cursing and yelling, "Aim low! aim low!" 'Tamb' Itam says that, as for him, he understood at the first volley what had happened. Though untouched he fell down and lay as if dead, but with his eyes open. At the sound of the first shots Dain Waris, reclining on the couch, jumped up and ran out upon the open shore, just in time to receive a bullet in his forehead at the second discharge. Tamb' Itam saw him fling his arms wide open before he fell. Then, he says, a great fear came upon him--not before. The white men retired as they had come--unseen. 'Thus Brown balanced his account with the evil fortune. Notice that even in this awful outbreak there is a superiority as of a man who carries right--the abstract thing--within the envelope of his common desires. It was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a retribution--a demonstration of some obscure and awful attribute of our nature which, I am afraid, is not so very far under the surface as we like to think. 'Afterwards the whites depart unseen by Tamb' Itam, and seem to vanish from before men's eyes altogether; and the schooner, too, vanishes after the manner of stolen goods. But a story is told of a white long-boat picked up a month later in the Indian Ocean by a cargo steamer. Two parched, yellow, glassy-eyed, whispering skeletons in her recognised the authority of a third, who declared that his name was Brown. His schooner, he reported, bound south with a cargo of Java sugar, had sprung a bad leak and sank under his feet. He and his companions were the survivors of a crew of six. The two died on board the steamer which rescued them. Brown lived to be seen by me, and I can testify that he had played his part to the last. 'It seems, however, that in going away they had neglected to cast off Cornelius's canoe. Cornelius himself Brown had let go at the beginning of the shooting, with a kick for a parting benediction. Tamb' Itam, after arising from amongst the dead, saw the Nazarene running up and down the shore amongst the corpses and the expiring fires. He uttered little cries. Suddenly he rushed to the water, and made frantic efforts to get one of the Bugis boats into the water. "Afterwards, till he had seen me," related Tamb' Itam, "he stood looking at the heavy canoe and scratching his head." "What became of him?" I asked. Tamb' Itam, staring hard at me, made an expressive gesture with his right arm. "Twice I struck, Tuan," he said. "When he beheld me approaching he cast himself violently on the ground and made a great outcry, kicking. He screeched like a frightened hen till he felt the point; then he was still, and lay staring at me while his life went out of his eyes." 'This done, Tamb' Itam did not tarry. He understood the importance of being the first with the awful news at the fort. There were, of course, many survivors of Dain Waris's party; but in the extremity of panic some had swum across the river, others had bolted into the bush. The fact is that they did not know really who struck that blow--whether more white robbers were not coming, whether they had not already got hold of the whole land. They imagined themselves to be the victims of a vast treachery, and utterly doomed to destruction. It is said that some small parties did not come in till three days afterwards. However, a few tried to make their way back to Patusan at once, and one of the canoes that were patrolling the river that morning was in sight of the camp at the very moment of the attack. It is true that at first the men in her leaped overboard and swam to the opposite bank, but afterwards they returned to their boat and started fearfully up-stream. Of these Tamb' Itam had an hour's advance.''When Tamb' Itam, paddling madly, came into the town-reach, the women, thronging the platforms before the houses, were looking out for the return of Dain Waris's little fleet of boats. The town had a festive air; here and there men, still with spears or guns in their hands, could be seen moving or standing on the shore in groups. Chinamen's shops had been opened early; but the market-place was empty, and a sentry, still posted at the corner of the fort, made out Tamb' Itam, and shouted to those within. The gate was wide open. Tamb' Itam jumped ashore and ran in headlong. The first person he met was the girl coming down from the house. 'Tamb' Itam, disordered, panting, with trembling lips and wild eyes, stood for a time before her as if a sudden spell had been laid on him. Then he broke out very quickly: "They have killed Dain Waris and many more." She clapped her hands, and her first words were, "Shut the gates." Most of the fortmen had gone back to their houses, but Tamb' Itam hurried on the few who remained for their turn of duty within. The girl stood in the middle of the courtyard while the others ran about. "Doramin," she cried despairingly, as Tamb' Itam passed her. Next time he went by he answered her thought rapidly, "Yes. But we have all the powder in Patusan." She caught him by the arm, and, pointing at the house, "Call him out," she whispered, trembling. 'Tamb' Itam ran up the steps. His master was sleeping. "It is I, Tamb' Itam," he cried at the door, "with tidings that cannot wait." He saw Jim turn over on the pillow and open his eyes, and he burst out at once. "This, Tuan, is a day of evil, an accursed day." His master raised himself on his elbow to listen--just as Dain Waris had done. And then Tamb' Itam began his tale, trying to relate the story in order, calling Dain Waris Panglima, and saying: "The Panglima then called out to the chief of his own boatmen, 'Give Tamb' Itam something to eat'"--when his master put his feet to the ground and looked at him with such a discomposed face that the words remained in his throat. '"Speak out," said Jim. "Is he dead?" "May you live long," cried Tamb' Itam. "It was a most cruel treachery. He ran out at the first shots and fell." . . . His master walked to the window and with his fist struck at the shutter. The room was made light; and then in a steady voice, but speaking fast, he began to give him orders to assemble a fleet of boats for immediate pursuit, go to this man, to the other--send messengers; and as he talked he sat down on the bed, stooping to lace his boots hurriedly, and suddenly looked up. "Why do you stand here?" he asked very red-faced. "Waste no time." Tamb' Itam did not move. "Forgive me, Tuan, but . . . but," he began to stammer. "What?" cried his master aloud, looking terrible, leaning forward with his hands gripping the edge of the bed. "It is not safe for thy servant to go out amongst the people," said Tamb' Itam, after hesitating a moment. 'Then Jim understood. He had retreated from one world, for a small matter of an impulsive jump, and now the other, the work of his own hands, had fallen in ruins upon his head. It was not safe for his servant to go out amongst his own people! I believe that in that very moment he had decided to defy the disaster in the only way it occurred to him such a disaster could be defied; but all I know is that, without a word, he came out of his room and sat before the long table, at the head of which he was accustomed to regulate the affairs of his world, proclaiming daily the truth that surely lived in his heart. The dark powers should not rob him twice of his peace. He sat like a stone figure. Tamb' Itam, deferential, hinted at preparations for defence. The girl he loved came in and spoke to him, but he made a sign with his hand, and she was awed by the dumb appeal for silence in it. She went out on the verandah and sat on the threshold, as if to guard him with her body from dangers outside. 'What thoughts passed through his head--what memories? Who can tell? Everything was gone, and he who had been once unfaithful to his trust had lost again all men's confidence. It was then, I believe, he tried to write--to somebody--and gave it up. Loneliness was closing on him. People had trusted him with their lives--only for that; and yet they could never, as he had said, never be made to understand him. Those without did not hear him make a sound. Later, towards the evening, he came to the door and called for Tamb' Itam. "Well?" he asked. "There is much weeping. Much anger too," said Tamb' Itam. Jim looked up at him. "You know," he murmured. "Yes, Tuan," said Tamb' Itam. "Thy servant does know, and the gates are closed. We shall have to fight." "Fight! What for?" he asked. "For our lives." "I have no life," he said. Tamb' Itam heard a cry from the girl at the door. "Who knows?" said Tamb' Itam. "By audacity and cunning we may even escape. There is much fear in men's hearts too." He went out, thinking vaguely of boats and of open sea, leaving Jim and the girl together. 'I haven't the heart to set down here such glimpses as she had given me of the hour or more she passed in there wrestling with him for the possession of her happiness. Whether he had any hope--what he expected, what he imagined--it is impossible to say. He was inflexible, and with the growing loneliness of his obstinacy his spirit seemed to rise above the ruins of his existence. She cried "Fight!" into his ear. She could not understand. There was nothing to fight for. He was going to prove his power in another way and conquer the fatal destiny itself. He came out into the courtyard, and behind him, with streaming hair, wild of face, breathless, she staggered out and leaned on the side of the doorway. "Open the gates," he ordered. Afterwards, turning to those of his men who were inside, he gave them leave to depart to their homes. "For how long, Tuan?" asked one of them timidly. "For all life," he said, in a sombre tone. 'A hush had fallen upon the town after the outburst of wailing and lamentation that had swept over the river, like a gust of wind from the opened abode of sorrow. But rumours flew in whispers, filling the hearts with consternation and horrible doubts. The robbers were coming back, bringing many others with them, in a great ship, and there would be no refuge in the land for any one. A sense of utter insecurity as during an earthquake pervaded the minds of men, who whispered their suspicions, looking at each other as if in the presence of some awful portent. 'The sun was sinking towards the forests when Dain Waris's body was brought into Doramin's campong. Four men carried it in, covered decently with a white sheet which the old mother had sent out down to the gate to meet her son on his return. They laid him at Doramin's feet, and the old man sat still for a long time, one hand on each knee, looking down. The fronds of palms swayed gently, and the foliage of fruit trees stirred above his head. Every single man of his people was there, fully armed, when the old nakhoda at last raised his eyes. He moved them slowly over the crowd, as if seeking for a missing face. Again his chin sank on his breast. The whispers of many men mingled with the slight rustling of the leaves. 'The Malay who had brought Tamb' Itam and the girl to Samarang was there too. "Not so angry as many," he said to me, but struck with a great awe and wonder at the "suddenness of men's fate, which hangs over their heads like a cloud charged with thunder." He told me that when Dain Waris's body was uncovered at a sign of Doramin's, he whom they often called the white lord's friend was disclosed lying unchanged with his eyelids a little open as if about to wake. Doramin leaned forward a little more, like one looking for something fallen on the ground. His eyes searched the body from its feet to its head, for the wound maybe. It was in the forehead and small; and there was no word spoken while one of the by-standers, stooping, took off the silver ring from the cold stiff hand. In silence he held it up before Doramin. A murmur of dismay and horror ran through the crowd at the sight of that familiar token. The old nakhoda stared at it, and suddenly let out one great fierce cry, deep from the chest, a roar of pain and fury, as mighty as the bellow of a wounded bull, bringing great fear into men's hearts, by the magnitude of his anger and his sorrow that could be plainly discerned without words. There was a great stillness afterwards for a space, while the body was being borne aside by four men. They laid it down under a tree, and on the instant, with one long shriek, all the women of the household began to wail together; they mourned with shrill cries; the sun was setting, and in the intervals of screamed lamentations the high sing-song voices of two old men intoning the Koran chanted alone. 'About this time Jim, leaning on a gun-carriage, looked at the river, and turned his back on the house; and the girl, in the doorway, panting as if she had run herself to a standstill, was looking at him across the yard. Tamb' Itam stood not far from his master, waiting patiently for what might happen. All at once Jim, who seemed to be lost in quiet thought, turned to him and said, "Time to finish this." '"Tuan?" said Tamb' Itam, advancing with alacrity. He did not know what his master meant, but as soon as Jim made a movement the girl started too and walked down into the open space. It seems that no one else of the people of the house was in sight. She tottered slightly, and about half-way down called out to Jim, who had apparently resumed his peaceful contemplation of the river. He turned round, setting his back against the gun. "Will you fight?" she cried. "There is nothing to fight for," he said; "nothing is lost." Saying this he made a step towards her. "Will you fly?" she cried again. "There is no escape," he said, stopping short, and she stood still also, silent, devouring him with her eyes. "And you shall go?" she said slowly. He bent his head. "Ah!" she exclaimed, peering at him as it were, "you are mad or false. Do you remember the night I prayed you to leave me, and you said that you could not? That it was impossible! Impossible! Do you remember you said you would never leave me? Why? I asked you for no promise. You promised unasked--remember." "Enough, poor girl," he said. "I should not be worth having." 'Tamb' Itam said that while they were talking she would laugh loud and senselessly like one under the visitation of God. His master put his hands to his head. He was fully dressed as for every day, but without a hat. She stopped laughing suddenly. "For the last time," she cried menacingly, "will you defend yourself?" "Nothing can touch me," he said in a last flicker of superb egoism. Tamb' Itam saw her lean forward where she stood, open her arms, and run at him swiftly. She flung herself upon his breast and clasped him round the neck. '"Ah! but I shall hold thee thus," she cried. . . . "Thou art mine!" 'She sobbed on his shoulder. The sky over Patusan was blood-red, immense, streaming like an open vein. An enormous sun nestled crimson amongst the tree-tops, and the forest below had a black and forbidding face. 'Tamb' Itam tells me that on that evening the aspect of the heavens was angry and frightful. I may well believe it, for I know that on that very day a cyclone passed within sixty miles of the coast, though there was hardly more than a languid stir of air in the place. 'Suddenly Tamb' Itam saw Jim catch her arms, trying to unclasp her hands. She hung on them with her head fallen back; her hair touched the ground. "Come here!" his master called, and Tamb' Itam helped to ease her down. It was difficult to separate her fingers. Jim, bending over her, looked earnestly upon her face, and all at once ran to the landing-stage. Tamb' Itam followed him, but turning his head, he saw that she had struggled up to her feet. She ran after them a few steps, then fell down heavily on her knees. "Tuan! Tuan!" called Tamb' Itam, "look back;" but Jim was already in a canoe, standing up paddle in hand. He did not look back. Tamb' Itam had just time to scramble in after him when the canoe floated clear. The girl was then on her knees, with clasped hands, at the water-gate. She remained thus for a time in a supplicating attitude before she sprang up. "You are false!" she screamed out after Jim. "Forgive me," he cried. "Never! Never!" she called back. 'Tamb' Itam took the paddle from Jim's hands, it being unseemly that he should sit while his lord paddled. When they reached the other shore his master forbade him to come any farther; but Tamb' Itam did follow him at a distance, walking up the slope to Doramin's campong. 'It was beginning to grow dark. Torches twinkled here and there. Those they met seemed awestruck, and stood aside hastily to let Jim pass. The wailing of women came from above. The courtyard was full of armed Bugis with their followers, and of Patusan people. 'I do not know what this gathering really meant. Were these preparations for war, or for vengeance, or to repulse a threatened invasion? Many days elapsed before the people had ceased to look out, quaking, for the return of the white men with long beards and in rags, whose exact relation to their own white man they could never understand. Even for those simple minds poor Jim remains under a cloud. 'Doramin, alone! immense and desolate, sat in his arm-chair with the pair of flintlock pistols on his knees, faced by a armed throng. When Jim appeared, at somebody's exclamation, all the heads turned round together, and then the mass opened right and left, and he walked up a lane of averted glances. Whispers followed him; murmurs: "He has worked all the evil." "He hath a charm." . . . He heard them--perhaps! 'When he came up into the light of torches the wailing of the women ceased suddenly. Doramin did not lift his head, and Jim stood silent before him for a time. Then he looked to the left, and moved in that direction with measured steps. Dain Waris's mother crouched at the head of the body, and the grey dishevelled hair concealed her face. Jim came up slowly, looked at his dead friend, lifting the sheet, than dropped it without a word. Slowly he walked back. '"He came! He came!" was running from lip to lip, making a murmur to which he moved. "He hath taken it upon his own head," a voice said aloud. He heard this and turned to the crowd. "Yes. Upon my head." A few people recoiled. Jim waited awhile before Doramin, and then said gently, "I am come in sorrow." He waited again. "I am come ready and unarmed," he repeated. 'The unwieldy old man, lowering his big forehead like an ox under a yoke, made an effort to rise, clutching at the flintlock pistols on his knees. From his throat came gurgling, choking, inhuman sounds, and his two attendants helped him from behind. People remarked that the ring which he had dropped on his lap fell and rolled against the foot of the white man, and that poor Jim glanced down at the talisman that had opened for him the door of fame, love, and success within the wall of forests fringed with white foam, within the coast that under the western sun looks like the very stronghold of the night. Doramin, struggling to keep his feet, made with his two supporters a swaying, tottering group; his little eyes stared with an expression of mad pain, of rage, with a ferocious glitter, which the bystanders noticed; and then, while Jim stood stiffened and with bared head in the light of torches, looking him straight in the face, he clung heavily with his left arm round the neck of a bowed youth, and lifting deliberately his right, shot his son's friend through the chest. 'The crowd, which had fallen apart behind Jim as soon as Doramin had raised his hand, rushed tumultuously forward after the shot. They say that the white man sent right and left at all those faces a proud and unflinching glance. Then with his hand over his lips he fell forward, dead. 'And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic. Not in the wildest days of his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring shape of such an extraordinary success! For it may very well be that in the short moment of his last proud and unflinching glance, he had beheld the face of that opportunity which, like an Eastern bride, had come veiled to his side. 'But we can see him, an obscure conqueror of fame, tearing himself out of the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his exalted egoism. He goes away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct. Is he satisfied--quite, now, I wonder? We ought to know. He is one of us--and have I not stood up once, like an evoked ghost, to answer for his eternal constancy? Was I so very wrong after all? Now he is no more, there are days when the reality of his existence comes to me with an immense, with an overwhelming force; and yet upon my honour there are moments, too when he passes from my eyes like a disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this earth, ready to surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own world of shades. 'Who knows? He is gone, inscrutable at heart, and the poor girl is leading a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house. Stein has aged greatly of late. He feels it himself, and says often that he is "preparing to leave all this; preparing to leave . . ." while he waves his hand sadly at his butterflies.'

Chapters 43 -45

https://web.archive.org/web/20210126121516/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/lordjim/section12/

Swayed by the people's faith in Jim and his own fear of risking his son Dain Waris, Doramin agrees to let Gentleman Brown and his men escape. Preparations are made. Jewel begs an exhausted Jim not to take active command. He tells her that every life in Patusan is his responsibility now, since the people have placed their trust in his opinion. Tamb'Itam is sent downriver to notify Dain Waris that Brown is to be allowed to pass. He takes with him Stein's silver ring as a token of his identity. Jim sends Cornelius to Brown with a note informing him that he will be allowed to go. Cornelius delivers the note, then tells Brown that an armed party headed by Dain Waris, the very man who ambushed Brown initially, waits downstream. Cornelius also tells Brown that there is an alternate river channel that will take him directly behind Dain Waris's camp, and that he, Cornelius, can guide Brown's men down it. Two hours before dawn, in a thick fog, Brown and his men head down the river. Jim calls out that he will try to send them some food. Unbeknownst to those ashore, Cornelius accompanies Brown. When they reach the alternate channel, Cornelius takes over the navigation. Meanwhile, Tamb'Itam reaches Dain Waris's camp with news of the truce. He gives Dain Waris the silver ring, which Dain Waris slips on his finger. A moment later, Gentleman Brown lands his boat behind the camp to take his revenge "upon the world." He and his men open fire. Many fall dead, including Dain Waris, who takes a bullet in the forehead. Brown and his men leave as quickly as they came. Tamb'Itam, who has not been hurt, rushes to his canoe to get the news to Doramin and Jim. At the water's edge, he finds Cornelius struggling to launch a boat and escape. Tamb'Itam strikes him twice, killing him. Marlow digresses for a moment to report that a ship's boat was picked up a month after the massacre in the middle of the Indian Ocean. On board were Brown and two of his men, who claimed that they had been transporting a cargo of sugar when their ship sprung a leak and sunk. The two men died aboard the rescue vehicle; Brown has survived to tell Marlow this story. Returning to the main narrative, Marlow recounts Tamb'Itam's arrival back in Patusan. He finds Jewel, who immediately fears Doramin's wrath for the death of his son. Next he carries the news to Jim, who prepares to go fight. Tamb'Itam reluctantly informs him that he is no longer safe among the people of Patusan. This realization hits Jim hard. Tamb'Itam and Jewel urge Jim to fight for his life. Jim seems not to hear them and orders that the gates of his compound be opened and his men dismissed. Dain Waris's body is brought to Doramin's courtyard. Stein's silver ring is found on his finger. Doramin lets out a bellow and the crowd begins to murmur, realizing that the ring could only have come from Jim. Jim prepares to leave his house. Jewel reminds him of his promise not to leave her, and he tells her that he would no longer be worth having if he didn't leave. He departs for Doramin's. Tamb'Itam recalls the frightful aspect of the sky, and Marlow notes that a cyclone passed near Patusan on that very day. Jim arrives at Doramin's. Approaching the old man, he declares himself sorrowful and unarmed. Doramin stands, sending the silver ring rolling toward Jim. Doramin shoots Jim through the heart, and Jim falls dead. Marlow ends the narrative reiterating the dark, romantic nature of Jim's life and his "extraordinary success." Yet, for Marlow, Jim remains "inscrutable at heart," and the meaning of the narrative is still in question.

Commentary It is Marlow, not Jim, who has the last word on Jim's life, noting simply that "e is gone, inscrutable at heart. " The word "heart" has been associated with Jim over and over again. He is described both as having a core, or "heart," that is in some way unknowable or confusing, and also as being at the "heart" of some vast puzzle. The doubled use of this word points back to some of the earlier incidents of confusion over language and the failure of language to have a definitive meaning. Jim's life has no definitive meaning either. The two "hearts" associated with Jim are also suggestive of one of the fundamental problems of the novel: is Jim in fact representative of something larger than himself? Is there an "us" that he is "one of"? Whether he is at the heart of the inscrutable or merely inscrutable at heart is the fundamental question Marlow must answer. By deferring to Stein, and speaking of Stein's approaching end, and by finishing the narrative in a manuscript rather than in another session of storytelling, Marlow avoids the question. Perhaps it is a question that cannot be answered at all; as Marlow notes, some days Jim seems very real to him, some days Jim seems not to have existed at all. As Marlow notes, Jim has " away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct." Marlow thus assigns Jim's story to the realm of romance. The ending of Lord Jim suggests more of a fatal collision between romance and realism than any sort of viable, pure romance, though. Jim's choice of the "shadowy ideal of conduct" has led to the deaths of Dain Waris and other men, and to the destruction of Jewel's world. Had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on his failure in the Patna incident, he would have ordered the deaths of Brown and his men, and all would have been well in Patusan. On the other hand, had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on the Patna, he would never have come to Patusan, and arguably not only he but also the people of Patusan are better off for his presence. Idealism and notions of heroism lead to nothing but paradox and sadness. This novel has more in common with Hemingway's tales of damaged and disillusioned men or T.S. Eliot's narratives of the forlorn and impotent than it does with earlier works in which moral upstandingness leads to death with honor, if not a happy ending complete with riches and beautiful women. That this section contains more of the trappings of traditional swashbuckling romance is meant to highlight the contrast. The ending is a mixed one: Jim dies, with a curious mixture of honor and shame, in a manner at least somewhat similar to an old-fashioned hero, while Marlow, like one of Hemingway's protagonists, is left alive, sadder but not necessarily wiser. This is also a section heavier in symbolism than most. The fog which envelops Brown and his men as they head downriver contrasts with the extreme clarity with which Marlow last sees Jim, on the beach with the fishermen. It is also indicative of the amorphous morality of both Brown's and Jim's actions. Brown, after all, thinks he has been double-crossed, based on the information Cornelius has given him. Jim, as we have already seen, is caught in a bind. The night of the Patna's accident was crystal-clear and still; nothing should have obscured Jim's decision-making then. Because he failed then, yet has held on to his ideals, situations no longer have clear solutions. Brown, too, although he seems to be acting logically, is also punished, by being shipwrecked soon afterward and dying a long, drawn-out death. Weather, though, is the primary vehicle for symbolic content. When the fog clears off, Tamb'Itam reports, the sky is in turmoil. Marlow attributes this to a cyclone passing nearby. This is another moment when romance and realism are at odds. In a romantic world, the cyclone would have descended upon Patusan at the moment of Jim's death, symbolizing the disorder in the world that led to the destruction of our hero. In a realistic world, weather would be ordinary and meaningless. The cyclone's close approach suggests a failure of both models; somehow, Jim's death must be given import, yet the issues surrounding it are too muddled and romance too outmoded for the full symbolic performance to occur. This cyclone should be contrasted to the squall that hits the Patna, as well as to the rumored hurricane that wipes out Chester and Robinson's guano-collecting expedition to the Walpole Reef. Here, finally, the storm--the symbol of higher powers or order--fails to impose its meaning.

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Sense and Sensibility.chapter xx

chapter xx

{"name": "Chapter XX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22", "summary": "At Barton Park the next day, Charlotte Palmer invites the Dashwood sisters to go to town with them that winter or to stay with her at her house in Cleveland. Her house is close to Willoughby's estate, Combe. Charlotte says that everyone expects Willoughby and Marianne to marry. Elinor says that this is the first she has heard of it", "analysis": ""}

As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room--"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing. "Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer--"then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you." Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.-- It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,--and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful!--My love," applying to her husband, "don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"I came into Devonshire with no other view." "There now,"--said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.--But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued--"he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all your abuses of languages upon me." "There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world." She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well--I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland.--I can't imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby's general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;--"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before;--but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know." "Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did.--I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately.'" "And what did the Colonel say?" "Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?" "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing." "So do I.--He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says HE was in love with your sister too.-- I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night." Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her. "I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte.--"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts." "You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?" "Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.-- He was a particular friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately." "Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?" "Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind of man I like."

Chapter XX

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22

At Barton Park the next day, Charlotte Palmer invites the Dashwood sisters to go to town with them that winter or to stay with her at her house in Cleveland. Her house is close to Willoughby's estate, Combe. Charlotte says that everyone expects Willoughby and Marianne to marry. Elinor says that this is the first she has heard of it

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_13_part_0.txt

The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra.act iii.scene ii

act iii, scene ii

{"name": "Act III, Scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-ii", "summary": "Back at Caesar's house in Rome, Enobarbus and Agrippa talk while the rest of the group work out the details of the truce and its aftermath: Pompey has already left, Antony will take Octavia and go back to Athens, Caesar is sad to see them go, and Lepidus is pitifully hung over. Enobarbus and Agrippa go back and forth, gently mocking Lepidus about whether he loves Antony or Caesar better. They decide he's the beetle in the center, and the other two men his wings on either side. Clearly, Lepidus is a joke. Just then, Lepidus, Antony, Caesar, and Octavia enter the scene. They're about to say their big goodbyes before they part ways, and Caesar bids Antony to take care of his sister, whose love will seal the bond between the two men. Octavia bids her brother a teary goodbye, and asks to speak to him in his ear. Hearing her words, Enobarbus and Agrippa worry Caesar will cry, as he wept at Philippi over Brutus. Instead, Caesar responds to Octavia's secret plea that he'll think of her and be in touch often. Caesar gives the couple a final blessing, and all exit.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II. Rome. CAESAR'S house Enter AGRIPPA at one door, ENOBARBUS at another AGRIPPA. What, are the brothers parted? ENOBARBUS. They have dispatch'd with Pompey; he is gone; The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps To part from Rome; Caesar is sad; and Lepidus, Since Pompey's feast, as Menas says, is troubled With the green sickness. AGRIPPA. 'Tis a noble Lepidus. ENOBARBUS. A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar! AGRIPPA. Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony! ENOBARBUS. Caesar? Why he's the Jupiter of men. AGRIPPA. What's Antony? The god of Jupiter. ENOBARBUS. Spake you of Caesar? How! the nonpareil! AGRIPPA. O, Antony! O thou Arabian bird! ENOBARBUS. Would you praise Caesar, say 'Caesar'- go no further. AGRIPPA. Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises. ENOBARBUS. But he loves Caesar best. Yet he loves Antony. Hoo! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number- hoo!- His love to Antony. But as for Caesar, Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder. AGRIPPA. Both he loves. ENOBARBUS. They are his shards, and he their beetle. [Trumpets within] So- This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa. AGRIPPA. Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell. Enter CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, and OCTAVIA ANTONY. No further, sir. CAESAR. You take from me a great part of myself; Use me well in't. Sister, prove such a wife As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest band Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony, Let not the piece of virtue which is set Betwixt us as the cement of our love To keep it builded be the ram to batter The fortress of it; for better might we Have lov'd without this mean, if on both parts This be not cherish'd. ANTONY. Make me not offended In your distrust. CAESAR. I have said. ANTONY. You shall not find, Though you be therein curious, the least cause For what you seem to fear. So the gods keep you, And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends! We will here part. CAESAR. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee and make Thy spirits all of comfort! Fare thee well. OCTAVIA. My noble brother! ANTONY. The April's in her eyes. It is love's spring, And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful. OCTAVIA. Sir, look well to my husband's house; and- CAESAR. What, Octavia? OCTAVIA. I'll tell you in your ear. ANTONY. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can Her heart inform her tongue- the swan's down feather, That stands upon the swell at the full of tide, And neither way inclines. ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] Will Caesar weep? AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] He has a cloud in's face. ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] He were the worse for that, were he a horse; So is he, being a man. AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] Why, Enobarbus, When Antony found Julius Caesar dead, He cried almost to roaring; and he wept When at Philippi he found Brutus slain. ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum; What willingly he did confound he wail'd, Believe't- till I weep too. CAESAR. No, sweet Octavia, You shall hear from me still; the time shall not Out-go my thinking on you. ANTONY. Come, sir, come; I'll wrestle with you in my strength of love. Look, here I have you; thus I let you go, And give you to the gods. CAESAR. Adieu; be happy! LEPIDUS. Let all the number of the stars give light To thy fair way! CAESAR. Farewell, farewell! [Kisses OCTAVIA] ANTONY. Farewell! Trumpets sound. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_3

Act III, Scene ii

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

Back at Caesar's house in Rome, Enobarbus and Agrippa talk while the rest of the group work out the details of the truce and its aftermath: Pompey has already left, Antony will take Octavia and go back to Athens, Caesar is sad to see them go, and Lepidus is pitifully hung over. Enobarbus and Agrippa go back and forth, gently mocking Lepidus about whether he loves Antony or Caesar better. They decide he's the beetle in the center, and the other two men his wings on either side. Clearly, Lepidus is a joke. Just then, Lepidus, Antony, Caesar, and Octavia enter the scene. They're about to say their big goodbyes before they part ways, and Caesar bids Antony to take care of his sister, whose love will seal the bond between the two men. Octavia bids her brother a teary goodbye, and asks to speak to him in his ear. Hearing her words, Enobarbus and Agrippa worry Caesar will cry, as he wept at Philippi over Brutus. Instead, Caesar responds to Octavia's secret plea that he'll think of her and be in touch often. Caesar gives the couple a final blessing, and all exit.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_11.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Brothers Karamazov/section_10_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 1-chapter 10

book 11

{"name": "Book 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-11", "summary": "A couple of months after Dmitri's arrest, Grushenka is undergoing a heavenly metamorphosis. She tells Alyosha that Dmitri is becoming smitten with Katerina again. She also thinks that Ivan and Dmitri have been talking. She thinks the two brothers are making a plan that they are keeping secret from her. She asks if Alyosha can find out what this secret plan is, and Alyosha, her friend, agrees. Alyosha visits Lise, who is agitated and feeling guilty about her life. She longs to experience God's retribution for her wickedness in life. She has no respect for her fellow human beings or the world around her, and she feels a very destructive impulse toward everyone and everything. As Alyosha leaves, she slams the door on her hand in a pathetic show of self-loathing. Alyosha visits Dmitri in prison. Dmitri tells Alyosha that Rakitin wants to write an expose about Dmitri being the victim of circumstances that led to the inevitable murder of his father. Even though Dmitri did not kill his father, he feels guilty for his reckless lifestyle and, much like Lise, feels a desire to be punished for his immorality. He believes that he will have a new lease on life if only Grushenka can come with him during his exile in Siberia. But he fears that the state will not let Grushenka follow him, and without her, he does not know what he will do. Dmitri tells Alyosha that Ivan has visited him and told him a plan he has made for Dmitri's escape. This is the secret that Grushenka suspected. Dmitri asks Alyosha if he thinks Dmitri is guilty, and Alyosha replies that he has always believed in his brother's innocence. Dmitri greatly appreciates his brother's support. Alyosha next visits Katerina, who has just been visited by Ivan. Katerina tells Alyosha she fears that Ivan is going crazy. He feels responsible for his father's death, and it is tormenting him. Alyosha catches up with Ivan to talk to him. He asks his brother what is troubling him, and Ivan tells Alyosha that Katerina has evidence that damns Dmitri. Alyosha wants to reassure his brother, but he is honest to a fault. Since he is convinced of Dmitri's innocence, he cannot believe that Katerina can have any evidence that proves an innocent man to be guilty. Alyosha also realizes that Ivan feels guilty for their father's death. He tells Ivan that God has given him the task of comforting him. He tells Ivan that he is not responsible for the murder-he is certain by divine knowledge. Ivan does not think that this comfort is founded in logic, however. Ivan is disgusted by Alyosha's talk of God and forgiveness. He asks Alyosha a question about the day Dmitri attacked their father. He asks if Alyosha believed that he wished that Dmitri would kill his father, that \"one beast would devour the other?\" Alyosha admits that he thought his brother was thinking this. Ivan thanks him bitterly and leaves. Ivan feels sick, but his sickness has more to do with Smerdyakov than with Alyosha. Smerdyakov is still in the hospital from his seizure the night of the murder. He says he knows Ivan wished for his father's death, and he stayed out of the way to facilitate this. Ivan, enraged, hits Smerdyakov, but this does not stop the servant from torturing Ivan with his theories. He says that Ivan wanted to leave for Moscow when Fyodor was murdered because he wanted to wash his hands of what he knew would be a messy situation. Ivan tells Smerdyakov he will not report his ability to fake a seizure to the authorities if Smerdyakov will stay silent about their previous conversation before the murder. Smerdyakov says Ivan probably just wanted his inheritance, and this is why he wanted his father dead. Ivan leaves and wrestles with the idea that he may be partly guilty for Fyodor's murder if Smerdyakov did indeed kill Fyodor. He visits Katerina and confesses his contrition to her. She eases his mind by telling him she has a letter from Dmitri saying that Dmitri will kill Fyodor as a last resort to reimburse her. Ivan feels better, thinking it is his brother Dmitri who is the culprit, not Smerdyakov. He leaves, somewhat comforted. But when Ivan talks to Smerdyakov again, Smerdyakov shatters his peace of mind by admitting to the murder. Worse, he tells Ivan that it was Ivan's words that helped him rationalize the act. \"It was you who killed him all right,\" says Smerdyakov. He gives Ivan the 3,000 rubles he stole from Fyodor, and he begins to explain how he murdered the man. He explains how he faked an epileptic seizure the night of the murder . Smerdyakov tells Ivan that it was through their conversations about immorality and the nonexistence of God that he found the strength and rationalization to commit the murder. He explains that, after Dmitri attacked Grigory, Smerdyakov seized the opportunity to commit the murder. He lured Fyodor out of his room by saying Grushenka had come. Then, as Fyodor leaned out the window, he hit him with a paperweight. After Ivan is convinced that Smerdyakov did commit the murder and that it was his words that made the murder possible, he leaves Smerdyakov. When Ivan goes back home, he resolves to tell the court about Smerdyakov's confession during Dmitri's trial. To his chagrin, he finds a devil in his room, who chides Ivan about his wickedness. Blind with tears of rage, Ivan throws a cup at the devil. Alyosha comes to his door and tells Ivan that Smerdyakov has just hanged himself. Ivan's behavior worries Alyosha, but when he asks his brother what is wrong, Ivan is too upset to describe his ordeal with the devil. Alyosha realizes that Ivan is having a nervous breakdown, and he stays with his brother for the night.", "analysis": "Many characters experience intense guilt in the novel. Dmitri feels guilty for his treatment of Katerina, and Grushenka and Lise both express regret for their depravity. Ivan's guilt is even more extreme. He feels responsible for the murder he did not commit. There is a universal longing for catharsis and redemption among the characters in this novel. Though many characters feel contrition for their actions, it is not always clear if they deserve such castigation for their sins. Lise and Grushenka, for instance, are good-hearted girls, and \"wickedness\" is not something that obviously applies to them. Even Ivan, whose guilt is greater than any single character's guilt in the novel, feels guilty for a crime he did not technically commit. Father Zossima has laid out the idea that all men share in the sins of all other men, but many characters in this novel seems to feel the entire burden, not just a share. Ivan does not feel that he shares guilt; he feels that he is the only one responsible for his father's murder. Perhaps the characters all have inflated their own culpability. Dostoevsky puts stock in guilt and suffering. Father Zossima's lesson about men sharing each other's sins is thus somewhat misleading. One man's rightful guilt can be confused for his feelings of guilt, even if these feelings are misplaced. Some characters rationalize their internal turmoil, when in fact they are simply feeling the weight of hard times. Smerdyakov is an exception to this widespread guilt complex. He single-handedly murders Fyodor, yet he does not blame himself at all. Despite the fact that he is the only character technically guilty of this act, he feels the least liability for it. Smerdyakov is an unfeeling aberration. Can the actual act of murder be such a small proportion of the sin of killing a man? This seems counter to Dostoevsky's feelings of murder; characters in Dostoevsky's novels sometimes commit murder because they believe that some people do not deserve to live. They are eventually punished for their sins. For instance, Dostoevsky does not make Fyodor seem sympathetic. He does not make the old Karamazov seem anything but wicked, and his murder seems at worst logical and at best imminent. The only reason his killers feel guilt is because murder is against positive law and divine law. Hence, realizing that these men hardly deserve life is not a sin, but actually taking life is a sin. It follows that Smerdyakov is the only one who is truly responsible for the murder, but everyone else suffers for their part, real or imagined. Dostoevsky does not address the fact that characters like Ivan may be suffering without reason. Dostoevsky brings complexity to the point. He seemingly condemns the act of murder while allowing hateful feelings. He also promotes universal love toward all creatures while simultaneously portraying some characters as despicable beings unworthy of almost any kind of love. Perhaps it is this ambivalence that leads his characters to feel burdened with guilt. One of the most shocking events in the novel occurs when Ivan returns to find a devil in his room. Since no one else sees the devil, we assume it is a figment of Ivan's imagination. The devil is very real to Ivan, however. A devil is a very meaningful symbol in this novel--but not to Ivan. When Father Ferapont sees devils in Zossima's cell after Zossima's death, he is decried as a lunatic. He is religious--but Ivan does not believe in God at all, so why would his subconscious manifest a devil? More importantly, why would Dostoevsky choose to represent Ivan's conscience as a devil? Maybe Ivan is experiencing a religious awakening, realizing that his atheism has been wrong all along. That does not seem quite right, nor is the devil intended to be real. If the novel has a moral center, it is Father Zossima and his teachings, which might permit the reality of devils in the background, yet this is not part of Ivan's ontology. Ivan may be seeing a devil because devils are part of the mythic-religious culture of his town. If devils do exist, Father Ferapont is the only character in the novel who has an accurate conception of the world. Atheists like Ivan do not believe in God at all, and Alyosha and Father Zossima believe in a world of love and caring where devils are not needed; bad people are bad enough. The suggestion that devils do exist is quite a turn, casting doubt on the spiritual and moral center of the novel. Fyodor is not at the extreme anymore, now that devils are among the people. Before this, all signs have led to the view that Father Zossima's teachings are the moral anchor that holds everyone together. If characters stray from this path of love and understanding, they find longing and remorse. If they adhere to it as Alyosha does, they find strength and purpose. But a devil represents not just judgment but also evil, what is often glossed over in Father Zossima's world of sympathy and compassion. Despite the new, more fragile moral center in the novel, Alyosha's faith in his purpose and understanding of the world remain as strong as ever through the end of the novel. Love and understanding continue to help characters find personal salvation. From the point of view of an Ivan, if he could look at the whole story as we do, he might see a subtle implication that a religious lifestyle, even if deluded in some ways, is a decent and helpful one. For someone who is deeply ambivalent about religion, the introduction of a devil produces a complexity that might appeal to a rational mind that sees both good and evil in the world. Loving one's neighbor is a good thing, often producing good results even if one's motivations are misguided, and if there is something more beyond the tangible world, even if one does not understand it, it might seem reasonable to perceive devils as well as angels, a reality at least as complex as the one already on earth. When Dostoevsky brings a devil into Ivan's room, he thus sheds light on some of his own religious questions and ideas."}

Book XI. Ivan Chapter I. At Grushenka's Alyosha went towards the cathedral square to the widow Morozov's house to see Grushenka, who had sent Fenya to him early in the morning with an urgent message begging him to come. Questioning Fenya, Alyosha learned that her mistress had been particularly distressed since the previous day. During the two months that had passed since Mitya's arrest, Alyosha had called frequently at the widow Morozov's house, both from his own inclination and to take messages for Mitya. Three days after Mitya's arrest, Grushenka was taken very ill and was ill for nearly five weeks. For one whole week she was unconscious. She was very much changed--thinner and a little sallow, though she had for the past fortnight been well enough to go out. But to Alyosha her face was even more attractive than before, and he liked to meet her eyes when he went in to her. A look of firmness and intelligent purpose had developed in her face. There were signs of a spiritual transformation in her, and a steadfast, fine and humble determination that nothing could shake could be discerned in her. There was a small vertical line between her brows which gave her charming face a look of concentrated thought, almost austere at the first glance. There was scarcely a trace of her former frivolity. It seemed strange to Alyosha, too, that in spite of the calamity that had overtaken the poor girl, betrothed to a man who had been arrested for a terrible crime, almost at the instant of their betrothal, in spite of her illness and the almost inevitable sentence hanging over Mitya, Grushenka had not yet lost her youthful cheerfulness. There was a soft light in the once proud eyes, though at times they gleamed with the old vindictive fire when she was visited by one disturbing thought stronger than ever in her heart. The object of that uneasiness was the same as ever--Katerina Ivanovna, of whom Grushenka had even raved when she lay in delirium. Alyosha knew that she was fearfully jealous of her. Yet Katerina Ivanovna had not once visited Mitya in his prison, though she might have done it whenever she liked. All this made a difficult problem for Alyosha, for he was the only person to whom Grushenka opened her heart and from whom she was continually asking advice. Sometimes he was unable to say anything. Full of anxiety he entered her lodging. She was at home. She had returned from seeing Mitya half an hour before, and from the rapid movement with which she leapt up from her chair to meet him he saw that she had been expecting him with great impatience. A pack of cards dealt for a game of "fools" lay on the table. A bed had been made up on the leather sofa on the other side and Maximov lay, half-reclining, on it. He wore a dressing- gown and a cotton nightcap, and was evidently ill and weak, though he was smiling blissfully. When the homeless old man returned with Grushenka from Mokroe two months before, he had simply stayed on and was still staying with her. He arrived with her in rain and sleet, sat down on the sofa, drenched and scared, and gazed mutely at her with a timid, appealing smile. Grushenka, who was in terrible grief and in the first stage of fever, almost forgot his existence in all she had to do the first half- hour after her arrival. Suddenly she chanced to look at him intently: he laughed a pitiful, helpless little laugh. She called Fenya and told her to give him something to eat. All that day he sat in the same place, almost without stirring. When it got dark and the shutters were closed, Fenya asked her mistress: "Is the gentleman going to stay the night, mistress?" "Yes; make him a bed on the sofa," answered Grushenka. Questioning him more in detail, Grushenka learned from him that he had literally nowhere to go, and that "Mr. Kalganov, my benefactor, told me straight that he wouldn't receive me again and gave me five roubles." "Well, God bless you, you'd better stay, then," Grushenka decided in her grief, smiling compassionately at him. Her smile wrung the old man's heart and his lips twitched with grateful tears. And so the destitute wanderer had stayed with her ever since. He did not leave the house even when she was ill. Fenya and her grandmother, the cook, did not turn him out, but went on serving him meals and making up his bed on the sofa. Grushenka had grown used to him, and coming back from seeing Mitya (whom she had begun to visit in prison before she was really well) she would sit down and begin talking to "Maximushka" about trifling matters, to keep her from thinking of her sorrow. The old man turned out to be a good story-teller on occasions, so that at last he became necessary to her. Grushenka saw scarcely any one else beside Alyosha, who did not come every day and never stayed long. Her old merchant lay seriously ill at this time, "at his last gasp" as they said in the town, and he did, in fact, die a week after Mitya's trial. Three weeks before his death, feeling the end approaching, he made his sons, their wives and children, come upstairs to him at last and bade them not leave him again. From that moment he gave strict orders to his servants not to admit Grushenka and to tell her if she came, "The master wishes you long life and happiness and tells you to forget him." But Grushenka sent almost every day to inquire after him. "You've come at last!" she cried, flinging down the cards and joyfully greeting Alyosha, "and Maximushka's been scaring me that perhaps you wouldn't come. Ah, how I need you! Sit down to the table. What will you have--coffee?" "Yes, please," said Alyosha, sitting down at the table. "I am very hungry." "That's right. Fenya, Fenya, coffee," cried Grushenka. "It's been made a long time ready for you. And bring some little pies, and mind they are hot. Do you know, we've had a storm over those pies to-day. I took them to the prison for him, and would you believe it, he threw them back to me: he would not eat them. He flung one of them on the floor and stamped on it. So I said to him: 'I shall leave them with the warder; if you don't eat them before evening, it will be that your venomous spite is enough for you!' With that I went away. We quarreled again, would you believe it? Whenever I go we quarrel." Grushenka said all this in one breath in her agitation. Maximov, feeling nervous, at once smiled and looked on the floor. "What did you quarrel about this time?" asked Alyosha. "I didn't expect it in the least. Only fancy, he is jealous of the Pole. 'Why are you keeping him?' he said. 'So you've begun keeping him.' He is jealous, jealous of me all the time, jealous eating and sleeping! He even took it into his head to be jealous of Kuzma last week." "But he knew about the Pole before?" "Yes, but there it is. He has known about him from the very beginning, but to-day he suddenly got up and began scolding about him. I am ashamed to repeat what he said. Silly fellow! Rakitin went in as I came out. Perhaps Rakitin is egging him on. What do you think?" she added carelessly. "He loves you, that's what it is: he loves you so much. And now he is particularly worried." "I should think he might be, with the trial to-morrow. And I went to him to say something about to-morrow, for I dread to think what's going to happen then. You say that he is worried, but how worried I am! And he talks about the Pole! He's too silly! He is not jealous of Maximushka yet, anyway." "My wife was dreadfully jealous over me, too," Maximov put in his word. "Jealous of you?" Grushenka laughed in spite of herself. "Of whom could she have been jealous?" "Of the servant girls." "Hold your tongue, Maximushka, I am in no laughing mood now; I feel angry. Don't ogle the pies. I shan't give you any; they are not good for you, and I won't give you any vodka either. I have to look after him, too, just as though I kept an almshouse," she laughed. "I don't deserve your kindness. I am a worthless creature," said Maximov, with tears in his voice. "You would do better to spend your kindness on people of more use than me." "Ech, every one is of use, Maximushka, and how can we tell who's of most use? If only that Pole didn't exist, Alyosha. He's taken it into his head to fall ill, too, to-day. I've been to see him also. And I shall send him some pies, too, on purpose. I hadn't sent him any, but Mitya accused me of it, so now I shall send some! Ah, here's Fenya with a letter! Yes, it's from the Poles--begging again!" Pan Mussyalovitch had indeed sent an extremely long and characteristically eloquent letter in which he begged her to lend him three roubles. In the letter was enclosed a receipt for the sum, with a promise to repay it within three months, signed by Pan Vrublevsky as well. Grushenka had received many such letters, accompanied by such receipts, from her former lover during the fortnight of her convalescence. But she knew that the two Poles had been to ask after her health during her illness. The first letter Grushenka got from them was a long one, written on large notepaper and with a big family crest on the seal. It was so obscure and rhetorical that Grushenka put it down before she had read half, unable to make head or tail of it. She could not attend to letters then. The first letter was followed next day by another in which Pan Mussyalovitch begged her for a loan of two thousand roubles for a very short period. Grushenka left that letter, too, unanswered. A whole series of letters had followed--one every day--all as pompous and rhetorical, but the loan asked for, gradually diminishing, dropped to a hundred roubles, then to twenty-five, to ten, and finally Grushenka received a letter in which both the Poles begged her for only one rouble and included a receipt signed by both. Then Grushenka suddenly felt sorry for them, and at dusk she went round herself to their lodging. She found the two Poles in great poverty, almost destitution, without food or fuel, without cigarettes, in debt to their landlady. The two hundred roubles they had carried off from Mitya at Mokroe had soon disappeared. But Grushenka was surprised at their meeting her with arrogant dignity and self-assertion, with the greatest punctilio and pompous speeches. Grushenka simply laughed, and gave her former admirer ten roubles. Then, laughing, she told Mitya of it and he was not in the least jealous. But ever since, the Poles had attached themselves to Grushenka and bombarded her daily with requests for money and she had always sent them small sums. And now that day Mitya had taken it into his head to be fearfully jealous. "Like a fool, I went round to him just for a minute, on the way to see Mitya, for he is ill, too, my Pole," Grushenka began again with nervous haste. "I was laughing, telling Mitya about it. 'Fancy,' I said, 'my Pole had the happy thought to sing his old songs to me to the guitar. He thought I would be touched and marry him!' Mitya leapt up swearing.... So, there, I'll send them the pies! Fenya, is it that little girl they've sent? Here, give her three roubles and pack a dozen pies up in a paper and tell her to take them. And you, Alyosha, be sure to tell Mitya that I did send them the pies." "I wouldn't tell him for anything," said Alyosha, smiling. "Ech! You think he is unhappy about it. Why, he's jealous on purpose. He doesn't care," said Grushenka bitterly. "On purpose?" queried Alyosha. "I tell you you are silly, Alyosha. You know nothing about it, with all your cleverness. I am not offended that he is jealous of a girl like me. I would be offended if he were not jealous. I am like that. I am not offended at jealousy. I have a fierce heart, too. I can be jealous myself. Only what offends me is that he doesn't love me at all. I tell you he is jealous now _on purpose_. Am I blind? Don't I see? He began talking to me just now of that woman, of Katerina, saying she was this and that, how she had ordered a doctor from Moscow for him, to try and save him; how she had ordered the best counsel, the most learned one, too. So he loves her, if he'll praise her to my face, more shame to him! He's treated me badly himself, so he attacked me, to make out I am in fault first and to throw it all on me. 'You were with your Pole before me, so I can't be blamed for Katerina,' that's what it amounts to. He wants to throw the whole blame on me. He attacked me on purpose, on purpose, I tell you, but I'll--" Grushenka could not finish saying what she would do. She hid her eyes in her handkerchief and sobbed violently. "He doesn't love Katerina Ivanovna," said Alyosha firmly. "Well, whether he loves her or not, I'll soon find out for myself," said Grushenka, with a menacing note in her voice, taking the handkerchief from her eyes. Her face was distorted. Alyosha saw sorrowfully that from being mild and serene, it had become sullen and spiteful. "Enough of this foolishness," she said suddenly; "it's not for that I sent for you. Alyosha, darling, to-morrow--what will happen to-morrow? That's what worries me! And it's only me it worries! I look at every one and no one is thinking of it. No one cares about it. Are you thinking about it even? To-morrow he'll be tried, you know. Tell me, how will he be tried? You know it's the valet, the valet killed him! Good heavens! Can they condemn him in place of the valet and will no one stand up for him? They haven't troubled the valet at all, have they?" "He's been severely cross-examined," observed Alyosha thoughtfully; "but every one came to the conclusion it was not he. Now he is lying very ill. He has been ill ever since that attack. Really ill," added Alyosha. "Oh, dear! couldn't you go to that counsel yourself and tell him the whole thing by yourself? He's been brought from Petersburg for three thousand roubles, they say." "We gave these three thousand together--Ivan, Katerina Ivanovna and I--but she paid two thousand for the doctor from Moscow herself. The counsel Fetyukovitch would have charged more, but the case has become known all over Russia; it's talked of in all the papers and journals. Fetyukovitch agreed to come more for the glory of the thing, because the case has become so notorious. I saw him yesterday." "Well? Did you talk to him?" Grushenka put in eagerly. "He listened and said nothing. He told me that he had already formed his opinion. But he promised to give my words consideration." "Consideration! Ah, they are swindlers! They'll ruin him. And why did she send for the doctor?" "As an expert. They want to prove that Mitya's mad and committed the murder when he didn't know what he was doing"; Alyosha smiled gently; "but Mitya won't agree to that." "Yes; but that would be the truth if he had killed him!" cried Grushenka. "He was mad then, perfectly mad, and that was my fault, wretch that I am! But, of course, he didn't do it, he didn't do it! And they are all against him, the whole town. Even Fenya's evidence went to prove he had done it. And the people at the shop, and that official, and at the tavern, too, before, people had heard him say so! They are all, all against him, all crying out against him." "Yes, there's a fearful accumulation of evidence," Alyosha observed grimly. "And Grigory--Grigory Vassilyevitch--sticks to his story that the door was open, persists that he saw it--there's no shaking him. I went and talked to him myself. He's rude about it, too." "Yes, that's perhaps the strongest evidence against him," said Alyosha. "And as for Mitya's being mad, he certainly seems like it now," Grushenka began with a peculiarly anxious and mysterious air. "Do you know, Alyosha, I've been wanting to talk to you about it for a long time. I go to him every day and simply wonder at him. Tell me, now, what do you suppose he's always talking about? He talks and talks and I can make nothing of it. I fancied he was talking of something intellectual that I couldn't understand in my foolishness. Only he suddenly began talking to me about a babe--that is, about some child. 'Why is the babe poor?' he said. 'It's for that babe I am going to Siberia now. I am not a murderer, but I must go to Siberia!' What that meant, what babe, I couldn't tell for the life of me. Only I cried when he said it, because he said it so nicely. He cried himself, and I cried, too. He suddenly kissed me and made the sign of the cross over me. What did it mean, Alyosha, tell me? What is this babe?" "It must be Rakitin, who's been going to see him lately," smiled Alyosha, "though ... that's not Rakitin's doing. I didn't see Mitya yesterday. I'll see him to-day." "No, it's not Rakitin; it's his brother Ivan Fyodorovitch upsetting him. It's his going to see him, that's what it is," Grushenka began, and suddenly broke off. Alyosha gazed at her in amazement. "Ivan's going? Has he been to see him? Mitya told me himself that Ivan hasn't been once." "There ... there! What a girl I am! Blurting things out!" exclaimed Grushenka, confused and suddenly blushing. "Stay, Alyosha, hush! Since I've said so much I'll tell the whole truth--he's been to see him twice, the first directly he arrived. He galloped here from Moscow at once, of course, before I was taken ill; and the second time was a week ago. He told Mitya not to tell you about it, under any circumstances; and not to tell any one, in fact. He came secretly." Alyosha sat plunged in thought, considering something. The news evidently impressed him. "Ivan doesn't talk to me of Mitya's case," he said slowly. "He's said very little to me these last two months. And whenever I go to see him, he seems vexed at my coming, so I've not been to him for the last three weeks. H'm!... if he was there a week ago ... there certainly has been a change in Mitya this week." "There has been a change," Grushenka assented quickly. "They have a secret, they have a secret! Mitya told me himself there was a secret, and such a secret that Mitya can't rest. Before then, he was cheerful--and, indeed, he is cheerful now--but when he shakes his head like that, you know, and strides about the room and keeps pulling at the hair on his right temple with his right hand, I know there is something on his mind worrying him.... I know! He was cheerful before, though, indeed, he is cheerful to-day." "But you said he was worried." "Yes, he is worried and yet cheerful. He keeps on being irritable for a minute and then cheerful and then irritable again. And you know, Alyosha, I am constantly wondering at him--with this awful thing hanging over him, he sometimes laughs at such trifles as though he were a baby himself." "And did he really tell you not to tell me about Ivan? Did he say, 'Don't tell him'?" "Yes, he told me, 'Don't tell him.' It's you that Mitya's most afraid of. Because it's a secret: he said himself it was a secret. Alyosha, darling, go to him and find out what their secret is and come and tell me," Grushenka besought him with sudden eagerness. "Set my mind at rest that I may know the worst that's in store for me. That's why I sent for you." "You think it's something to do with you? If it were, he wouldn't have told you there was a secret." "I don't know. Perhaps he wants to tell me, but doesn't dare to. He warns me. There is a secret, he tells me, but he won't tell me what it is." "What do you think yourself?" "What do I think? It's the end for me, that's what I think. They all three have been plotting my end, for Katerina's in it. It's all Katerina, it all comes from her. She is this and that, and that means that I am not. He tells me that beforehand--warns me. He is planning to throw me over, that's the whole secret. They've planned it together, the three of them--Mitya, Katerina, and Ivan Fyodorovitch. Alyosha, I've been wanting to ask you a long time. A week ago he suddenly told me that Ivan was in love with Katerina, because he often goes to see her. Did he tell me the truth or not? Tell me, on your conscience, tell me the worst." "I won't tell you a lie. Ivan is not in love with Katerina Ivanovna, I think." "Oh, that's what I thought! He is lying to me, shameless deceiver, that's what it is! And he was jealous of me just now, so as to put the blame on me afterwards. He is stupid, he can't disguise what he is doing; he is so open, you know.... But I'll give it to him, I'll give it to him! 'You believe I did it,' he said. He said that to me, to me. He reproached me with that! God forgive him! You wait, I'll make it hot for Katerina at the trial! I'll just say a word then ... I'll tell everything then!" And again she cried bitterly. "This I can tell you for certain, Grushenka," Alyosha said, getting up. "First, that he loves you, loves you more than any one in the world, and you only, believe me. I know. I do know. The second thing is that I don't want to worm his secret out of him, but if he'll tell me of himself to- day, I shall tell him straight out that I have promised to tell you. Then I'll come to you to-day, and tell you. Only ... I fancy ... Katerina Ivanovna has nothing to do with it, and that the secret is about something else. That's certain. It isn't likely it's about Katerina Ivanovna, it seems to me. Good-by for now." Alyosha shook hands with her. Grushenka was still crying. He saw that she put little faith in his consolation, but she was better for having had her sorrow out, for having spoken of it. He was sorry to leave her in such a state of mind, but he was in haste. He had a great many things to do still. Chapter II. The Injured Foot The first of these things was at the house of Madame Hohlakov, and he hurried there to get it over as quickly as possible and not be too late for Mitya. Madame Hohlakov had been slightly ailing for the last three weeks: her foot had for some reason swollen up, and though she was not in bed, she lay all day half-reclining on the couch in her boudoir, in a fascinating but decorous _deshabille_. Alyosha had once noted with innocent amusement that, in spite of her illness, Madame Hohlakov had begun to be rather dressy--top-knots, ribbons, loose wrappers, had made their appearance, and he had an inkling of the reason, though he dismissed such ideas from his mind as frivolous. During the last two months the young official, Perhotin, had become a regular visitor at the house. Alyosha had not called for four days and he was in haste to go straight to Lise, as it was with her he had to speak, for Lise had sent a maid to him the previous day, specially asking him to come to her "about something very important," a request which, for certain reasons, had interest for Alyosha. But while the maid went to take his name in to Lise, Madame Hohlakov heard of his arrival from some one, and immediately sent to beg him to come to her "just for one minute." Alyosha reflected that it was better to accede to the mamma's request, or else she would be sending down to Lise's room every minute that he was there. Madame Hohlakov was lying on a couch. She was particularly smartly dressed and was evidently in a state of extreme nervous excitement. She greeted Alyosha with cries of rapture. "It's ages, ages, perfect ages since I've seen you! It's a whole week--only think of it! Ah, but you were here only four days ago, on Wednesday. You have come to see Lise. I'm sure you meant to slip into her room on tiptoe, without my hearing you. My dear, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, if you only knew how worried I am about her! But of that later, though that's the most important thing, of that later. Dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, I trust you implicitly with my Lise. Since the death of Father Zossima--God rest his soul!" (she crossed herself)--"I look upon you as a monk, though you look charming in your new suit. Where did you find such a tailor in these parts? No, no, that's not the chief thing--of that later. Forgive me for sometimes calling you Alyosha; an old woman like me may take liberties," she smiled coquettishly; "but that will do later, too. The important thing is that I shouldn't forget what is important. Please remind me of it yourself. As soon as my tongue runs away with me, you just say 'the important thing?' Ach! how do I know now what is of most importance? Ever since Lise took back her promise--her childish promise, Alexey Fyodorovitch--to marry you, you've realized, of course, that it was only the playful fancy of a sick child who had been so long confined to her chair--thank God, she can walk now!... that new doctor Katya sent for from Moscow for your unhappy brother, who will to-morrow--But why speak of to- morrow? I am ready to die at the very thought of to-morrow. Ready to die of curiosity.... That doctor was with us yesterday and saw Lise.... I paid him fifty roubles for the visit. But that's not the point, that's not the point again. You see, I'm mixing everything up. I am in such a hurry. Why am I in a hurry? I don't understand. It's awful how I seem growing unable to understand anything. Everything seems mixed up in a sort of tangle. I am afraid you are so bored you will jump up and run away, and that will be all I shall see of you. Goodness! Why are we sitting here and no coffee? Yulia, Glafira, coffee!" Alyosha made haste to thank her, and said that he had only just had coffee. "Where?" "At Agrafena Alexandrovna's." "At ... at that woman's? Ah, it's she has brought ruin on every one. I know nothing about it though. They say she has become a saint, though it's rather late in the day. She had better have done it before. What use is it now? Hush, hush, Alexey Fyodorovitch, for I have so much to say to you that I am afraid I shall tell you nothing. This awful trial ... I shall certainly go, I am making arrangements. I shall be carried there in my chair; besides I can sit up. I shall have people with me. And, you know, I am a witness. How shall I speak, how shall I speak? I don't know what I shall say. One has to take an oath, hasn't one?" "Yes; but I don't think you will be able to go." "I can sit up. Ah, you put me out! Ah! this trial, this savage act, and then they are all going to Siberia, some are getting married, and all this so quickly, so quickly, everything's changing, and at last--nothing. All grow old and have death to look forward to. Well, so be it! I am weary. This Katya, _cette charmante personne_, has disappointed all my hopes. Now she is going to follow one of your brothers to Siberia, and your other brother is going to follow her, and will live in the nearest town, and they will all torment one another. It drives me out of my mind. Worst of all--the publicity. The story has been told a million times over in all the papers in Moscow and Petersburg. Ah! yes, would you believe it, there's a paragraph that I was 'a dear friend' of your brother's ----, I can't repeat the horrid word. Just fancy, just fancy!" "Impossible! Where was the paragraph? What did it say?" "I'll show you directly. I got the paper and read it yesterday. Here, in the Petersburg paper _Gossip_. The paper began coming out this year. I am awfully fond of gossip, and I take it in, and now it pays me out--this is what gossip comes to! Here it is, here, this passage. Read it." And she handed Alyosha a sheet of newspaper which had been under her pillow. It was not exactly that she was upset, she seemed overwhelmed and perhaps everything really was mixed up in a tangle in her head. The paragraph was very typical, and must have been a great shock to her, but, fortunately perhaps, she was unable to keep her mind fixed on any one subject at that moment, and so might race off in a minute to something else and quite forget the newspaper. Alyosha was well aware that the story of the terrible case had spread all over Russia. And, good heavens! what wild rumors about his brother, about the Karamazovs, and about himself he had read in the course of those two months, among other equally credible items! One paper had even stated that he had gone into a monastery and become a monk, in horror at his brother's crime. Another contradicted this, and stated that he and his elder, Father Zossima, had broken into the monastery chest and "made tracks from the monastery." The present paragraph in the paper _Gossip_ was under the heading, "The Karamazov Case at Skotoprigonyevsk." (That, alas! was the name of our little town. I had hitherto kept it concealed.) It was brief, and Madame Hohlakov was not directly mentioned in it. No names appeared, in fact. It was merely stated that the criminal, whose approaching trial was making such a sensation--retired army captain, an idle swaggerer, and reactionary bully--was continually involved in amorous intrigues, and particularly popular with certain ladies "who were pining in solitude." One such lady, a pining widow, who tried to seem young though she had a grown-up daughter, was so fascinated by him that only two hours before the crime she offered him three thousand roubles, on condition that he would elope with her to the gold mines. But the criminal, counting on escaping punishment, had preferred to murder his father to get the three thousand rather than go off to Siberia with the middle-aged charms of his pining lady. This playful paragraph finished, of course, with an outburst of generous indignation at the wickedness of parricide and at the lately abolished institution of serfdom. Reading it with curiosity, Alyosha folded up the paper and handed it back to Madame Hohlakov. "Well, that must be me," she hurried on again. "Of course I am meant. Scarcely more than an hour before, I suggested gold mines to him, and here they talk of 'middle-aged charms' as though that were my motive! He writes that out of spite! God Almighty forgive him for the middle-aged charms, as I forgive him! You know it's-- Do you know who it is? It's your friend Rakitin." "Perhaps," said Alyosha, "though I've heard nothing about it." "It's he, it's he! No 'perhaps' about it. You know I turned him out of the house.... You know all that story, don't you?" "I know that you asked him not to visit you for the future, but why it was, I haven't heard ... from you, at least." "Ah, then you've heard it from him! He abuses me, I suppose, abuses me dreadfully?" "Yes, he does; but then he abuses every one. But why you've given him up I haven't heard from him either. I meet him very seldom now, indeed. We are not friends." "Well, then, I'll tell you all about it. There's no help for it, I'll confess, for there is one point in which I was perhaps to blame. Only a little, little point, so little that perhaps it doesn't count. You see, my dear boy"--Madame Hohlakov suddenly looked arch and a charming, though enigmatic, smile played about her lips--"you see, I suspect ... You must forgive me, Alyosha. I am like a mother to you.... No, no; quite the contrary. I speak to you now as though you were my father--mother's quite out of place. Well, it's as though I were confessing to Father Zossima, that's just it. I called you a monk just now. Well, that poor young man, your friend, Rakitin (Mercy on us! I can't be angry with him. I feel cross, but not very), that frivolous young man, would you believe it, seems to have taken it into his head to fall in love with me. I only noticed it later. At first--a month ago--he only began to come oftener to see me, almost every day; though, of course, we were acquainted before. I knew nothing about it ... and suddenly it dawned upon me, and I began to notice things with surprise. You know, two months ago, that modest, charming, excellent young man, Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, who's in the service here, began to be a regular visitor at the house. You met him here ever so many times yourself. And he is an excellent, earnest young man, isn't he? He comes once every three days, not every day (though I should be glad to see him every day), and always so well dressed. Altogether, I love young people, Alyosha, talented, modest, like you, and he has almost the mind of a statesman, he talks so charmingly, and I shall certainly, certainly try and get promotion for him. He is a future diplomat. On that awful day he almost saved me from death by coming in the night. And your friend Rakitin comes in such boots, and always stretches them out on the carpet.... He began hinting at his feelings, in fact, and one day, as he was going, he squeezed my hand terribly hard. My foot began to swell directly after he pressed my hand like that. He had met Pyotr Ilyitch here before, and would you believe it, he is always gibing at him, growling at him, for some reason. I simply looked at the way they went on together and laughed inwardly. So I was sitting here alone--no, I was laid up then. Well, I was lying here alone and suddenly Rakitin comes in, and only fancy! brought me some verses of his own composition--a short poem, on my bad foot: that is, he described my foot in a poem. Wait a minute--how did it go? A captivating little foot. It began somehow like that. I can never remember poetry. I've got it here. I'll show it to you later. But it's a charming thing--charming; and, you know, it's not only about the foot, it had a good moral, too, a charming idea, only I've forgotten it; in fact, it was just the thing for an album. So, of course, I thanked him, and he was evidently flattered. I'd hardly had time to thank him when in comes Pyotr Ilyitch, and Rakitin suddenly looked as black as night. I could see that Pyotr Ilyitch was in the way, for Rakitin certainly wanted to say something after giving me the verses. I had a presentiment of it; but Pyotr Ilyitch came in. I showed Pyotr Ilyitch the verses and didn't say who was the author. But I am convinced that he guessed, though he won't own it to this day, and declares he had no idea. But he says that on purpose. Pyotr Ilyitch began to laugh at once, and fell to criticizing it. 'Wretched doggerel,' he said they were, 'some divinity student must have written them,' and with such vehemence, such vehemence! Then, instead of laughing, your friend flew into a rage. 'Good gracious!' I thought, 'they'll fly at each other.' 'It was I who wrote them,' said he. 'I wrote them as a joke,' he said, 'for I think it degrading to write verses.... But they are good poetry. They want to put a monument to your Pushkin for writing about women's feet, while I wrote with a moral purpose, and you,' said he, 'are an advocate of serfdom. You've no humane ideas,' said he. 'You have no modern enlightened feelings, you are uninfluenced by progress, you are a mere official,' he said, 'and you take bribes.' Then I began screaming and imploring them. And, you know, Pyotr Ilyitch is anything but a coward. He at once took up the most gentlemanly tone, looked at him sarcastically, listened, and apologized. 'I'd no idea,' said he. 'I shouldn't have said it, if I had known. I should have praised it. Poets are all so irritable,' he said. In short, he laughed at him under cover of the most gentlemanly tone. He explained to me afterwards that it was all sarcastic. I thought he was in earnest. Only as I lay there, just as before you now, I thought, 'Would it, or would it not, be the proper thing for me to turn Rakitin out for shouting so rudely at a visitor in my house?' And, would you believe it, I lay here, shut my eyes, and wondered, would it be the proper thing or not. I kept worrying and worrying, and my heart began to beat, and I couldn't make up my mind whether to make an outcry or not. One voice seemed to be telling me, 'Speak,' and the other 'No, don't speak.' And no sooner had the second voice said that than I cried out, and fainted. Of course, there was a fuss. I got up suddenly and said to Rakitin, 'It's painful for me to say it, but I don't wish to see you in my house again.' So I turned him out. Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, I know myself I did wrong. I was putting it on. I wasn't angry with him at all, really; but I suddenly fancied--that was what did it--that it would be such a fine scene.... And yet, believe me, it was quite natural, for I really shed tears and cried for several days afterwards, and then suddenly, one afternoon, I forgot all about it. So it's a fortnight since he's been here, and I kept wondering whether he would come again. I wondered even yesterday, then suddenly last night came this _Gossip_. I read it and gasped. Who could have written it? He must have written it. He went home, sat down, wrote it on the spot, sent it, and they put it in. It was a fortnight ago, you see. But, Alyosha, it's awful how I keep talking and don't say what I want to say. Ah! the words come of themselves!" "It's very important for me to be in time to see my brother to-day," Alyosha faltered. "To be sure, to be sure! You bring it all back to me. Listen, what is an aberration?" "What aberration?" asked Alyosha, wondering. "In the legal sense. An aberration in which everything is pardonable. Whatever you do, you will be acquitted at once." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you. This Katya ... Ah! she is a charming, charming creature, only I never can make out who it is she is in love with. She was with me some time ago and I couldn't get anything out of her. Especially as she won't talk to me except on the surface now. She is always talking about my health and nothing else, and she takes up such a tone with me, too. I simply said to myself, 'Well, so be it. I don't care'... Oh, yes. I was talking of aberration. This doctor has come. You know a doctor has come? Of course, you know it--the one who discovers madmen. You wrote for him. No, it wasn't you, but Katya. It's all Katya's doing. Well, you see, a man may be sitting perfectly sane and suddenly have an aberration. He may be conscious and know what he is doing and yet be in a state of aberration. And there's no doubt that Dmitri Fyodorovitch was suffering from aberration. They found out about aberration as soon as the law courts were reformed. It's all the good effect of the reformed law courts. The doctor has been here and questioned me about that evening, about the gold mines. 'How did he seem then?' he asked me. He must have been in a state of aberration. He came in shouting, 'Money, money, three thousand! Give me three thousand!' and then went away and immediately did the murder. 'I don't want to murder him,' he said, and he suddenly went and murdered him. That's why they'll acquit him, because he struggled against it and yet he murdered him." "But he didn't murder him," Alyosha interrupted rather sharply. He felt more and more sick with anxiety and impatience. "Yes, I know it was that old man Grigory murdered him." "Grigory?" cried Alyosha. "Yes, yes; it was Grigory. He lay as Dmitri Fyodorovitch struck him down, and then got up, saw the door open, went in and killed Fyodor Pavlovitch." "But why, why?" "Suffering from aberration. When he recovered from the blow Dmitri Fyodorovitch gave him on the head, he was suffering from aberration; he went and committed the murder. As for his saying he didn't, he very likely doesn't remember. Only, you know, it'll be better, ever so much better, if Dmitri Fyodorovitch murdered him. And that's how it must have been, though I say it was Grigory. It certainly was Dmitri Fyodorovitch, and that's better, ever so much better! Oh! not better that a son should have killed his father, I don't defend that. Children ought to honor their parents, and yet it would be better if it were he, as you'd have nothing to cry over then, for he did it when he was unconscious or rather when he was conscious, but did not know what he was doing. Let them acquit him--that's so humane, and would show what a blessing reformed law courts are. I knew nothing about it, but they say they have been so a long time. And when I heard it yesterday, I was so struck by it that I wanted to send for you at once. And if he is acquitted, make him come straight from the law courts to dinner with me, and I'll have a party of friends, and we'll drink to the reformed law courts. I don't believe he'd be dangerous; besides, I'll invite a great many friends, so that he could always be led out if he did anything. And then he might be made a justice of the peace or something in another town, for those who have been in trouble themselves make the best judges. And, besides, who isn't suffering from aberration nowadays?--you, I, all of us are in a state of aberration, and there are ever so many examples of it: a man sits singing a song, suddenly something annoys him, he takes a pistol and shoots the first person he comes across, and no one blames him for it. I read that lately, and all the doctors confirm it. The doctors are always confirming; they confirm anything. Why, my Lise is in a state of aberration. She made me cry again yesterday, and the day before, too, and to-day I suddenly realized that it's all due to aberration. Oh, Lise grieves me so! I believe she's quite mad. Why did she send for you? Did she send for you or did you come of yourself?" "Yes, she sent for me, and I am just going to her." Alyosha got up resolutely. "Oh, my dear, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, perhaps that's what's most important," Madame Hohlakov cried, suddenly bursting into tears. "God knows I trust Lise to you with all my heart, and it's no matter her sending for you on the sly, without telling her mother. But forgive me, I can't trust my daughter so easily to your brother Ivan Fyodorovitch, though I still consider him the most chivalrous young man. But only fancy, he's been to see Lise and I knew nothing about it!" "How? What? When?" Alyosha was exceedingly surprised. He had not sat down again and listened standing. "I will tell you; that's perhaps why I asked you to come, for I don't know now why I did ask you to come. Well, Ivan Fyodorovitch has been to see me twice, since he came back from Moscow. First time he came as a friend to call on me, and the second time Katya was here and he came because he heard she was here. I didn't, of course, expect him to come often, knowing what a lot he has to do as it is, _vous comprenez, cette affaire et la mort terrible de votre papa_. But I suddenly heard he'd been here again, not to see me but to see Lise. That's six days ago now. He came, stayed five minutes, and went away. And I didn't hear of it till three days afterwards, from Glafira, so it was a great shock to me. I sent for Lise directly. She laughed. 'He thought you were asleep,' she said, 'and came in to me to ask after your health.' Of course, that's how it happened. But Lise, Lise, mercy on us, how she distresses me! Would you believe it, one night, four days ago, just after you saw her last time, and had gone away, she suddenly had a fit, screaming, shrieking, hysterics! Why is it I never have hysterics? Then, next day another fit, and the same thing on the third, and yesterday too, and then yesterday that aberration. She suddenly screamed out, 'I hate Ivan Fyodorovitch. I insist on your never letting him come to the house again.' I was struck dumb at these amazing words, and answered, 'On what grounds could I refuse to see such an excellent young man, a young man of such learning too, and so unfortunate?'--for all this business is a misfortune, isn't it? She suddenly burst out laughing at my words, and so rudely, you know. Well, I was pleased; I thought I had amused her and the fits would pass off, especially as I wanted to refuse to see Ivan Fyodorovitch anyway on account of his strange visits without my knowledge, and meant to ask him for an explanation. But early this morning Lise waked up and flew into a passion with Yulia and, would you believe it, slapped her in the face. That's monstrous; I am always polite to my servants. And an hour later she was hugging Yulia's feet and kissing them. She sent a message to me that she wasn't coming to me at all, and would never come and see me again, and when I dragged myself down to her, she rushed to kiss me, crying, and as she kissed me, she pushed me out of the room without saying a word, so I couldn't find out what was the matter. Now, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, I rest all my hopes on you, and, of course, my whole life is in your hands. I simply beg you to go to Lise and find out everything from her, as you alone can, and come back and tell me--me, her mother, for you understand it will be the death of me, simply the death of me, if this goes on, or else I shall run away. I can stand no more. I have patience; but I may lose patience, and then ... then something awful will happen. Ah, dear me! At last, Pyotr Ilyitch!" cried Madame Hohlakov, beaming all over as she saw Perhotin enter the room. "You are late, you are late! Well, sit down, speak, put us out of suspense. What does the counsel say. Where are you off to, Alexey Fyodorovitch?" "To Lise." "Oh, yes. You won't forget, you won't forget what I asked you? It's a question of life and death!" "Of course, I won't forget, if I can ... but I am so late," muttered Alyosha, beating a hasty retreat. "No, be sure, be sure to come in; don't say 'If you can.' I shall die if you don't," Madame Hohlakov called after him, but Alyosha had already left the room. Chapter III. A Little Demon Going in to Lise, he found her half reclining in the invalid-chair, in which she had been wheeled when she was unable to walk. She did not move to meet him, but her sharp, keen eyes were simply riveted on his face. There was a feverish look in her eyes, her face was pale and yellow. Alyosha was amazed at the change that had taken place in her in three days. She was positively thinner. She did not hold out her hand to him. He touched the thin, long fingers which lay motionless on her dress, then he sat down facing her, without a word. "I know you are in a hurry to get to the prison," Lise said curtly, "and mamma's kept you there for hours; she's just been telling you about me and Yulia." "How do you know?" asked Alyosha. "I've been listening. Why do you stare at me? I want to listen and I do listen, there's no harm in that. I don't apologize." "You are upset about something?" "On the contrary, I am very happy. I've only just been reflecting for the thirtieth time what a good thing it is I refused you and shall not be your wife. You are not fit to be a husband. If I were to marry you and give you a note to take to the man I loved after you, you'd take it and be sure to give it to him and bring an answer back, too. If you were forty, you would still go on taking my love-letters for me." She suddenly laughed. "There is something spiteful and yet open-hearted about you," Alyosha smiled to her. "The open-heartedness consists in my not being ashamed of myself with you. What's more, I don't want to feel ashamed with you, just with you. Alyosha, why is it I don't respect you? I am very fond of you, but I don't respect you. If I respected you, I shouldn't talk to you without shame, should I?" "No." "But do you believe that I am not ashamed with you?" "No, I don't believe it." Lise laughed nervously again; she spoke rapidly. "I sent your brother, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, some sweets in prison. Alyosha, you know, you are quite pretty! I shall love you awfully for having so quickly allowed me not to love you." "Why did you send for me to-day, Lise?" "I wanted to tell you of a longing I have. I should like some one to torture me, marry me and then torture me, deceive me and go away. I don't want to be happy." "You are in love with disorder?" "Yes, I want disorder. I keep wanting to set fire to the house. I keep imagining how I'll creep up and set fire to the house on the sly; it must be on the sly. They'll try to put it out, but it'll go on burning. And I shall know and say nothing. Ah, what silliness! And how bored I am!" She waved her hand with a look of repulsion. "It's your luxurious life," said Alyosha, softly. "Is it better, then, to be poor?" "Yes, it is better." "That's what your monk taught you. That's not true. Let me be rich and all the rest poor, I'll eat sweets and drink cream and not give any to any one else. Ach, don't speak, don't say anything," she shook her hand at him, though Alyosha had not opened his mouth. "You've told me all that before, I know it all by heart. It bores me. If I am ever poor, I shall murder somebody, and even if I am rich, I may murder some one, perhaps--why do nothing! But do you know, I should like to reap, cut the rye? I'll marry you, and you shall become a peasant, a real peasant; we'll keep a colt, shall we? Do you know Kalganov?" "Yes." "He is always wandering about, dreaming. He says, 'Why live in real life? It's better to dream. One can dream the most delightful things, but real life is a bore.' But he'll be married soon for all that; he's been making love to me already. Can you spin tops?" "Yes." "Well, he's just like a top: he wants to be wound up and set spinning and then to be lashed, lashed, lashed with a whip. If I marry him, I'll keep him spinning all his life. You are not ashamed to be with me?" "No." "You are awfully cross, because I don't talk about holy things. I don't want to be holy. What will they do to one in the next world for the greatest sin? You must know all about that." "God will censure you." Alyosha was watching her steadily. "That's just what I should like. I would go up and they would censure me, and I would burst out laughing in their faces. I should dreadfully like to set fire to the house, Alyosha, to our house; you still don't believe me?" "Why? There are children of twelve years old, who have a longing to set fire to something and they do set things on fire, too. It's a sort of disease." "That's not true, that's not true; there may be children, but that's not what I mean." "You take evil for good; it's a passing crisis, it's the result of your illness, perhaps." "You do despise me, though! It's simply that I don't want to do good, I want to do evil, and it has nothing to do with illness." "Why do evil?" "So that everything might be destroyed. Ah, how nice it would be if everything were destroyed! You know, Alyosha, I sometimes think of doing a fearful lot of harm and everything bad, and I should do it for a long while on the sly and suddenly every one would find it out. Every one will stand round and point their fingers at me and I would look at them all. That would be awfully nice. Why would it be so nice, Alyosha?" "I don't know. It's a craving to destroy something good or, as you say, to set fire to something. It happens sometimes." "I not only say it, I shall do it." "I believe you." "Ah, how I love you for saying you believe me. And you are not lying one little bit. But perhaps you think that I am saying all this on purpose to annoy you?" "No, I don't think that ... though perhaps there is a little desire to do that in it, too." "There is a little. I never can tell lies to you," she declared, with a strange fire in her eyes. What struck Alyosha above everything was her earnestness. There was not a trace of humor or jesting in her face now, though, in old days, fun and gayety never deserted her even at her most "earnest" moments. "There are moments when people love crime," said Alyosha thoughtfully. "Yes, yes! You have uttered my thought; they love crime, every one loves crime, they love it always, not at some 'moments.' You know, it's as though people have made an agreement to lie about it and have lied about it ever since. They all declare that they hate evil, but secretly they all love it." "And are you still reading nasty books?" "Yes, I am. Mamma reads them and hides them under her pillow and I steal them." "Aren't you ashamed to destroy yourself?" "I want to destroy myself. There's a boy here, who lay down between the railway lines when the train was passing. Lucky fellow! Listen, your brother is being tried now for murdering his father and every one loves his having killed his father." "Loves his having killed his father?" "Yes, loves it; every one loves it! Everybody says it's so awful, but secretly they simply love it. I for one love it." "There is some truth in what you say about every one," said Alyosha softly. "Oh, what ideas you have!" Lise shrieked in delight. "And you a monk, too! You wouldn't believe how I respect you, Alyosha, for never telling lies. Oh, I must tell you a funny dream of mine. I sometimes dream of devils. It's night; I am in my room with a candle and suddenly there are devils all over the place, in all the corners, under the table, and they open the doors; there's a crowd of them behind the doors and they want to come and seize me. And they are just coming, just seizing me. But I suddenly cross myself and they all draw back, though they don't go away altogether, they stand at the doors and in the corners, waiting. And suddenly I have a frightful longing to revile God aloud, and so I begin, and then they come crowding back to me, delighted, and seize me again and I cross myself again and they all draw back. It's awful fun. it takes one's breath away." "I've had the same dream, too," said Alyosha suddenly. "Really?" cried Lise, surprised. "I say, Alyosha, don't laugh, that's awfully important. Could two different people have the same dream?" "It seems they can." "Alyosha, I tell you, it's awfully important," Lise went on, with really excessive amazement. "It's not the dream that's important, but your having the same dream as me. You never lie to me, don't lie now: is it true? You are not laughing?" "It's true." Lise seemed extraordinarily impressed and for half a minute she was silent. "Alyosha, come and see me, come and see me more often," she said suddenly, in a supplicating voice. "I'll always come to see you, all my life," answered Alyosha firmly. "You are the only person I can talk to, you know," Lise began again. "I talk to no one but myself and you. Only you in the whole world. And to you more readily than to myself. And I am not a bit ashamed with you, not a bit. Alyosha, why am I not ashamed with you, not a bit? Alyosha, is it true that at Easter the Jews steal a child and kill it?" "I don't know." "There's a book here in which I read about the trial of a Jew, who took a child of four years old and cut off the fingers from both hands, and then crucified him on the wall, hammered nails into him and crucified him, and afterwards, when he was tried, he said that the child died soon, within four hours. That was 'soon'! He said the child moaned, kept on moaning and he stood admiring it. That's nice!" "Nice?" "Nice; I sometimes imagine that it was I who crucified him. He would hang there moaning and I would sit opposite him eating pineapple _compote_. I am awfully fond of pineapple _compote_. Do you like it?" Alyosha looked at her in silence. Her pale, sallow face was suddenly contorted, her eyes burned. "You know, when I read about that Jew I shook with sobs all night. I kept fancying how the little thing cried and moaned (a child of four years old understands, you know), and all the while the thought of pineapple _compote_ haunted me. In the morning I wrote a letter to a certain person, begging him _particularly_ to come and see me. He came and I suddenly told him all about the child and the pineapple _compote_. _All_ about it, _all_, and said that it was nice. He laughed and said it really was nice. Then he got up and went away. He was only here five minutes. Did he despise me? Did he despise me? Tell me, tell me, Alyosha, did he despise me or not?" She sat up on the couch, with flashing eyes. "Tell me," Alyosha asked anxiously, "did you send for that person?" "Yes, I did." "Did you send him a letter?" "Yes." "Simply to ask about that, about that child?" "No, not about that at all. But when he came, I asked him about that at once. He answered, laughed, got up and went away." "That person behaved honorably," Alyosha murmured. "And did he despise me? Did he laugh at me?" "No, for perhaps he believes in the pineapple _compote_ himself. He is very ill now, too, Lise." "Yes, he does believe in it," said Lise, with flashing eyes. "He doesn't despise any one," Alyosha went on. "Only he does not believe any one. If he doesn't believe in people, of course, he does despise them." "Then he despises me, me?" "You, too." "Good," Lise seemed to grind her teeth. "When he went out laughing, I felt that it was nice to be despised. The child with fingers cut off is nice, and to be despised is nice...." And she laughed in Alyosha's face, a feverish malicious laugh. "Do you know, Alyosha, do you know, I should like--Alyosha, save me!" She suddenly jumped from the couch, rushed to him and seized him with both hands. "Save me!" she almost groaned. "Is there any one in the world I could tell what I've told you? I've told you the truth, the truth. I shall kill myself, because I loathe everything! I don't want to live, because I loathe everything! I loathe everything, everything. Alyosha, why don't you love me in the least?" she finished in a frenzy. "But I do love you!" answered Alyosha warmly. "And will you weep over me, will you?" "Yes." "Not because I won't be your wife, but simply weep for me?" "Yes." "Thank you! It's only your tears I want. Every one else may punish me and trample me under foot, every one, every one, not excepting _any one_. For I don't love any one. Do you hear, not any one! On the contrary, I hate him! Go, Alyosha; it's time you went to your brother"; she tore herself away from him suddenly. "How can I leave you like this?" said Alyosha, almost in alarm. "Go to your brother, the prison will be shut; go, here's your hat. Give my love to Mitya, go, go!" And she almost forcibly pushed Alyosha out of the door. He looked at her with pained surprise, when he was suddenly aware of a letter in his right hand, a tiny letter folded up tight and sealed. He glanced at it and instantly read the address, "To Ivan Fyodorovitch Karamazov." He looked quickly at Lise. Her face had become almost menacing. "Give it to him, you must give it to him!" she ordered him, trembling and beside herself. "To-day, at once, or I'll poison myself! That's why I sent for you." And she slammed the door quickly. The bolt clicked. Alyosha put the note in his pocket and went straight downstairs, without going back to Madame Hohlakov; forgetting her, in fact. As soon as Alyosha had gone, Lise unbolted the door, opened it a little, put her finger in the crack and slammed the door with all her might, pinching her finger. Ten seconds after, releasing her finger, she walked softly, slowly to her chair, sat up straight in it and looked intently at her blackened finger and at the blood that oozed from under the nail. Her lips were quivering and she kept whispering rapidly to herself: "I am a wretch, wretch, wretch, wretch!" Chapter IV. A Hymn And A Secret It was quite late (days are short in November) when Alyosha rang at the prison gate. It was beginning to get dusk. But Alyosha knew that he would be admitted without difficulty. Things were managed in our little town, as everywhere else. At first, of course, on the conclusion of the preliminary inquiry, relations and a few other persons could only obtain interviews with Mitya by going through certain inevitable formalities. But later, though the formalities were not relaxed, exceptions were made for some, at least, of Mitya's visitors. So much so, that sometimes the interviews with the prisoner in the room set aside for the purpose were practically _tete-a-tete_. These exceptions, however, were few in number; only Grushenka, Alyosha and Rakitin were treated like this. But the captain of the police, Mihail Mihailovitch, was very favorably disposed to Grushenka. His abuse of her at Mokroe weighed on the old man's conscience, and when he learned the whole story, he completely changed his view of her. And strange to say, though he was firmly persuaded of his guilt, yet after Mitya was once in prison, the old man came to take a more and more lenient view of him. "He was a man of good heart, perhaps," he thought, "who had come to grief from drinking and dissipation." His first horror had been succeeded by pity. As for Alyosha, the police captain was very fond of him and had known him for a long time. Rakitin, who had of late taken to coming very often to see the prisoner, was one of the most intimate acquaintances of the "police captain's young ladies," as he called them, and was always hanging about their house. He gave lessons in the house of the prison superintendent, too, who, though scrupulous in the performance of his duties, was a kind- hearted old man. Alyosha, again, had an intimate acquaintance of long standing with the superintendent, who was fond of talking to him, generally on sacred subjects. He respected Ivan Fyodorovitch, and stood in awe of his opinion, though he was a great philosopher himself; "self- taught," of course. But Alyosha had an irresistible attraction for him. During the last year the old man had taken to studying the Apocryphal Gospels, and constantly talked over his impressions with his young friend. He used to come and see him in the monastery and discussed for hours together with him and with the monks. So even if Alyosha were late at the prison, he had only to go to the superintendent and everything was made easy. Besides, every one in the prison, down to the humblest warder, had grown used to Alyosha. The sentry, of course, did not trouble him so long as the authorities were satisfied. When Mitya was summoned from his cell, he always went downstairs, to the place set aside for interviews. As Alyosha entered the room he came upon Rakitin, who was just taking leave of Mitya. They were both talking loudly. Mitya was laughing heartily as he saw him out, while Rakitin seemed grumbling. Rakitin did not like meeting Alyosha, especially of late. He scarcely spoke to him, and bowed to him stiffly. Seeing Alyosha enter now, he frowned and looked away, as though he were entirely absorbed in buttoning his big, warm, fur-trimmed overcoat. Then he began looking at once for his umbrella. "I must mind not to forget my belongings," he muttered, simply to say something. "Mind you don't forget other people's belongings," said Mitya, as a joke, and laughed at once at his own wit. Rakitin fired up instantly. "You'd better give that advice to your own family, who've always been a slave-driving lot, and not to Rakitin," he cried, suddenly trembling with anger. "What's the matter? I was joking," cried Mitya. "Damn it all! They are all like that," he turned to Alyosha, nodding towards Rakitin's hurriedly retreating figure. "He was sitting here, laughing and cheerful, and all at once he boils up like that. He didn't even nod to you. Have you broken with him completely? Why are you so late? I've not been simply waiting, but thirsting for you the whole morning. But never mind. We'll make up for it now." "Why does he come here so often? Surely you are not such great friends?" asked Alyosha. He, too, nodded at the door through which Rakitin had disappeared. "Great friends with Rakitin? No, not as much as that. Is it likely--a pig like that? He considers I am ... a blackguard. They can't understand a joke either, that's the worst of such people. They never understand a joke, and their souls are dry, dry and flat; they remind me of prison walls when I was first brought here. But he is a clever fellow, very clever. Well, Alexey, it's all over with me now." He sat down on the bench and made Alyosha sit down beside him. "Yes, the trial's to-morrow. Are you so hopeless, brother?" Alyosha said, with an apprehensive feeling. "What are you talking about?" said Mitya, looking at him rather uncertainly. "Oh, you mean the trial! Damn it all! Till now we've been talking of things that don't matter, about this trial, but I haven't said a word to you about the chief thing. Yes, the trial is to-morrow; but it wasn't the trial I meant, when I said it was all over with me. Why do you look at me so critically?" "What do you mean, Mitya?" "Ideas, ideas, that's all! Ethics! What is ethics?" "Ethics?" asked Alyosha, wondering. "Yes; is it a science?" "Yes, there is such a science ... but ... I confess I can't explain to you what sort of science it is." "Rakitin knows. Rakitin knows a lot, damn him! He's not going to be a monk. He means to go to Petersburg. There he'll go in for criticism of an elevating tendency. Who knows, he may be of use and make his own career, too. Ough! they are first-rate, these people, at making a career! Damn ethics, I am done for, Alexey, I am, you man of God! I love you more than any one. It makes my heart yearn to look at you. Who was Karl Bernard?" "Karl Bernard?" Alyosha was surprised again. "No, not Karl. Stay, I made a mistake. Claude Bernard. What was he? Chemist or what?" "He must be a savant," answered Alyosha; "but I confess I can't tell you much about him, either. I've heard of him as a savant, but what sort I don't know." "Well, damn him, then! I don't know either," swore Mitya. "A scoundrel of some sort, most likely. They are all scoundrels. And Rakitin will make his way. Rakitin will get on anywhere; he is another Bernard. Ugh, these Bernards! They are all over the place." "But what is the matter?" Alyosha asked insistently. "He wants to write an article about me, about my case, and so begin his literary career. That's what he comes for; he said so himself. He wants to prove some theory. He wants to say 'he couldn't help murdering his father, he was corrupted by his environment,' and so on. He explained it all to me. He is going to put in a tinge of Socialism, he says. But there, damn the fellow, he can put in a tinge if he likes, I don't care. He can't bear Ivan, he hates him. He's not fond of you, either. But I don't turn him out, for he is a clever fellow. Awfully conceited, though. I said to him just now, 'The Karamazovs are not blackguards, but philosophers; for all true Russians are philosophers, and though you've studied, you are not a philosopher--you are a low fellow.' He laughed, so maliciously. And I said to him, '_De ideabus non est disputandum_.' Isn't that rather good? I can set up for being a classic, you see!" Mitya laughed suddenly. "Why is it all over with you? You said so just now," Alyosha interposed. "Why is it all over with me? H'm!... The fact of it is ... if you take it as a whole, I am sorry to lose God--that's why it is." "What do you mean by 'sorry to lose God'?" "Imagine: inside, in the nerves, in the head--that is, these nerves are there in the brain ... (damn them!) there are sort of little tails, the little tails of those nerves, and as soon as they begin quivering ... that is, you see, I look at something with my eyes and then they begin quivering, those little tails ... and when they quiver, then an image appears ... it doesn't appear at once, but an instant, a second, passes ... and then something like a moment appears; that is, not a moment--devil take the moment!--but an image; that is, an object, or an action, damn it! That's why I see and then think, because of those tails, not at all because I've got a soul, and that I am some sort of image and likeness. All that is nonsense! Rakitin explained it all to me yesterday, brother, and it simply bowled me over. It's magnificent, Alyosha, this science! A new man's arising--that I understand.... And yet I am sorry to lose God!" "Well, that's a good thing, anyway," said Alyosha. "That I am sorry to lose God? It's chemistry, brother, chemistry! There's no help for it, your reverence, you must make way for chemistry. And Rakitin does dislike God. Ough! doesn't he dislike Him! That's the sore point with all of them. But they conceal it. They tell lies. They pretend. 'Will you preach this in your reviews?' I asked him. 'Oh, well, if I did it openly, they won't let it through,' he said. He laughed. 'But what will become of men then?' I asked him, 'without God and immortal life? All things are lawful then, they can do what they like?' 'Didn't you know?' he said laughing, 'a clever man can do what he likes,' he said. 'A clever man knows his way about, but you've put your foot in it, committing a murder, and now you are rotting in prison.' He says that to my face! A regular pig! I used to kick such people out, but now I listen to them. He talks a lot of sense, too. Writes well. He began reading me an article last week. I copied out three lines of it. Wait a minute. Here it is." Mitya hurriedly pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and read: " 'In order to determine this question, it is above all essential to put one's personality in contradiction to one's reality.' Do you understand that?" "No, I don't," said Alyosha. He looked at Mitya and listened to him with curiosity. "I don't understand either. It's dark and obscure, but intellectual. 'Every one writes like that now,' he says, 'it's the effect of their environment.' They are afraid of the environment. He writes poetry, too, the rascal. He's written in honor of Madame Hohlakov's foot. Ha ha ha!" "I've heard about it," said Alyosha. "Have you? And have you heard the poem?" "No." "I've got it. Here it is. I'll read it to you. You don't know--I haven't told you--there's quite a story about it. He's a rascal! Three weeks ago he began to tease me. 'You've got yourself into a mess, like a fool, for the sake of three thousand, but I'm going to collar a hundred and fifty thousand. I am going to marry a widow and buy a house in Petersburg.' And he told me he was courting Madame Hohlakov. She hadn't much brains in her youth, and now at forty she has lost what she had. 'But she's awfully sentimental,' he says; 'that's how I shall get hold of her. When I marry her, I shall take her to Petersburg and there I shall start a newspaper.' And his mouth was simply watering, the beast, not for the widow, but for the hundred and fifty thousand. And he made me believe it. He came to see me every day. 'She is coming round,' he declared. He was beaming with delight. And then, all of a sudden, he was turned out of the house. Perhotin's carrying everything before him, bravo! I could kiss the silly old noodle for turning him out of the house. And he had written this doggerel. 'It's the first time I've soiled my hands with writing poetry,' he said. 'It's to win her heart, so it's in a good cause. When I get hold of the silly woman's fortune, I can be of great social utility.' They have this social justification for every nasty thing they do! 'Anyway it's better than your Pushkin's poetry,' he said, 'for I've managed to advocate enlightenment even in that.' I understand what he means about Pushkin, I quite see that, if he really was a man of talent and only wrote about women's feet. But wasn't Rakitin stuck up about his doggerel! The vanity of these fellows! 'On the convalescence of the swollen foot of the object of my affections'--he thought of that for a title. He's a waggish fellow. A captivating little foot, Though swollen and red and tender! The doctors come and plasters put, But still they cannot mend her. Yet, 'tis not for her foot I dread-- A theme for Pushkin's muse more fit-- It's not her foot, it is her head: I tremble for her loss of wit! For as her foot swells, strange to say, Her intellect is on the wane-- Oh, for some remedy I pray That may restore both foot and brain! He is a pig, a regular pig, but he's very arch, the rascal! And he really has put in a progressive idea. And wasn't he angry when she kicked him out! He was gnashing his teeth!" "He's taken his revenge already," said Alyosha. "He's written a paragraph about Madame Hohlakov." And Alyosha told him briefly about the paragraph in _Gossip_. "That's his doing, that's his doing!" Mitya assented, frowning. "That's him! These paragraphs ... I know ... the insulting things that have been written about Grushenka, for instance.... And about Katya, too.... H'm!" He walked across the room with a harassed air. "Brother, I cannot stay long," Alyosha said, after a pause. "To-morrow will be a great and awful day for you, the judgment of God will be accomplished ... I am amazed at you, you walk about here, talking of I don't know what ..." "No, don't be amazed at me," Mitya broke in warmly. "Am I to talk of that stinking dog? Of the murderer? We've talked enough of him. I don't want to say more of the stinking son of Stinking Lizaveta! God will kill him, you will see. Hush!" He went up to Alyosha excitedly and kissed him. His eyes glowed. "Rakitin wouldn't understand it," he began in a sort of exaltation; "but you, you'll understand it all. That's why I was thirsting for you. You see, there's so much I've been wanting to tell you for ever so long, here, within these peeling walls, but I haven't said a word about what matters most; the moment never seems to have come. Now I can wait no longer. I must pour out my heart to you. Brother, these last two months I've found in myself a new man. A new man has risen up in me. He was hidden in me, but would never have come to the surface, if it hadn't been for this blow from heaven. I am afraid! And what do I care if I spend twenty years in the mines, breaking ore with a hammer? I am not a bit afraid of that--it's something else I am afraid of now: that that new man may leave me. Even there, in the mines, under-ground, I may find a human heart in another convict and murderer by my side, and I may make friends with him, for even there one may live and love and suffer. One may thaw and revive a frozen heart in that convict, one may wait upon him for years, and at last bring up from the dark depths a lofty soul, a feeling, suffering creature; one may bring forth an angel, create a hero! There are so many of them, hundreds of them, and we are all to blame for them. Why was it I dreamed of that 'babe' at such a moment? 'Why is the babe so poor?' That was a sign to me at that moment. It's for the babe I'm going. Because we are all responsible for all. For all the 'babes,' for there are big children as well as little children. All are 'babes.' I go for all, because some one must go for all. I didn't kill father, but I've got to go. I accept it. It's all come to me here, here, within these peeling walls. There are numbers of them there, hundreds of them underground, with hammers in their hands. Oh, yes, we shall be in chains and there will be no freedom, but then, in our great sorrow, we shall rise again to joy, without which man cannot live nor God exist, for God gives joy: it's His privilege--a grand one. Ah, man should be dissolved in prayer! What should I be underground there without God? Rakitin's laughing! If they drive God from the earth, we shall shelter Him underground. One cannot exist in prison without God; it's even more impossible than out of prison. And then we men underground will sing from the bowels of the earth a glorious hymn to God, with Whom is joy. Hail to God and His joy! I love Him!" Mitya was almost gasping for breath as he uttered his wild speech. He turned pale, his lips quivered, and tears rolled down his cheeks. "Yes, life is full, there is life even underground," he began again. "You wouldn't believe, Alexey, how I want to live now, what a thirst for existence and consciousness has sprung up in me within these peeling walls. Rakitin doesn't understand that; all he cares about is building a house and letting flats. But I've been longing for you. And what is suffering? I am not afraid of it, even if it were beyond reckoning. I am not afraid of it now. I was afraid of it before. Do you know, perhaps I won't answer at the trial at all.... And I seem to have such strength in me now, that I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, 'I exist.' In thousands of agonies--I exist. I'm tormented on the rack--but I exist! Though I sit alone on a pillar--I exist! I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there. Alyosha, my angel, all these philosophies are the death of me. Damn them! Brother Ivan--" "What of brother Ivan?" interrupted Alyosha, but Mitya did not hear. "You see, I never had any of these doubts before, but it was all hidden away in me. It was perhaps just because ideas I did not understand were surging up in me, that I used to drink and fight and rage. It was to stifle them in myself, to still them, to smother them. Ivan is not Rakitin, there is an idea in him. Ivan is a sphinx and is silent; he is always silent. It's God that's worrying me. That's the only thing that's worrying me. What if He doesn't exist? What if Rakitin's right--that it's an idea made up by men? Then if He doesn't exist, man is the chief of the earth, of the universe. Magnificent! Only how is he going to be good without God? That's the question. I always come back to that. For whom is man going to love then? To whom will he be thankful? To whom will he sing the hymn? Rakitin laughs. Rakitin says that one can love humanity without God. Well, only a sniveling idiot can maintain that. I can't understand it. Life's easy for Rakitin. 'You'd better think about the extension of civic rights, or even of keeping down the price of meat. You will show your love for humanity more simply and directly by that, than by philosophy.' I answered him, 'Well, but you, without a God, are more likely to raise the price of meat, if it suits you, and make a rouble on every copeck.' He lost his temper. But after all, what is goodness? Answer me that, Alexey. Goodness is one thing with me and another with a Chinaman, so it's a relative thing. Or isn't it? Is it not relative? A treacherous question! You won't laugh if I tell you it's kept me awake two nights. I only wonder now how people can live and think nothing about it. Vanity! Ivan has no God. He has an idea. It's beyond me. But he is silent. I believe he is a free-mason. I asked him, but he is silent. I wanted to drink from the springs of his soul--he was silent. But once he did drop a word." "What did he say?" Alyosha took it up quickly. "I said to him, 'Then everything is lawful, if it is so?' He frowned. 'Fyodor Pavlovitch, our papa,' he said, 'was a pig, but his ideas were right enough.' That was what he dropped. That was all he said. That was going one better than Rakitin." "Yes," Alyosha assented bitterly. "When was he with you?" "Of that later; now I must speak of something else. I have said nothing about Ivan to you before. I put it off to the last. When my business here is over and the verdict has been given, then I'll tell you something. I'll tell you everything. We've something tremendous on hand.... And you shall be my judge in it. But don't begin about that now; be silent. You talk of to-morrow, of the trial; but, would you believe it, I know nothing about it." "Have you talked to the counsel?" "What's the use of the counsel? I told him all about it. He's a soft, city-bred rogue--a Bernard! But he doesn't believe me--not a bit of it. Only imagine, he believes I did it. I see it. 'In that case,' I asked him, 'why have you come to defend me?' Hang them all! They've got a doctor down, too, want to prove I'm mad. I won't have that! Katerina Ivanovna wants to do her 'duty' to the end, whatever the strain!" Mitya smiled bitterly. "The cat! Hard-hearted creature! She knows that I said of her at Mokroe that she was a woman of 'great wrath.' They repeated it. Yes, the facts against me have grown numerous as the sands of the sea. Grigory sticks to his point. Grigory's honest, but a fool. Many people are honest because they are fools: that's Rakitin's idea. Grigory's my enemy. And there are some people who are better as foes than friends. I mean Katerina Ivanovna. I am afraid, oh, I am afraid she will tell how she bowed to the ground after that four thousand. She'll pay it back to the last farthing. I don't want her sacrifice; they'll put me to shame at the trial. I wonder how I can stand it. Go to her, Alyosha, ask her not to speak of that in the court, can't you? But damn it all, it doesn't matter! I shall get through somehow. I don't pity her. It's her own doing. She deserves what she gets. I shall have my own story to tell, Alexey." He smiled bitterly again. "Only ... only Grusha, Grusha! Good Lord! Why should she have such suffering to bear?" he exclaimed suddenly, with tears. "Grusha's killing me; the thought of her's killing me, killing me. She was with me just now...." "She told me she was very much grieved by you to-day." "I know. Confound my temper! It was jealousy. I was sorry, I kissed her as she was going. I didn't ask her forgiveness." "Why didn't you?" exclaimed Alyosha. Suddenly Mitya laughed almost mirthfully. "God preserve you, my dear boy, from ever asking forgiveness for a fault from a woman you love. From one you love especially, however greatly you may have been in fault. For a woman--devil only knows what to make of a woman! I know something about them, anyway. But try acknowledging you are in fault to a woman. Say, 'I am sorry, forgive me,' and a shower of reproaches will follow! Nothing will make her forgive you simply and directly, she'll humble you to the dust, bring forward things that have never happened, recall everything, forget nothing, add something of her own, and only then forgive you. And even the best, the best of them do it. She'll scrape up all the scrapings and load them on your head. They are ready to flay you alive, I tell you, every one of them, all these angels without whom we cannot live! I tell you plainly and openly, dear boy, every decent man ought to be under some woman's thumb. That's my conviction--not conviction, but feeling. A man ought to be magnanimous, and it's no disgrace to a man! No disgrace to a hero, not even a Caesar! But don't ever beg her pardon all the same for anything. Remember that rule given you by your brother Mitya, who's come to ruin through women. No, I'd better make it up to Grusha somehow, without begging pardon. I worship her, Alexey, worship her. Only she doesn't see it. No, she still thinks I don't love her enough. And she tortures me, tortures me with her love. The past was nothing! In the past it was only those infernal curves of hers that tortured me, but now I've taken all her soul into my soul and through her I've become a man myself. Will they marry us? If they don't, I shall die of jealousy. I imagine something every day.... What did she say to you about me?" Alyosha repeated all Grushenka had said to him that day. Mitya listened, made him repeat things, and seemed pleased. "Then she is not angry at my being jealous?" he exclaimed. "She is a regular woman! 'I've a fierce heart myself!' Ah, I love such fierce hearts, though I can't bear any one's being jealous of me. I can't endure it. We shall fight. But I shall love her, I shall love her infinitely. Will they marry us? Do they let convicts marry? That's the question. And without her I can't exist...." Mitya walked frowning across the room. It was almost dark. He suddenly seemed terribly worried. "So there's a secret, she says, a secret? We have got up a plot against her, and Katya is mixed up in it, she thinks. No, my good Grushenka, that's not it. You are very wide of the mark, in your foolish feminine way. Alyosha, darling, well, here goes! I'll tell you our secret!" He looked round, went close up quickly to Alyosha, who was standing before him, and whispered to him with an air of mystery, though in reality no one could hear them: the old warder was dozing in the corner, and not a word could reach the ears of the soldiers on guard. "I will tell you all our secret," Mitya whispered hurriedly. "I meant to tell you later, for how could I decide on anything without you? You are everything to me. Though I say that Ivan is superior to us, you are my angel. It's your decision will decide it. Perhaps it's you that is superior and not Ivan. You see, it's a question of conscience, question of the higher conscience--the secret is so important that I can't settle it myself, and I've put it off till I could speak to you. But anyway it's too early to decide now, for we must wait for the verdict. As soon as the verdict is given, you shall decide my fate. Don't decide it now. I'll tell you now. You listen, but don't decide. Stand and keep quiet. I won't tell you everything. I'll only tell you the idea, without details, and you keep quiet. Not a question, not a movement. You agree? But, goodness, what shall I do with your eyes? I'm afraid your eyes will tell me your decision, even if you don't speak. Oo! I'm afraid! Alyosha, listen! Ivan suggests my _escaping_. I won't tell you the details: it's all been thought out: it can all be arranged. Hush, don't decide. I should go to America with Grusha. You know I can't live without Grusha! What if they won't let her follow me to Siberia? Do they let convicts get married? Ivan thinks not. And without Grusha what should I do there underground with a hammer? I should only smash my skull with the hammer! But, on the other hand, my conscience? I should have run away from suffering. A sign has come, I reject the sign. I have a way of salvation and I turn my back on it. Ivan says that in America, 'with the good-will,' I can be of more use than underground. But what becomes of our hymn from underground? What's America? America is vanity again! And there's a lot of swindling in America, too, I expect. I should have run away from crucifixion! I tell you, you know, Alexey, because you are the only person who can understand this. There's no one else. It's folly, madness to others, all I've told you of the hymn. They'll say I'm out of my mind or a fool. I am not out of my mind and I am not a fool. Ivan understands about the hymn, too. He understands, only he doesn't answer--he doesn't speak. He doesn't believe in the hymn. Don't speak, don't speak. I see how you look! You have already decided. Don't decide, spare me! I can't live without Grusha. Wait till after the trial!" Mitya ended beside himself. He held Alyosha with both hands on his shoulders, and his yearning, feverish eyes were fixed on his brother's. "They don't let convicts marry, do they?" he repeated for the third time in a supplicating voice. Alyosha listened with extreme surprise and was deeply moved. "Tell me one thing," he said. "Is Ivan very keen on it, and whose idea was it?" "His, his, and he is very keen on it. He didn't come to see me at first, then he suddenly came a week ago and he began about it straight away. He is awfully keen on it. He doesn't ask me, but orders me to escape. He doesn't doubt of my obeying him, though I showed him all my heart as I have to you, and told him about the hymn, too. He told me he'd arrange it; he's found out about everything. But of that later. He's simply set on it. It's all a matter of money: he'll pay ten thousand for escape and give me twenty thousand for America. And he says we can arrange a magnificent escape for ten thousand." "And he told you on no account to tell me?" Alyosha asked again. "To tell no one, and especially not you; on no account to tell you. He is afraid, no doubt, that you'll stand before me as my conscience. Don't tell him I told you. Don't tell him, for anything." "You are right," Alyosha pronounced; "it's impossible to decide anything before the trial is over. After the trial you'll decide of yourself. Then you'll find that new man in yourself and he will decide." "A new man, or a Bernard who'll decide _a la_ Bernard, for I believe I'm a contemptible Bernard myself," said Mitya, with a bitter grin. "But, brother, have you no hope then of being acquitted?" Mitya shrugged his shoulders nervously and shook his head. "Alyosha, darling, it's time you were going," he said, with a sudden haste. "There's the superintendent shouting in the yard. He'll be here directly. We are late; it's irregular. Embrace me quickly. Kiss me! Sign me with the cross, darling, for the cross I have to bear to-morrow." They embraced and kissed. "Ivan," said Mitya suddenly, "suggests my escaping; but, of course, he believes I did it." A mournful smile came on to his lips. "Have you asked him whether he believes it?" asked Alyosha. "No, I haven't. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I hadn't the courage. But I saw it from his eyes. Well, good-by!" Once more they kissed hurriedly, and Alyosha was just going out, when Mitya suddenly called him back. "Stand facing me! That's right!" And again he seized Alyosha, putting both hands on his shoulders. His face became suddenly quite pale, so that it was dreadfully apparent, even through the gathering darkness. His lips twitched, his eyes fastened upon Alyosha. "Alyosha, tell me the whole truth, as you would before God. Do you believe I did it? Do you, do you in yourself, believe it? The whole truth, don't lie!" he cried desperately. Everything seemed heaving before Alyosha, and he felt something like a stab at his heart. "Hush! What do you mean?" he faltered helplessly. "The whole truth, the whole, don't lie!" repeated Mitya. "I've never for one instant believed that you were the murderer!" broke in a shaking voice from Alyosha's breast, and he raised his right hand in the air, as though calling God to witness his words. Mitya's whole face was lighted up with bliss. "Thank you!" he articulated slowly, as though letting a sigh escape him after fainting. "Now you have given me new life. Would you believe it, till this moment I've been afraid to ask you, you, even you. Well, go! You've given me strength for to-morrow. God bless you! Come, go along! Love Ivan!" was Mitya's last word. Alyosha went out in tears. Such distrustfulness in Mitya, such lack of confidence even to him, to Alyosha--all this suddenly opened before Alyosha an unsuspected depth of hopeless grief and despair in the soul of his unhappy brother. Intense, infinite compassion overwhelmed him instantly. There was a poignant ache in his torn heart. "Love Ivan!"--he suddenly recalled Mitya's words. And he was going to Ivan. He badly wanted to see Ivan all day. He was as much worried about Ivan as about Mitya, and more than ever now. Chapter V. Not You, Not You! On the way to Ivan he had to pass the house where Katerina Ivanovna was living. There was light in the windows. He suddenly stopped and resolved to go in. He had not seen Katerina Ivanovna for more than a week. But now it struck him that Ivan might be with her, especially on the eve of the terrible day. Ringing, and mounting the staircase, which was dimly lighted by a Chinese lantern, he saw a man coming down, and as they met, he recognized him as his brother. So he was just coming from Katerina Ivanovna. "Ah, it's only you," said Ivan dryly. "Well, good-by! You are going to her?" "Yes." "I don't advise you to; she's upset and you'll upset her more." A door was instantly flung open above, and a voice cried suddenly: "No, no! Alexey Fyodorovitch, have you come from him?" "Yes, I have been with him." "Has he sent me any message? Come up, Alyosha, and you, Ivan Fyodorovitch, you must come back, you must. Do you hear?" There was such a peremptory note in Katya's voice that Ivan, after a moment's hesitation, made up his mind to go back with Alyosha. "She was listening," he murmured angrily to himself, but Alyosha heard it. "Excuse my keeping my greatcoat on," said Ivan, going into the drawing- room. "I won't sit down. I won't stay more than a minute." "Sit down, Alexey Fyodorovitch," said Katerina Ivanovna, though she remained standing. She had changed very little during this time, but there was an ominous gleam in her dark eyes. Alyosha remembered afterwards that she had struck him as particularly handsome at that moment. "What did he ask you to tell me?" "Only one thing," said Alyosha, looking her straight in the face, "that you would spare yourself and say nothing at the trial of what" (he was a little confused) "... passed between you ... at the time of your first acquaintance ... in that town." "Ah! that I bowed down to the ground for that money!" She broke into a bitter laugh. "Why, is he afraid for me or for himself? He asks me to spare--whom? Him or myself? Tell me, Alexey Fyodorovitch!" Alyosha watched her intently, trying to understand her. "Both yourself and him," he answered softly. "I am glad to hear it," she snapped out maliciously, and she suddenly blushed. "You don't know me yet, Alexey Fyodorovitch," she said menacingly. "And I don't know myself yet. Perhaps you'll want to trample me under foot after my examination to-morrow." "You will give your evidence honorably," said Alyosha; "that's all that's wanted." "Women are often dishonorable," she snarled. "Only an hour ago I was thinking I felt afraid to touch that monster ... as though he were a reptile ... but no, he is still a human being to me! But did he do it? Is he the murderer?" she cried, all of a sudden, hysterically, turning quickly to Ivan. Alyosha saw at once that she had asked Ivan that question before, perhaps only a moment before he came in, and not for the first time, but for the hundredth, and that they had ended by quarreling. "I've been to see Smerdyakov.... It was you, you who persuaded me that he murdered his father. It's only you I believed!" she continued, still addressing Ivan. He gave her a sort of strained smile. Alyosha started at her tone. He had not suspected such familiar intimacy between them. "Well, that's enough, anyway," Ivan cut short the conversation. "I am going. I'll come to-morrow." And turning at once, he walked out of the room and went straight downstairs. With an imperious gesture, Katerina Ivanovna seized Alyosha by both hands. "Follow him! Overtake him! Don't leave him alone for a minute!" she said, in a hurried whisper. "He's mad! Don't you know that he's mad? He is in a fever, nervous fever. The doctor told me so. Go, run after him...." Alyosha jumped up and ran after Ivan, who was not fifty paces ahead of him. "What do you want?" He turned quickly on Alyosha, seeing that he was running after him. "She told you to catch me up, because I'm mad. I know it all by heart," he added irritably. "She is mistaken, of course; but she is right that you are ill," said Alyosha. "I was looking at your face just now. You look very ill, Ivan." Ivan walked on without stopping. Alyosha followed him. "And do you know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, how people do go out of their mind?" Ivan asked in a voice suddenly quiet, without a trace of irritation, with a note of the simplest curiosity. "No, I don't. I suppose there are all kinds of insanity." "And can one observe that one's going mad oneself?" "I imagine one can't see oneself clearly in such circumstances," Alyosha answered with surprise. Ivan paused for half a minute. "If you want to talk to me, please change the subject," he said suddenly. "Oh, while I think of it, I have a letter for you," said Alyosha timidly, and he took Lise's note from his pocket and held it out to Ivan. They were just under a lamp-post. Ivan recognized the handwriting at once. "Ah, from that little demon!" he laughed maliciously, and, without opening the envelope, he tore it into bits and threw it in the air. The bits were scattered by the wind. "She's not sixteen yet, I believe, and already offering herself," he said contemptuously, striding along the street again. "How do you mean, offering herself?" exclaimed Alyosha. "As wanton women offer themselves, to be sure." "How can you, Ivan, how can you?" Alyosha cried warmly, in a grieved voice. "She is a child; you are insulting a child! She is ill; she is very ill, too. She is on the verge of insanity, too, perhaps.... I had hoped to hear something from you ... that would save her." "You'll hear nothing from me. If she is a child I am not her nurse. Be quiet, Alexey. Don't go on about her. I am not even thinking about it." They were silent again for a moment. "She will be praying all night now to the Mother of God to show her how to act to-morrow at the trial," he said sharply and angrily again. "You ... you mean Katerina Ivanovna?" "Yes. Whether she's to save Mitya or ruin him. She'll pray for light from above. She can't make up her mind for herself, you see. She has not had time to decide yet. She takes me for her nurse, too. She wants me to sing lullabies to her." "Katerina Ivanovna loves you, brother," said Alyosha sadly. "Perhaps; but I am not very keen on her." "She is suffering. Why do you ... sometimes say things to her that give her hope?" Alyosha went on, with timid reproach. "I know that you've given her hope. Forgive me for speaking to you like this," he added. "I can't behave to her as I ought--break off altogether and tell her so straight out," said Ivan, irritably. "I must wait till sentence is passed on the murderer. If I break off with her now, she will avenge herself on me by ruining that scoundrel to-morrow at the trial, for she hates him and knows she hates him. It's all a lie--lie upon lie! As long as I don't break off with her, she goes on hoping, and she won't ruin that monster, knowing how I want to get him out of trouble. If only that damned verdict would come!" The words "murderer" and "monster" echoed painfully in Alyosha's heart. "But how can she ruin Mitya?" he asked, pondering on Ivan's words. "What evidence can she give that would ruin Mitya?" "You don't know that yet. She's got a document in her hands, in Mitya's own writing, that proves conclusively that he did murder Fyodor Pavlovitch." "That's impossible!" cried Alyosha. "Why is it impossible? I've read it myself." "There can't be such a document!" Alyosha repeated warmly. "There can't be, because he's not the murderer. It's not he murdered father, not he!" Ivan suddenly stopped. "Who is the murderer then, according to you?" he asked, with apparent coldness. There was even a supercilious note in his voice. "You know who," Alyosha pronounced in a low, penetrating voice. "Who? You mean the myth about that crazy idiot, the epileptic, Smerdyakov?" Alyosha suddenly felt himself trembling all over. "You know who," broke helplessly from him. He could scarcely breathe. "Who? Who?" Ivan cried almost fiercely. All his restraint suddenly vanished. "I only know one thing," Alyosha went on, still almost in a whisper, "_it wasn't you_ killed father." " 'Not you'! What do you mean by 'not you'?" Ivan was thunderstruck. "It was not you killed father, not you!" Alyosha repeated firmly. The silence lasted for half a minute. "I know I didn't. Are you raving?" said Ivan, with a pale, distorted smile. His eyes were riveted on Alyosha. They were standing again under a lamp-post. "No, Ivan. You've told yourself several times that you are the murderer." "When did I say so? I was in Moscow.... When have I said so?" Ivan faltered helplessly. "You've said so to yourself many times, when you've been alone during these two dreadful months," Alyosha went on softly and distinctly as before. Yet he was speaking now, as it were, not of himself, not of his own will, but obeying some irresistible command. "You have accused yourself and have confessed to yourself that you are the murderer and no one else. But you didn't do it: you are mistaken: you are not the murderer. Do you hear? It was not you! God has sent me to tell you so." They were both silent. The silence lasted a whole long minute. They were both standing still, gazing into each other's eyes. They were both pale. Suddenly Ivan began trembling all over, and clutched Alyosha's shoulder. "You've been in my room!" he whispered hoarsely. "You've been there at night, when he came.... Confess ... have you seen him, have you seen him?" "Whom do you mean--Mitya?" Alyosha asked, bewildered. "Not him, damn the monster!" Ivan shouted, in a frenzy. "Do you know that he visits me? How did you find out? Speak!" "Who is _he_! I don't know whom you are talking about," Alyosha faltered, beginning to be alarmed. "Yes, you do know ... or how could you--? It's impossible that you don't know." Suddenly he seemed to check himself. He stood still and seemed to reflect. A strange grin contorted his lips. "Brother," Alyosha began again, in a shaking voice, "I have said this to you, because you'll believe my word, I know that. I tell you once and for all, it's not you. You hear, once for all! God has put it into my heart to say this to you, even though it may make you hate me from this hour." But by now Ivan had apparently regained his self-control. "Alexey Fyodorovitch," he said, with a cold smile, "I can't endure prophets and epileptics--messengers from God especially--and you know that only too well. I break off all relations with you from this moment and probably for ever. I beg you to leave me at this turning. It's the way to your lodgings, too. You'd better be particularly careful not to come to me to-day! Do you hear?" He turned and walked on with a firm step, not looking back. "Brother," Alyosha called after him, "if anything happens to you to-day, turn to me before any one!" But Ivan made no reply. Alyosha stood under the lamp-post at the cross roads, till Ivan had vanished into the darkness. Then he turned and walked slowly homewards. Both Alyosha and Ivan were living in lodgings; neither of them was willing to live in Fyodor Pavlovitch's empty house. Alyosha had a furnished room in the house of some working people. Ivan lived some distance from him. He had taken a roomy and fairly comfortable lodge attached to a fine house that belonged to a well-to-do lady, the widow of an official. But his only attendant was a deaf and rheumatic old crone who went to bed at six o'clock every evening and got up at six in the morning. Ivan had become remarkably indifferent to his comforts of late, and very fond of being alone. He did everything for himself in the one room he lived in, and rarely entered any of the other rooms in his abode. He reached the gate of the house and had his hand on the bell, when he suddenly stopped. He felt that he was trembling all over with anger. Suddenly he let go of the bell, turned back with a curse, and walked with rapid steps in the opposite direction. He walked a mile and a half to a tiny, slanting, wooden house, almost a hut, where Marya Kondratyevna, the neighbor who used to come to Fyodor Pavlovitch's kitchen for soup and to whom Smerdyakov had once sung his songs and played on the guitar, was now lodging. She had sold their little house, and was now living here with her mother. Smerdyakov, who was ill--almost dying--had been with them ever since Fyodor Pavlovitch's death. It was to him Ivan was going now, drawn by a sudden and irresistible prompting. Chapter VI. The First Interview With Smerdyakov This was the third time that Ivan had been to see Smerdyakov since his return from Moscow. The first time he had seen him and talked to him was on the first day of his arrival, then he had visited him once more, a fortnight later. But his visits had ended with that second one, so that it was now over a month since he had seen him. And he had scarcely heard anything of him. Ivan had only returned five days after his father's death, so that he was not present at the funeral, which took place the day before he came back. The cause of his delay was that Alyosha, not knowing his Moscow address, had to apply to Katerina Ivanovna to telegraph to him, and she, not knowing his address either, telegraphed to her sister and aunt, reckoning on Ivan's going to see them as soon as he arrived in Moscow. But he did not go to them till four days after his arrival. When he got the telegram, he had, of course, set off post-haste to our town. The first to meet him was Alyosha, and Ivan was greatly surprised to find that, in opposition to the general opinion of the town, he refused to entertain a suspicion against Mitya, and spoke openly of Smerdyakov as the murderer. Later on, after seeing the police captain and the prosecutor, and hearing the details of the charge and the arrest, he was still more surprised at Alyosha, and ascribed his opinion only to his exaggerated brotherly feeling and sympathy with Mitya, of whom Alyosha, as Ivan knew, was very fond. By the way, let us say a word or two of Ivan's feeling to his brother Dmitri. He positively disliked him; at most, felt sometimes a compassion for him, and even that was mixed with great contempt, almost repugnance. Mitya's whole personality, even his appearance, was extremely unattractive to him. Ivan looked with indignation on Katerina Ivanovna's love for his brother. Yet he went to see Mitya on the first day of his arrival, and that interview, far from shaking Ivan's belief in his guilt, positively strengthened it. He found his brother agitated, nervously excited. Mitya had been talkative, but very absent-minded and incoherent. He used violent language, accused Smerdyakov, and was fearfully muddled. He talked principally about the three thousand roubles, which he said had been "stolen" from him by his father. "The money was mine, it was my money," Mitya kept repeating. "Even if I had stolen it, I should have had the right." He hardly contested the evidence against him, and if he tried to turn a fact to his advantage, it was in an absurd and incoherent way. He hardly seemed to wish to defend himself to Ivan or any one else. Quite the contrary, he was angry and proudly scornful of the charges against him; he was continually firing up and abusing every one. He only laughed contemptuously at Grigory's evidence about the open door, and declared that it was "the devil that opened it." But he could not bring forward any coherent explanation of the fact. He even succeeded in insulting Ivan during their first interview, telling him sharply that it was not for people who declared that "everything was lawful," to suspect and question him. Altogether he was anything but friendly with Ivan on that occasion. Immediately after that interview with Mitya, Ivan went for the first time to see Smerdyakov. In the railway train on his way from Moscow, he kept thinking of Smerdyakov and of his last conversation with him on the evening before he went away. Many things seemed to him puzzling and suspicious. But when he gave his evidence to the investigating lawyer Ivan said nothing, for the time, of that conversation. He put that off till he had seen Smerdyakov, who was at that time in the hospital. Doctor Herzenstube and Varvinsky, the doctor he met in the hospital, confidently asserted in reply to Ivan's persistent questions, that Smerdyakov's epileptic attack was unmistakably genuine, and were surprised indeed at Ivan asking whether he might not have been shamming on the day of the catastrophe. They gave him to understand that the attack was an exceptional one, the fits persisting and recurring several times, so that the patient's life was positively in danger, and it was only now, after they had applied remedies, that they could assert with confidence that the patient would survive. "Though it might well be," added Doctor Herzenstube, "that his reason would be impaired for a considerable period, if not permanently." On Ivan's asking impatiently whether that meant that he was now mad, they told him that this was not yet the case, in the full sense of the word, but that certain abnormalities were perceptible. Ivan decided to find out for himself what those abnormalities were. At the hospital he was at once allowed to see the patient. Smerdyakov was lying on a truckle-bed in a separate ward. There was only one other bed in the room, and in it lay a tradesman of the town, swollen with dropsy, who was obviously almost dying; he could be no hindrance to their conversation. Smerdyakov grinned uncertainly on seeing Ivan, and for the first instant seemed nervous. So at least Ivan fancied. But that was only momentary. For the rest of the time he was struck, on the contrary, by Smerdyakov's composure. From the first glance Ivan had no doubt that he was very ill. He was very weak; he spoke slowly, seeming to move his tongue with difficulty; he was much thinner and sallower. Throughout the interview, which lasted twenty minutes, he kept complaining of headache and of pain in all his limbs. His thin emasculate face seemed to have become so tiny; his hair was ruffled, and his crest of curls in front stood up in a thin tuft. But in the left eye, which was screwed up and seemed to be insinuating something, Smerdyakov showed himself unchanged. "It's always worth while speaking to a clever man." Ivan was reminded of that at once. He sat down on the stool at his feet. Smerdyakov, with painful effort, shifted his position in bed, but he was not the first to speak. He remained dumb, and did not even look much interested. "Can you talk to me?" asked Ivan. "I won't tire you much." "Certainly I can," mumbled Smerdyakov, in a faint voice. "Has your honor been back long?" he added patronizingly, as though encouraging a nervous visitor. "I only arrived to-day.... To see the mess you are in here." Smerdyakov sighed. "Why do you sigh? You knew of it all along," Ivan blurted out. Smerdyakov was stolidly silent for a while. "How could I help knowing? It was clear beforehand. But how could I tell it would turn out like that?" "What would turn out? Don't prevaricate! You've foretold you'd have a fit; on the way down to the cellar, you know. You mentioned the very spot." "Have you said so at the examination yet?" Smerdyakov queried with composure. Ivan felt suddenly angry. "No, I haven't yet, but I certainly shall. You must explain a great deal to me, my man; and let me tell you, I am not going to let you play with me!" "Why should I play with you, when I put my whole trust in you, as in God Almighty?" said Smerdyakov, with the same composure, only for a moment closing his eyes. "In the first place," began Ivan, "I know that epileptic fits can't be told beforehand. I've inquired; don't try and take me in. You can't foretell the day and the hour. How was it you told me the day and the hour beforehand, and about the cellar, too? How could you tell that you would fall down the cellar stairs in a fit, if you didn't sham a fit on purpose?" "I had to go to the cellar anyway, several times a day, indeed," Smerdyakov drawled deliberately. "I fell from the garret just in the same way a year ago. It's quite true you can't tell the day and hour of a fit beforehand, but you can always have a presentiment of it." "But you did foretell the day and the hour!" "In regard to my epilepsy, sir, you had much better inquire of the doctors here. You can ask them whether it was a real fit or a sham; it's no use my saying any more about it." "And the cellar? How could you know beforehand of the cellar?" "You don't seem able to get over that cellar! As I was going down to the cellar, I was in terrible dread and doubt. What frightened me most was losing you and being left without defense in all the world. So I went down into the cellar thinking, 'Here, it'll come on directly, it'll strike me down directly, shall I fall?' And it was through this fear that I suddenly felt the spasm that always comes ... and so I went flying. All that and all my previous conversation with you at the gate the evening before, when I told you how frightened I was and spoke of the cellar, I told all that to Doctor Herzenstube and Nikolay Parfenovitch, the investigating lawyer, and it's all been written down in the protocol. And the doctor here, Mr. Varvinsky, maintained to all of them that it was just the thought of it brought it on, the apprehension that I might fall. It was just then that the fit seized me. And so they've written it down, that it's just how it must have happened, simply from my fear." As he finished, Smerdyakov drew a deep breath, as though exhausted. "Then you have said all that in your evidence?" said Ivan, somewhat taken aback. He had meant to frighten him with the threat of repeating their conversation, and it appeared that Smerdyakov had already reported it all himself. "What have I to be afraid of? Let them write down the whole truth," Smerdyakov pronounced firmly. "And have you told them every word of our conversation at the gate?" "No, not to say every word." "And did you tell them that you can sham fits, as you boasted then?" "No, I didn't tell them that either." "Tell me now, why did you send me then to Tchermashnya?" "I was afraid you'd go away to Moscow; Tchermashnya is nearer, anyway." "You are lying; you suggested my going away yourself; you told me to get out of the way of trouble." "That was simply out of affection and my sincere devotion to you, foreseeing trouble in the house, to spare you. Only I wanted to spare myself even more. That's why I told you to get out of harm's way, that you might understand that there would be trouble in the house, and would remain at home to protect your father." "You might have said it more directly, you blockhead!" Ivan suddenly fired up. "How could I have said it more directly then? It was simply my fear that made me speak, and you might have been angry, too. I might well have been apprehensive that Dmitri Fyodorovitch would make a scene and carry away that money, for he considered it as good as his own; but who could tell that it would end in a murder like this? I thought that he would only carry off the three thousand that lay under the master's mattress in the envelope, and you see, he's murdered him. How could you guess it either, sir?" "But if you say yourself that it couldn't be guessed, how could I have guessed and stayed at home? You contradict yourself!" said Ivan, pondering. "You might have guessed from my sending you to Tchermashnya and not to Moscow." "How could I guess it from that?" Smerdyakov seemed much exhausted, and again he was silent for a minute. "You might have guessed from the fact of my asking you not to go to Moscow, but to Tchermashnya, that I wanted to have you nearer, for Moscow's a long way off, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch, knowing you are not far off, would not be so bold. And if anything had happened, you might have come to protect me, too, for I warned you of Grigory Vassilyevitch's illness, and that I was afraid of having a fit. And when I explained those knocks to you, by means of which one could go in to the deceased, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch knew them all through me, I thought that you would guess yourself that he would be sure to do something, and so wouldn't go to Tchermashnya even, but would stay." "He talks very coherently," thought Ivan, "though he does mumble; what's the derangement of his faculties that Herzenstube talked of?" "You are cunning with me, damn you!" he exclaimed, getting angry. "But I thought at the time that you quite guessed," Smerdyakov parried with the simplest air. "If I'd guessed, I should have stayed," cried Ivan. "Why, I thought that it was because you guessed, that you went away in such a hurry, only to get out of trouble, only to run away and save yourself in your fright." "You think that every one is as great a coward as yourself?" "Forgive me, I thought you were like me." "Of course, I ought to have guessed," Ivan said in agitation; "and I did guess there was some mischief brewing on your part ... only you are lying, you are lying again," he cried, suddenly recollecting. "Do you remember how you went up to the carriage and said to me, 'It's always worth while speaking to a clever man'? So you were glad I went away, since you praised me?" Smerdyakov sighed again and again. A trace of color came into his face. "If I was pleased," he articulated rather breathlessly, "it was simply because you agreed not to go to Moscow, but to Tchermashnya. For it was nearer, anyway. Only when I said these words to you, it was not by way of praise, but of reproach. You didn't understand it." "What reproach?" "Why, that foreseeing such a calamity you deserted your own father, and would not protect us, for I might have been taken up any time for stealing that three thousand." "Damn you!" Ivan swore again. "Stay, did you tell the prosecutor and the investigating lawyer about those knocks?" "I told them everything just as it was." Ivan wondered inwardly again. "If I thought of anything then," he began again, "it was solely of some wickedness on your part. Dmitri might kill him, but that he would steal--I did not believe that then.... But I was prepared for any wickedness from you. You told me yourself you could sham a fit. What did you say that for?" "It was just through my simplicity, and I never have shammed a fit on purpose in my life. And I only said so then to boast to you. It was just foolishness. I liked you so much then, and was open-hearted with you." "My brother directly accuses you of the murder and theft." "What else is left for him to do?" said Smerdyakov, with a bitter grin. "And who will believe him with all the proofs against him? Grigory Vassilyevitch saw the door open. What can he say after that? But never mind him! He is trembling to save himself." He slowly ceased speaking; then suddenly, as though on reflection, added: "And look here again. He wants to throw it on me and make out that it is the work of my hands--I've heard that already. But as to my being clever at shamming a fit: should I have told you beforehand that I could sham one, if I really had had such a design against your father? If I had been planning such a murder could I have been such a fool as to give such evidence against myself beforehand? And to his son, too! Upon my word! Is that likely? As if that could be, such a thing has never happened. No one hears this talk of ours now, except Providence itself, and if you were to tell of it to the prosecutor and Nikolay Parfenovitch you might defend me completely by doing so, for who would be likely to be such a criminal, if he is so open-hearted beforehand? Any one can see that." "Well," and Ivan got up to cut short the conversation, struck by Smerdyakov's last argument. "I don't suspect you at all, and I think it's absurd, indeed, to suspect you. On the contrary, I am grateful to you for setting my mind at rest. Now I am going, but I'll come again. Meanwhile, good-by. Get well. Is there anything you want?" "I am very thankful for everything. Marfa Ignatyevna does not forget me, and provides me anything I want, according to her kindness. Good people visit me every day." "Good-by. But I shan't say anything of your being able to sham a fit, and I don't advise you to, either," something made Ivan say suddenly. "I quite understand. And if you don't speak of that, I shall say nothing of that conversation of ours at the gate." Then it happened that Ivan went out, and only when he had gone a dozen steps along the corridor, he suddenly felt that there was an insulting significance in Smerdyakov's last words. He was almost on the point of turning back, but it was only a passing impulse, and muttering, "Nonsense!" he went out of the hospital. His chief feeling was one of relief at the fact that it was not Smerdyakov, but Mitya, who had committed the murder, though he might have been expected to feel the opposite. He did not want to analyze the reason for this feeling, and even felt a positive repugnance at prying into his sensations. He felt as though he wanted to make haste to forget something. In the following days he became convinced of Mitya's guilt, as he got to know all the weight of evidence against him. There was evidence of people of no importance, Fenya and her mother, for instance, but the effect of it was almost overpowering. As to Perhotin, the people at the tavern, and at Plotnikov's shop, as well as the witnesses at Mokroe, their evidence seemed conclusive. It was the details that were so damning. The secret of the knocks impressed the lawyers almost as much as Grigory's evidence as to the open door. Grigory's wife, Marfa, in answer to Ivan's questions, declared that Smerdyakov had been lying all night the other side of the partition wall. "He was not three paces from our bed," and that although she was a sound sleeper she waked several times and heard him moaning, "He was moaning the whole time, moaning continually." Talking to Herzenstube, and giving it as his opinion that Smerdyakov was not mad, but only rather weak, Ivan only evoked from the old man a subtle smile. "Do you know how he spends his time now?" he asked; "learning lists of French words by heart. He has an exercise-book under his pillow with the French words written out in Russian letters for him by some one, he he he!" Ivan ended by dismissing all doubts. He could not think of Dmitri without repulsion. Only one thing was strange, however. Alyosha persisted that Dmitri was not the murderer, and that "in all probability" Smerdyakov was. Ivan always felt that Alyosha's opinion meant a great deal to him, and so he was astonished at it now. Another thing that was strange was that Alyosha did not make any attempt to talk about Mitya with Ivan, that he never began on the subject and only answered his questions. This, too, struck Ivan particularly. But he was very much preoccupied at that time with something quite apart from that. On his return from Moscow, he abandoned himself hopelessly to his mad and consuming passion for Katerina Ivanovna. This is not the time to begin to speak of this new passion of Ivan's, which left its mark on all the rest of his life: this would furnish the subject for another novel, which I may perhaps never write. But I cannot omit to mention here that when Ivan, on leaving Katerina Ivanovna with Alyosha, as I've related already, told him, "I am not keen on her," it was an absolute lie: he loved her madly, though at times he hated her so that he might have murdered her. Many causes helped to bring about this feeling. Shattered by what had happened with Mitya, she rushed on Ivan's return to meet him as her one salvation. She was hurt, insulted and humiliated in her feelings. And here the man had come back to her, who had loved her so ardently before (oh! she knew that very well), and whose heart and intellect she considered so superior to her own. But the sternly virtuous girl did not abandon herself altogether to the man she loved, in spite of the Karamazov violence of his passions and the great fascination he had for her. She was continually tormented at the same time by remorse for having deserted Mitya, and in moments of discord and violent anger (and they were numerous) she told Ivan so plainly. This was what he had called to Alyosha "lies upon lies." There was, of course, much that was false in it, and that angered Ivan more than anything.... But of all this later. He did, in fact, for a time almost forget Smerdyakov's existence, and yet, a fortnight after his first visit to him, he began to be haunted by the same strange thoughts as before. It's enough to say that he was continually asking himself, why was it that on that last night in Fyodor Pavlovitch's house he had crept out on to the stairs like a thief and listened to hear what his father was doing below? Why had he recalled that afterwards with repulsion? Why next morning, had he been suddenly so depressed on the journey? Why, as he reached Moscow, had he said to himself, "I am a scoundrel"? And now he almost fancied that these tormenting thoughts would make him even forget Katerina Ivanovna, so completely did they take possession of him again. It was just after fancying this, that he met Alyosha in the street. He stopped him at once, and put a question to him: "Do you remember when Dmitri burst in after dinner and beat father, and afterwards I told you in the yard that I reserved 'the right to desire'?... Tell me, did you think then that I desired father's death or not?" "I did think so," answered Alyosha, softly. "It was so, too; it was not a matter of guessing. But didn't you fancy then that what I wished was just that 'one reptile should devour another'; that is, just that Dmitri should kill father, and as soon as possible ... and that I myself was even prepared to help to bring that about?" Alyosha turned rather pale, and looked silently into his brother's face. "Speak!" cried Ivan, "I want above everything to know what you thought then. I want the truth, the truth!" He drew a deep breath, looking angrily at Alyosha before his answer came. "Forgive me, I did think that, too, at the time," whispered Alyosha, and he did not add one softening phrase. "Thanks," snapped Ivan, and, leaving Alyosha, he went quickly on his way. From that time Alyosha noticed that Ivan began obviously to avoid him and seemed even to have taken a dislike to him, so much so that Alyosha gave up going to see him. Immediately after that meeting with him, Ivan had not gone home, but went straight to Smerdyakov again. Chapter VII. The Second Visit To Smerdyakov By that time Smerdyakov had been discharged from the hospital. Ivan knew his new lodging, the dilapidated little wooden house, divided in two by a passage on one side of which lived Marya Kondratyevna and her mother, and on the other, Smerdyakov. No one knew on what terms he lived with them, whether as a friend or as a lodger. It was supposed afterwards that he had come to stay with them as Marya Kondratyevna's betrothed, and was living there for a time without paying for board or lodging. Both mother and daughter had the greatest respect for him and looked upon him as greatly superior to themselves. Ivan knocked, and, on the door being opened, went straight into the passage. By Marya Kondratyevna's directions he went straight to the better room on the left, occupied by Smerdyakov. There was a tiled stove in the room and it was extremely hot. The walls were gay with blue paper, which was a good deal used however, and in the cracks under it cockroaches swarmed in amazing numbers, so that there was a continual rustling from them. The furniture was very scanty: two benches against each wall and two chairs by the table. The table of plain wood was covered with a cloth with pink patterns on it. There was a pot of geranium on each of the two little windows. In the corner there was a case of ikons. On the table stood a little copper samovar with many dents in it, and a tray with two cups. But Smerdyakov had finished tea and the samovar was out. He was sitting at the table on a bench. He was looking at an exercise-book and slowly writing with a pen. There was a bottle of ink by him and a flat iron candlestick, but with a composite candle. Ivan saw at once from Smerdyakov's face that he had completely recovered from his illness. His face was fresher, fuller, his hair stood up jauntily in front, and was plastered down at the sides. He was sitting in a parti-colored, wadded dressing-gown, rather dirty and frayed, however. He had spectacles on his nose, which Ivan had never seen him wearing before. This trifling circumstance suddenly redoubled Ivan's anger: "A creature like that and wearing spectacles!" Smerdyakov slowly raised his head and looked intently at his visitor through his spectacles; then he slowly took them off and rose from the bench, but by no means respectfully, almost lazily, doing the least possible required by common civility. All this struck Ivan instantly; he took it all in and noted it at once--most of all the look in Smerdyakov's eyes, positively malicious, churlish and haughty. "What do you want to intrude for?" it seemed to say; "we settled everything then; why have you come again?" Ivan could scarcely control himself. "It's hot here," he said, still standing, and unbuttoned his overcoat. "Take off your coat," Smerdyakov conceded. Ivan took off his coat and threw it on a bench with trembling hands. He took a chair, moved it quickly to the table and sat down. Smerdyakov managed to sit down on his bench before him. "To begin with, are we alone?" Ivan asked sternly and impulsively. "Can they overhear us in there?" "No one can hear anything. You've seen for yourself: there's a passage." "Listen, my good fellow; what was that you babbled, as I was leaving the hospital, that if I said nothing about your faculty of shamming fits, you wouldn't tell the investigating lawyer all our conversation at the gate? What do you mean by _all_? What could you mean by it? Were you threatening me? Have I entered into some sort of compact with you? Do you suppose I am afraid of you?" Ivan said this in a perfect fury, giving him to understand with obvious intention that he scorned any subterfuge or indirectness and meant to show his cards. Smerdyakov's eyes gleamed resentfully, his left eye winked, and he at once gave his answer, with his habitual composure and deliberation. "You want to have everything above-board; very well, you shall have it," he seemed to say. "This is what I meant then, and this is why I said that, that you, knowing beforehand of this murder of your own parent, left him to his fate, and that people mightn't after that conclude any evil about your feelings and perhaps of something else, too--that's what I promised not to tell the authorities." Though Smerdyakov spoke without haste and obviously controlling himself, yet there was something in his voice, determined and emphatic, resentful and insolently defiant. He stared impudently at Ivan. A mist passed before Ivan's eyes for the first moment. "How? What? Are you out of your mind?" "I'm perfectly in possession of all my faculties." "Do you suppose I _knew_ of the murder?" Ivan cried at last, and he brought his fist violently on the table. "What do you mean by 'something else, too'? Speak, scoundrel!" Smerdyakov was silent and still scanned Ivan with the same insolent stare. "Speak, you stinking rogue, what is that 'something else, too'?" "The 'something else' I meant was that you probably, too, were very desirous of your parent's death." Ivan jumped up and struck him with all his might on the shoulder, so that he fell back against the wall. In an instant his face was bathed in tears. Saying, "It's a shame, sir, to strike a sick man," he dried his eyes with a very dirty blue check handkerchief and sank into quiet weeping. A minute passed. "That's enough! Leave off," Ivan said peremptorily, sitting down again. "Don't put me out of all patience." Smerdyakov took the rag from his eyes. Every line of his puckered face reflected the insult he had just received. "So you thought then, you scoundrel, that together with Dmitri I meant to kill my father?" "I didn't know what thoughts were in your mind then," said Smerdyakov resentfully; "and so I stopped you then at the gate to sound you on that very point." "To sound what, what?" "Why, that very circumstance, whether you wanted your father to be murdered or not." What infuriated Ivan more than anything was the aggressive, insolent tone to which Smerdyakov persistently adhered. "It was you murdered him?" he cried suddenly. Smerdyakov smiled contemptuously. "You know of yourself, for a fact, that it wasn't I murdered him. And I should have thought that there was no need for a sensible man to speak of it again." "But why, why had you such a suspicion about me at the time?" "As you know already, it was simply from fear. For I was in such a position, shaking with fear, that I suspected every one. I resolved to sound you, too, for I thought if you wanted the same as your brother, then the business was as good as settled and I should be crushed like a fly, too." "Look here, you didn't say that a fortnight ago." "I meant the same when I talked to you in the hospital, only I thought you'd understand without wasting words, and that being such a sensible man you wouldn't care to talk of it openly." "What next! Come answer, answer, I insist: what was it ... what could I have done to put such a degrading suspicion into your mean soul?" "As for the murder, you couldn't have done that and didn't want to, but as for wanting some one else to do it, that was just what you did want." "And how coolly, how coolly he speaks! But why should I have wanted it; what grounds had I for wanting it?" "What grounds had you? What about the inheritance?" said Smerdyakov sarcastically, and, as it were, vindictively. "Why, after your parent's death there was at least forty thousand to come to each of you, and very likely more, but if Fyodor Pavlovitch got married then to that lady, Agrafena Alexandrovna, she would have had all his capital made over to her directly after the wedding, for she's plenty of sense, so that your parent would not have left you two roubles between the three of you. And were they far from a wedding, either? Not a hair's-breadth: that lady had only to lift her little finger and he would have run after her to church, with his tongue out." Ivan restrained himself with painful effort. "Very good," he commented at last. "You see, I haven't jumped up, I haven't knocked you down, I haven't killed you. Speak on. So, according to you, I had fixed on Dmitri to do it; I was reckoning on him?" "How could you help reckoning on him? If he killed him, then he would lose all the rights of a nobleman, his rank and property, and would go off to exile; so his share of the inheritance would come to you and your brother Alexey Fyodorovitch in equal parts; so you'd each have not forty, but sixty thousand each. There's not a doubt you did reckon on Dmitri Fyodorovitch." "What I put up with from you! Listen, scoundrel, if I had reckoned on any one then, it would have been on you, not on Dmitri, and I swear I did expect some wickedness from you ... at the time.... I remember my impression!" "I thought, too, for a minute, at the time, that you were reckoning on me as well," said Smerdyakov, with a sarcastic grin. "So that it was just by that more than anything you showed me what was in your mind. For if you had a foreboding about me and yet went away, you as good as said to me, 'You can murder my parent, I won't hinder you!' " "You scoundrel! So that's how you understood it!" "It was all that going to Tchermashnya. Why! You were meaning to go to Moscow and refused all your father's entreaties to go to Tchermashnya--and simply at a foolish word from me you consented at once! What reason had you to consent to Tchermashnya? Since you went to Tchermashnya with no reason, simply at my word, it shows that you must have expected something from me." "No, I swear I didn't!" shouted Ivan, grinding his teeth. "You didn't? Then you ought, as your father's son, to have had me taken to the lock-up and thrashed at once for my words then ... or at least, to have given me a punch in the face on the spot, but you were not a bit angry, if you please, and at once in a friendly way acted on my foolish word and went away, which was utterly absurd, for you ought to have stayed to save your parent's life. How could I help drawing my conclusions?" Ivan sat scowling, both his fists convulsively pressed on his knees. "Yes, I am sorry I didn't punch you in the face," he said with a bitter smile. "I couldn't have taken you to the lock-up just then. Who would have believed me and what charge could I bring against you? But the punch in the face ... oh, I'm sorry I didn't think of it. Though blows are forbidden, I should have pounded your ugly face to a jelly." Smerdyakov looked at him almost with relish. "In the ordinary occasions of life," he said in the same complacent and sententious tone in which he had taunted Grigory and argued with him about religion at Fyodor Pavlovitch's table, "in the ordinary occasions of life, blows on the face are forbidden nowadays by law, and people have given them up, but in exceptional occasions of life people still fly to blows, not only among us but all over the world, be it even the fullest Republic of France, just as in the time of Adam and Eve, and they never will leave off, but you, even in an exceptional case, did not dare." "What are you learning French words for?" Ivan nodded towards the exercise-book lying on the table. "Why shouldn't I learn them so as to improve my education, supposing that I may myself chance to go some day to those happy parts of Europe?" "Listen, monster." Ivan's eyes flashed and he trembled all over. "I am not afraid of your accusations; you can say what you like about me, and if I don't beat you to death, it's simply because I suspect you of that crime and I'll drag you to justice. I'll unmask you." "To my thinking, you'd better keep quiet, for what can you accuse me of, considering my absolute innocence? and who would believe you? Only if you begin, I shall tell everything, too, for I must defend myself." "Do you think I am afraid of you now?" "If the court doesn't believe all I've said to you just now, the public will, and you will be ashamed." "That's as much as to say, 'It's always worth while speaking to a sensible man,' eh?" snarled Ivan. "You hit the mark, indeed. And you'd better be sensible." Ivan got up, shaking all over with indignation, put on his coat, and without replying further to Smerdyakov, without even looking at him, walked quickly out of the cottage. The cool evening air refreshed him. There was a bright moon in the sky. A nightmare of ideas and sensations filled his soul. "Shall I go at once and give information against Smerdyakov? But what information can I give? He is not guilty, anyway. On the contrary, he'll accuse me. And in fact, why did I set off for Tchermashnya then? What for? What for?" Ivan asked himself. "Yes, of course, I was expecting something and he is right...." And he remembered for the hundredth time how, on the last night in his father's house, he had listened on the stairs. But he remembered it now with such anguish that he stood still on the spot as though he had been stabbed. "Yes, I expected it then, that's true! I wanted the murder, I did want the murder! Did I want the murder? Did I want it? I must kill Smerdyakov! If I don't dare kill Smerdyakov now, life is not worth living!" Ivan did not go home, but went straight to Katerina Ivanovna and alarmed her by his appearance. He was like a madman. He repeated all his conversation with Smerdyakov, every syllable of it. He couldn't be calmed, however much she tried to soothe him: he kept walking about the room, speaking strangely, disconnectedly. At last he sat down, put his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hands and pronounced this strange sentence: "If it's not Dmitri, but Smerdyakov who's the murderer, I share his guilt, for I put him up to it. Whether I did, I don't know yet. But if he is the murderer, and not Dmitri, then, of course, I am the murderer, too." When Katerina Ivanovna heard that, she got up from her seat without a word, went to her writing-table, opened a box standing on it, took out a sheet of paper and laid it before Ivan. This was the document of which Ivan spoke to Alyosha later on as a "conclusive proof" that Dmitri had killed his father. It was the letter written by Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna when he was drunk, on the very evening he met Alyosha at the crossroads on the way to the monastery, after the scene at Katerina Ivanovna's, when Grushenka had insulted her. Then, parting from Alyosha, Mitya had rushed to Grushenka. I don't know whether he saw her, but in the evening he was at the "Metropolis," where he got thoroughly drunk. Then he asked for pen and paper and wrote a document of weighty consequences to himself. It was a wordy, disconnected, frantic letter, a drunken letter in fact. It was like the talk of a drunken man, who, on his return home, begins with extraordinary heat telling his wife or one of his household how he has just been insulted, what a rascal had just insulted him, what a fine fellow he is on the other hand, and how he will pay that scoundrel out; and all that at great length, with great excitement and incoherence, with drunken tears and blows on the table. The letter was written on a dirty piece of ordinary paper of the cheapest kind. It had been provided by the tavern and there were figures scrawled on the back of it. There was evidently not space enough for his drunken verbosity and Mitya not only filled the margins but had written the last line right across the rest. The letter ran as follows: FATAL KATYA: To-morrow I will get the money and repay your three thousand and farewell, woman of great wrath, but farewell, too, my love! Let us make an end! To-morrow I shall try and get it from every one, and if I can't borrow it, I give you my word of honor I shall go to my father and break his skull and take the money from under the pillow, if only Ivan has gone. If I have to go to Siberia for it, I'll give you back your three thousand. And farewell. I bow down to the ground before you, for I've been a scoundrel to you. Forgive me! No, better not forgive me, you'll be happier and so shall I! Better Siberia than your love, for I love another woman and you got to know her too well to-day, so how can you forgive? I will murder the man who's robbed me! I'll leave you all and go to the East so as to see no one again. Not _her_ either, for you are not my only tormentress; she is too. Farewell! P.S.--I write my curse, but I adore you! I hear it in my heart. One string is left, and it vibrates. Better tear my heart in two! I shall kill myself, but first of all that cur. I shall tear three thousand from him and fling it to you. Though I've been a scoundrel to you, I am not a thief! You can expect three thousand. The cur keeps it under his mattress, in pink ribbon. I am not a thief, but I'll murder my thief. Katya, don't look disdainful. Dmitri is not a thief! but a murderer! He has murdered his father and ruined himself to hold his ground, rather than endure your pride. And he doesn't love you. P.P.S.--I kiss your feet, farewell! P.P.P.S.--Katya, pray to God that some one'll give me the money. Then I shall not be steeped in gore, and if no one does--I shall! Kill me! Your slave and enemy, D. KARAMAZOV. When Ivan read this "document" he was convinced. So then it was his brother, not Smerdyakov. And if not Smerdyakov, then not he, Ivan. This letter at once assumed in his eyes the aspect of a logical proof. There could be no longer the slightest doubt of Mitya's guilt. The suspicion never occurred to Ivan, by the way, that Mitya might have committed the murder in conjunction with Smerdyakov, and, indeed, such a theory did not fit in with the facts. Ivan was completely reassured. The next morning he only thought of Smerdyakov and his gibes with contempt. A few days later he positively wondered how he could have been so horribly distressed at his suspicions. He resolved to dismiss him with contempt and forget him. So passed a month. He made no further inquiry about Smerdyakov, but twice he happened to hear that he was very ill and out of his mind. "He'll end in madness," the young doctor Varvinsky observed about him, and Ivan remembered this. During the last week of that month Ivan himself began to feel very ill. He went to consult the Moscow doctor who had been sent for by Katerina Ivanovna just before the trial. And just at that time his relations with Katerina Ivanovna became acutely strained. They were like two enemies in love with one another. Katerina Ivanovna's "returns" to Mitya, that is, her brief but violent revulsions of feeling in his favor, drove Ivan to perfect frenzy. Strange to say, until that last scene described above, when Alyosha came from Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna, Ivan had never once, during that month, heard her express a doubt of Mitya's guilt, in spite of those "returns" that were so hateful to him. It is remarkable, too, that while he felt that he hated Mitya more and more every day, he realized that it was not on account of Katya's "returns" that he hated him, but just _because he was the murderer of his father_. He was conscious of this and fully recognized it to himself. Nevertheless, he went to see Mitya ten days before the trial and proposed to him a plan of escape--a plan he had obviously thought over a long time. He was partly impelled to do this by a sore place still left in his heart from a phrase of Smerdyakov's, that it was to his, Ivan's, advantage that his brother should be convicted, as that would increase his inheritance and Alyosha's from forty to sixty thousand roubles. He determined to sacrifice thirty thousand on arranging Mitya's escape. On his return from seeing him, he was very mournful and dispirited; he suddenly began to feel that he was anxious for Mitya's escape, not only to heal that sore place by sacrificing thirty thousand, but for another reason. "Is it because I am as much a murderer at heart?" he asked himself. Something very deep down seemed burning and rankling in his soul. His pride above all suffered cruelly all that month. But of that later.... When, after his conversation with Alyosha, Ivan suddenly decided with his hand on the bell of his lodging to go to Smerdyakov, he obeyed a sudden and peculiar impulse of indignation. He suddenly remembered how Katerina Ivanovna had only just cried out to him in Alyosha's presence: "It was you, you, persuaded me of his" (that is, Mitya's) "guilt!" Ivan was thunderstruck when he recalled it. He had never once tried to persuade her that Mitya was the murderer; on the contrary, he had suspected himself in her presence, that time when he came back from Smerdyakov. It was _she_, she, who had produced that "document" and proved his brother's guilt. And now she suddenly exclaimed: "I've been at Smerdyakov's myself!" When had she been there? Ivan had known nothing of it. So she was not at all so sure of Mitya's guilt! And what could Smerdyakov have told her? What, what, had he said to her? His heart burned with violent anger. He could not understand how he could, half an hour before, have let those words pass and not have cried out at the moment. He let go of the bell and rushed off to Smerdyakov. "I shall kill him, perhaps, this time," he thought on the way. Chapter VIII. The Third And Last Interview With Smerdyakov When he was half-way there, the keen dry wind that had been blowing early that morning rose again, and a fine dry snow began falling thickly. It did not lie on the ground, but was whirled about by the wind, and soon there was a regular snowstorm. There were scarcely any lamp-posts in the part of the town where Smerdyakov lived. Ivan strode alone in the darkness, unconscious of the storm, instinctively picking out his way. His head ached and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. He felt that his hands were twitching convulsively. Not far from Marya Kondratyevna's cottage, Ivan suddenly came upon a solitary drunken little peasant. He was wearing a coarse and patched coat, and was walking in zigzags, grumbling and swearing to himself. Then suddenly he would begin singing in a husky drunken voice: "Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg; I won't wait till he comes back." But he broke off every time at the second line and began swearing again; then he would begin the same song again. Ivan felt an intense hatred for him before he had thought about him at all. Suddenly he realized his presence and felt an irresistible impulse to knock him down. At that moment they met, and the peasant with a violent lurch fell full tilt against Ivan, who pushed him back furiously. The peasant went flying backwards and fell like a log on the frozen ground. He uttered one plaintive "O--oh!" and then was silent. Ivan stepped up to him. He was lying on his back, without movement or consciousness. "He will be frozen," thought Ivan, and he went on his way to Smerdyakov's. In the passage, Marya Kondratyevna, who ran out to open the door with a candle in her hand, whispered that Smerdyakov was very ill, "It's not that he's laid up, but he seems not himself, and he even told us to take the tea away; he wouldn't have any." "Why, does he make a row?" asked Ivan coarsely. "Oh, dear, no, quite the contrary, he's very quiet. Only please don't talk to him too long," Marya Kondratyevna begged him. Ivan opened the door and stepped into the room. It was over-heated as before, but there were changes in the room. One of the benches at the side had been removed, and in its place had been put a large old mahogany leather sofa, on which a bed had been made up, with fairly clean white pillows. Smerdyakov was sitting on the sofa, wearing the same dressing-gown. The table had been brought out in front of the sofa, so that there was hardly room to move. On the table lay a thick book in yellow cover, but Smerdyakov was not reading it. He seemed to be sitting doing nothing. He met Ivan with a slow silent gaze, and was apparently not at all surprised at his coming. There was a great change in his face; he was much thinner and sallower. His eyes were sunken and there were blue marks under them. "Why, you really are ill?" Ivan stopped short. "I won't keep you long, I won't even take off my coat. Where can one sit down?" He went to the other end of the table, moved up a chair and sat down on it. "Why do you look at me without speaking? I've only come with one question, and I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young lady, Katerina Ivanovna, been with you?" Smerdyakov still remained silent, looking quietly at Ivan as before. Suddenly, with a motion of his hand, he turned his face away. "What's the matter with you?" cried Ivan. "Nothing." "What do you mean by 'nothing'?" "Yes, she has. It's no matter to you. Let me alone." "No, I won't let you alone. Tell me, when was she here?" "Why, I'd quite forgotten about her," said Smerdyakov, with a scornful smile, and turning his face to Ivan again, he stared at him with a look of frenzied hatred, the same look that he had fixed on him at their last interview, a month before. "You seem very ill yourself, your face is sunken; you don't look like yourself," he said to Ivan. "Never mind my health, tell me what I ask you." "But why are your eyes so yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are you so worried?" He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed outright. "Listen; I've told you I won't go away without an answer!" Ivan cried, intensely irritated. "Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me?" said Smerdyakov, with a look of suffering. "Damn it! I've nothing to do with you. Just answer my question and I'll go away." "I've no answer to give you," said Smerdyakov, looking down again. "You may be sure I'll make you answer!" "Why are you so uneasy?" Smerdyakov stared at him, not simply with contempt, but almost with repulsion. "Is this because the trial begins to- morrow? Nothing will happen to you; can't you believe that at last? Go home, go to bed and sleep in peace, don't be afraid of anything." "I don't understand you.... What have I to be afraid of to-morrow?" Ivan articulated in astonishment, and suddenly a chill breath of fear did in fact pass over his soul. Smerdyakov measured him with his eyes. "You don't understand?" he drawled reproachfully. "It's a strange thing a sensible man should care to play such a farce!" Ivan looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly supercilious tone of this man who had once been his valet, was extraordinary in itself. He had not taken such a tone even at their last interview. "I tell you, you've nothing to be afraid of. I won't say anything about you; there's no proof against you. I say, how your hands are trembling! Why are your fingers moving like that? Go home, _you_ did not murder him." Ivan started. He remembered Alyosha. "I know it was not I," he faltered. "Do you?" Smerdyakov caught him up again. Ivan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder. "Tell me everything, you viper! Tell me everything!" Smerdyakov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes on Ivan with insane hatred. "Well, it was you who murdered him, if that's it," he whispered furiously. Ivan sank back on his chair, as though pondering something. He laughed malignantly. "You mean my going away. What you talked about last time?" "You stood before me last time and understood it all, and you understand it now." "All I understand is that you are mad." "Aren't you tired of it? Here we are face to face; what's the use of going on keeping up a farce to each other? Are you still trying to throw it all on me, to my face? _You_ murdered him; you are the real murderer, I was only your instrument, your faithful servant, and it was following your words I did it." "_Did_ it? Why, did you murder him?" Ivan turned cold. Something seemed to give way in his brain, and he shuddered all over with a cold shiver. Then Smerdyakov himself looked at him wonderingly; probably the genuineness of Ivan's horror struck him. "You don't mean to say you really did not know?" he faltered mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Ivan still gazed at him, and seemed unable to speak. Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg; I won't wait till he comes back, suddenly echoed in his head. "Do you know, I am afraid that you are a dream, a phantom sitting before me," he muttered. "There's no phantom here, but only us two and one other. No doubt he is here, that third, between us." "Who is he? Who is here? What third person?" Ivan cried in alarm, looking about him, his eyes hastily searching in every corner. "That third is God Himself--Providence. He is the third beside us now. Only don't look for Him, you won't find Him." "It's a lie that you killed him!" Ivan cried madly. "You are mad, or teasing me again!" Smerdyakov, as before, watched him curiously, with no sign of fear. He could still scarcely get over his incredulity; he still fancied that Ivan knew everything and was trying to "throw it all on him to his face." "Wait a minute," he said at last in a weak voice, and suddenly bringing up his left leg from under the table, he began turning up his trouser leg. He was wearing long white stockings and slippers. Slowly he took off his garter and fumbled to the bottom of his stocking. Ivan gazed at him, and suddenly shuddered in a paroxysm of terror. "He's mad!" he cried, and rapidly jumping up, he drew back, so that he knocked his back against the wall and stood up against it, stiff and straight. He looked with insane terror at Smerdyakov, who, entirely unaffected by his terror, continued fumbling in his stocking, as though he were making an effort to get hold of something with his fingers and pull it out. At last he got hold of it and began pulling it out. Ivan saw that it was a piece of paper, or perhaps a roll of papers. Smerdyakov pulled it out and laid it on the table. "Here," he said quietly. "What is it?" asked Ivan, trembling. "Kindly look at it," Smerdyakov answered, still in the same low tone. Ivan stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and began unfolding it, but suddenly he drew back his fingers, as though from contact with a loathsome reptile. "Your hands keep twitching," observed Smerdyakov, and he deliberately unfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three packets of hundred-rouble notes. "They are all here, all the three thousand roubles; you need not count them. Take them," Smerdyakov suggested to Ivan, nodding at the notes. Ivan sank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief. "You frightened me ... with your stocking," he said, with a strange grin. "Can you really not have known till now?" Smerdyakov asked once more. "No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitri. Brother, brother! Ach!" He suddenly clutched his head in both hands. "Listen. Did you kill him alone? With my brother's help or without?" "It was only with you, with your help, I killed him, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch is quite innocent." "All right, all right. Talk about me later. Why do I keep on trembling? I can't speak properly." "You were bold enough then. You said 'everything was lawful,' and how frightened you are now," Smerdyakov muttered in surprise. "Won't you have some lemonade? I'll ask for some at once. It's very refreshing. Only I must hide this first." And again he motioned at the notes. He was just going to get up and call at the door to Marya Kondratyevna to make some lemonade and bring it them, but, looking for something to cover up the notes that she might not see them, he first took out his handkerchief, and as it turned out to be very dirty, took up the big yellow book that Ivan had noticed at first lying on the table, and put it over the notes. The book was _The Sayings of the Holy Father Isaac the Syrian_. Ivan read it mechanically. "I won't have any lemonade," he said. "Talk of me later. Sit down and tell me how you did it. Tell me all about it." "You'd better take off your greatcoat, or you'll be too hot." Ivan, as though he'd only just thought of it, took off his coat, and, without getting up from his chair, threw it on the bench. "Speak, please, speak." He seemed calmer. He waited, feeling sure that Smerdyakov would tell him _all_ about it. "How it was done?" sighed Smerdyakov. "It was done in a most natural way, following your very words." "Of my words later," Ivan broke in again, apparently with complete self- possession, firmly uttering his words, and not shouting as before. "Only tell me in detail how you did it. Everything, as it happened. Don't forget anything. The details, above everything, the details, I beg you." "You'd gone away, then I fell into the cellar." "In a fit or in a sham one?" "A sham one, naturally. I shammed it all. I went quietly down the steps to the very bottom and lay down quietly, and as I lay down I gave a scream, and struggled, till they carried me out." "Stay! And were you shamming all along, afterwards, and in the hospital?" "No, not at all. Next day, in the morning, before they took me to the hospital, I had a real attack and a more violent one than I've had for years. For two days I was quite unconscious." "All right, all right. Go on." "They laid me on the bed. I knew I'd be the other side of the partition, for whenever I was ill, Marfa Ignatyevna used to put me there, near them. She's always been very kind to me, from my birth up. At night I moaned, but quietly. I kept expecting Dmitri Fyodorovitch to come." "Expecting him? To come to you?" "Not to me. I expected him to come into the house, for I'd no doubt that he'd come that night, for being without me and getting no news, he'd be sure to come and climb over the fence, as he used to, and do something." "And if he hadn't come?" "Then nothing would have happened. I should never have brought myself to it without him." "All right, all right ... speak more intelligibly, don't hurry; above all, don't leave anything out!" "I expected him to kill Fyodor Pavlovitch. I thought that was certain, for I had prepared him for it ... during the last few days.... He knew about the knocks, that was the chief thing. With his suspiciousness and the fury which had been growing in him all those days, he was bound to get into the house by means of those taps. That was inevitable, so I was expecting him." "Stay," Ivan interrupted; "if he had killed him, he would have taken the money and carried it away; you must have considered that. What would you have got by it afterwards? I don't see." "But he would never have found the money. That was only what I told him, that the money was under the mattress. But that wasn't true. It had been lying in a box. And afterwards I suggested to Fyodor Pavlovitch, as I was the only person he trusted, to hide the envelope with the notes in the corner behind the ikons, for no one would have guessed that place, especially if they came in a hurry. So that's where the envelope lay, in the corner behind the ikons. It would have been absurd to keep it under the mattress; the box, anyway, could be locked. But all believe it was under the mattress. A stupid thing to believe. So if Dmitri Fyodorovitch had committed the murder, finding nothing, he would either have run away in a hurry, afraid of every sound, as always happens with murderers, or he would have been arrested. So I could always have clambered up to the ikons and have taken away the money next morning or even that night, and it would have all been put down to Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I could reckon upon that." "But what if he did not kill him, but only knocked him down?" "If he did not kill him, of course, I would not have ventured to take the money, and nothing would have happened. But I calculated that he would beat him senseless, and I should have time to take it then, and then I'd make out to Fyodor Pavlovitch that it was no one but Dmitri Fyodorovitch who had taken the money after beating him." "Stop ... I am getting mixed. Then it was Dmitri after all who killed him; you only took the money?" "No, he didn't kill him. Well, I might as well have told you now that he was the murderer.... But I don't want to lie to you now, because ... because if you really haven't understood till now, as I see for myself, and are not pretending, so as to throw your guilt on me to my very face, you are still responsible for it all, since you knew of the murder and charged me to do it, and went away knowing all about it. And so I want to prove to your face this evening that you are the only real murderer in the whole affair, and I am not the real murderer, though I did kill him. You are the rightful murderer." "Why, why, am I a murderer? Oh, God!" Ivan cried, unable to restrain himself at last, and forgetting that he had put off discussing himself till the end of the conversation. "You still mean that Tchermashnya? Stay, tell me, why did you want my consent, if you really took Tchermashnya for consent? How will you explain that now?" "Assured of your consent, I should have known that you wouldn't have made an outcry over those three thousand being lost, even if I'd been suspected, instead of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, or as his accomplice; on the contrary, you would have protected me from others.... And when you got your inheritance you would have rewarded me when you were able, all the rest of your life. For you'd have received your inheritance through me, seeing that if he had married Agrafena Alexandrovna, you wouldn't have had a farthing." "Ah! Then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards," snarled Ivan. "And what if I hadn't gone away then, but had informed against you?" "What could you have informed? That I persuaded you to go to Tchermashnya? That's all nonsense. Besides, after our conversation you would either have gone away or have stayed. If you had stayed, nothing would have happened. I should have known that you didn't want it done, and should have attempted nothing. As you went away, it meant you assured me that you wouldn't dare to inform against me at the trial, and that you'd overlook my having the three thousand. And, indeed, you couldn't have prosecuted me afterwards, because then I should have told it all in the court; that is, not that I had stolen the money or killed him--I shouldn't have said that--but that you'd put me up to the theft and the murder, though I didn't consent to it. That's why I needed your consent, so that you couldn't have cornered me afterwards, for what proof could you have had? I could always have cornered you, revealing your eagerness for your father's death, and I tell you the public would have believed it all, and you would have been ashamed for the rest of your life." "Was I then so eager, was I?" Ivan snarled again. "To be sure you were, and by your consent you silently sanctioned my doing it." Smerdyakov looked resolutely at Ivan. He was very weak and spoke slowly and wearily, but some hidden inner force urged him on. He evidently had some design. Ivan felt that. "Go on," he said. "Tell me what happened that night." "What more is there to tell! I lay there and I thought I heard the master shout. And before that Grigory Vassilyevitch had suddenly got up and came out, and he suddenly gave a scream, and then all was silence and darkness. I lay there waiting, my heart beating; I couldn't bear it. I got up at last, went out. I saw the window open on the left into the garden, and I stepped to the left to listen whether he was sitting there alive, and I heard the master moving about, sighing, so I knew he was alive. 'Ech!' I thought. I went to the window and shouted to the master, 'It's I.' And he shouted to me, 'He's been, he's been; he's run away.' He meant Dmitri Fyodorovitch had been. 'He's killed Grigory!' 'Where?' I whispered. 'There, in the corner,' he pointed. He was whispering, too. 'Wait a bit,' I said. I went to the corner of the garden to look, and there I came upon Grigory Vassilyevitch lying by the wall, covered with blood, senseless. So it's true that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, was the thought that came into my head, and I determined on the spot to make an end of it, as Grigory Vassilyevitch, even if he were alive, would see nothing of it, as he lay there senseless. The only risk was that Marfa Ignatyevna might wake up. I felt that at the moment, but the longing to get it done came over me, till I could scarcely breathe. I went back to the window to the master and said, 'She's here, she's come; Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, wants to be let in.' And he started like a baby. 'Where is she?' he fairly gasped, but couldn't believe it. 'She's standing there,' said I. 'Open.' He looked out of the window at me, half believing and half distrustful, but afraid to open. 'Why, he is afraid of me now,' I thought. And it was funny. I bethought me to knock on the window-frame those taps we'd agreed upon as a signal that Grushenka had come, in his presence, before his eyes. He didn't seem to believe my word, but as soon as he heard the taps, he ran at once to open the door. He opened it. I would have gone in, but he stood in the way to prevent me passing. 'Where is she? Where is she?' He looked at me, all of a tremble. 'Well,' thought I, 'if he's so frightened of me as all that, it's a bad look out!' And my legs went weak with fright that he wouldn't let me in or would call out, or Marfa Ignatyevna would run up, or something else might happen. I don't remember now, but I must have stood pale, facing him. I whispered to him, 'Why, she's there, there, under the window; how is it you don't see her?' I said. 'Bring her then, bring her.' 'She's afraid,' said I; 'she was frightened at the noise, she's hidden in the bushes; go and call to her yourself from the study.' He ran to the window, put the candle in the window. 'Grushenka,' he cried, 'Grushenka, are you here?' Though he cried that, he didn't want to lean out of the window, he didn't want to move away from me, for he was panic-stricken; he was so frightened he didn't dare to turn his back on me. 'Why, here she is,' said I. I went up to the window and leaned right out of it. 'Here she is; she's in the bush, laughing at you, don't you see her?' He suddenly believed it; he was all of a shake--he was awfully crazy about her--and he leaned right out of the window. I snatched up that iron paper-weight from his table; do you remember, weighing about three pounds? I swung it and hit him on the top of the skull with the corner of it. He didn't even cry out. He only sank down suddenly, and I hit him again and a third time. And the third time I knew I'd broken his skull. He suddenly rolled on his back, face upwards, covered with blood. I looked round. There was no blood on me, not a spot. I wiped the paper-weight, put it back, went up to the ikons, took the money out of the envelope, and flung the envelope on the floor and the pink ribbon beside it. I went out into the garden all of a tremble, straight to the apple-tree with a hollow in it--you know that hollow. I'd marked it long before and put a rag and a piece of paper ready in it. I wrapped all the notes in the rag and stuffed it deep down in the hole. And there it stayed for over a fortnight. I took it out later, when I came out of the hospital. I went back to my bed, lay down and thought, 'If Grigory Vassilyevitch has been killed outright it may be a bad job for me, but if he is not killed and recovers, it will be first-rate, for then he'll bear witness that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, and so he must have killed him and taken the money.' Then I began groaning with suspense and impatience, so as to wake Marfa Ignatyevna as soon as possible. At last she got up and she rushed to me, but when she saw Grigory Vassilyevitch was not there, she ran out, and I heard her scream in the garden. And that set it all going and set my mind at rest." He stopped. Ivan had listened all the time in dead silence without stirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his story Smerdyakov glanced at him from time to time, but for the most part kept his eyes averted. When he had finished he was evidently agitated and was breathing hard. The perspiration stood out on his face. But it was impossible to tell whether it was remorse he was feeling, or what. "Stay," cried Ivan, pondering. "What about the door? If he only opened the door to you, how could Grigory have seen it open before? For Grigory saw it before you went." It was remarkable that Ivan spoke quite amicably, in a different tone, not angry as before, so if any one had opened the door at that moment and peeped in at them, he would certainly have concluded that they were talking peaceably about some ordinary, though interesting, subject. "As for that door and Grigory Vassilyevitch's having seen it open, that's only his fancy," said Smerdyakov, with a wry smile. "He is not a man, I assure you, but an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancied he had seen it, and there's no shaking him. It's just our luck he took that notion into his head, for they can't fail to convict Dmitri Fyodorovitch after that." "Listen ..." said Ivan, beginning to seem bewildered again and making an effort to grasp something. "Listen. There are a lot of questions I want to ask you, but I forget them ... I keep forgetting and getting mixed up. Yes. Tell me this at least, why did you open the envelope and leave it there on the floor? Why didn't you simply carry off the envelope?... When you were telling me, I thought you spoke about it as though it were the right thing to do ... but why, I can't understand...." "I did that for a good reason. For if a man had known all about it, as I did for instance, if he'd seen those notes before, and perhaps had put them in that envelope himself, and had seen the envelope sealed up and addressed, with his own eyes, if such a man had done the murder, what should have made him tear open the envelope afterwards, especially in such desperate haste, since he'd know for certain the notes must be in the envelope? No, if the robber had been some one like me, he'd simply have put the envelope straight in his pocket and got away with it as fast as he could. But it'd be quite different with Dmitri Fyodorovitch. He only knew about the envelope by hearsay; he had never seen it, and if he'd found it, for instance, under the mattress, he'd have torn it open as quickly as possible to make sure the notes were in it. And he'd have thrown the envelope down, without having time to think that it would be evidence against him. Because he was not an habitual thief and had never directly stolen anything before, for he is a gentleman born, and if he did bring himself to steal, it would not be regular stealing, but simply taking what was his own, for he'd told the whole town he meant to before, and had even bragged aloud before every one that he'd go and take his property from Fyodor Pavlovitch. I didn't say that openly to the prosecutor when I was being examined, but quite the contrary, I brought him to it by a hint, as though I didn't see it myself, and as though he'd thought of it himself and I hadn't prompted him; so that Mr. Prosecutor's mouth positively watered at my suggestion." "But can you possibly have thought of all that on the spot?" cried Ivan, overcome with astonishment. He looked at Smerdyakov again with alarm. "Mercy on us! Could any one think of it all in such a desperate hurry? It was all thought out beforehand." "Well ... well, it was the devil helped you!" Ivan cried again. "No, you are not a fool, you are far cleverer than I thought...." He got up, obviously intending to walk across the room. He was in terrible distress. But as the table blocked his way, and there was hardly room to pass between the table and the wall, he only turned round where he stood and sat down again. Perhaps the impossibility of moving irritated him, as he suddenly cried out almost as furiously as before. "Listen, you miserable, contemptible creature! Don't you understand that if I haven't killed you, it's simply because I am keeping you to answer to-morrow at the trial. God sees," Ivan raised his hand, "perhaps I, too, was guilty; perhaps I really had a secret desire for my father's ... death, but I swear I was not as guilty as you think, and perhaps I didn't urge you on at all. No, no, I didn't urge you on! But no matter, I will give evidence against myself to-morrow at the trial. I'm determined to! I shall tell everything, everything. But we'll make our appearance together. And whatever you may say against me at the trial, whatever evidence you give, I'll face it; I am not afraid of you. I'll confirm it all myself! But you must confess, too! You must, you must; we'll go together. That's how it shall be!" Ivan said this solemnly and resolutely and from his flashing eyes alone it could be seen that it would be so. "You are ill, I see; you are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow," Smerdyakov commented, without the least irony, with apparent sympathy in fact. "We'll go together," Ivan repeated. "And if you won't go, no matter, I'll go alone." Smerdyakov paused as though pondering. "There'll be nothing of the sort, and you won't go," he concluded at last positively. "You don't understand me," Ivan exclaimed reproachfully. "You'll be too much ashamed, if you confess it all. And, what's more, it will be no use at all, for I shall say straight out that I never said anything of the sort to you, and that you are either ill (and it looks like it, too), or that you're so sorry for your brother that you are sacrificing yourself to save him and have invented it all against me, for you've always thought no more of me than if I'd been a fly. And who will believe you, and what single proof have you got?" "Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me." Smerdyakov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side. "Take that money away with you," Smerdyakov sighed. "Of course, I shall take it. But why do you give it to me, if you committed the murder for the sake of it?" Ivan looked at him with great surprise. "I don't want it," Smerdyakov articulated in a shaking voice, with a gesture of refusal. "I did have an idea of beginning a new life with that money in Moscow or, better still, abroad. I did dream of it, chiefly because 'all things are lawful.' That was quite right what you taught me, for you talked a lot to me about that. For if there's no everlasting God, there's no such thing as virtue, and there's no need of it. You were right there. So that's how I looked at it." "Did you come to that of yourself?" asked Ivan, with a wry smile. "With your guidance." "And now, I suppose, you believe in God, since you are giving back the money?" "No, I don't believe," whispered Smerdyakov. "Then why are you giving it back?" "Leave off ... that's enough!" Smerdyakov waved his hand again. "You used to say yourself that everything was lawful, so now why are you so upset, too? You even want to go and give evidence against yourself.... Only there'll be nothing of the sort! You won't go to give evidence," Smerdyakov decided with conviction. "You'll see," said Ivan. "It isn't possible. You are very clever. You are fond of money, I know that. You like to be respected, too, for you're very proud; you are far too fond of female charms, too, and you mind most of all about living in undisturbed comfort, without having to depend on any one--that's what you care most about. You won't want to spoil your life for ever by taking such a disgrace on yourself. You are like Fyodor Pavlovitch, you are more like him than any of his children; you've the same soul as he had." "You are not a fool," said Ivan, seeming struck. The blood rushed to his face. "You are serious now!" he observed, looking suddenly at Smerdyakov with a different expression. "It was your pride made you think I was a fool. Take the money." Ivan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without wrapping them in anything. "I shall show them at the court to-morrow," he said. "Nobody will believe you, as you've plenty of money of your own; you may simply have taken it out of your cash-box and brought it to the court." Ivan rose from his seat. "I repeat," he said, "the only reason I haven't killed you is that I need you for to-morrow, remember that, don't forget it!" "Well, kill me. Kill me now," Smerdyakov said, all at once looking strangely at Ivan. "You won't dare do that even!" he added, with a bitter smile. "You won't dare to do anything, you, who used to be so bold!" "Till to-morrow," cried Ivan, and moved to go out. "Stay a moment.... Show me those notes again." Ivan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov looked at them for ten seconds. "Well, you can go," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Ivan Fyodorovitch!" he called after him again. "What do you want?" Ivan turned without stopping. "Good-by!" "Till to-morrow!" Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the cottage. The snowstorm was still raging. He walked the first few steps boldly, but suddenly began staggering. "It's something physical," he thought with a grin. Something like joy was springing up in his heart. He was conscious of unbounded resolution; he would make an end of the wavering that had so tortured him of late. His determination was taken, "and now it will not be changed," he thought with relief. At that moment he stumbled against something and almost fell down. Stopping short, he made out at his feet the peasant he had knocked down, still lying senseless and motionless. The snow had almost covered his face. Ivan seized him and lifted him in his arms. Seeing a light in the little house to the right he went up, knocked at the shutters, and asked the man to whom the house belonged to help him carry the peasant to the police-station, promising him three roubles. The man got ready and came out. I won't describe in detail how Ivan succeeded in his object, bringing the peasant to the police-station and arranging for a doctor to see him at once, providing with a liberal hand for the expenses. I will only say that this business took a whole hour, but Ivan was well content with it. His mind wandered and worked incessantly. "If I had not taken my decision so firmly for to-morrow," he reflected with satisfaction, "I should not have stayed a whole hour to look after the peasant, but should have passed by, without caring about his being frozen. I am quite capable of watching myself, by the way," he thought at the same instant, with still greater satisfaction, "although they have decided that I am going out of my mind!" Just as he reached his own house he stopped short, asking himself suddenly hadn't he better go at once to the prosecutor and tell him everything. He decided the question by turning back to the house. "Everything together to-morrow!" he whispered to himself, and, strange to say, almost all his gladness and self-satisfaction passed in one instant. As he entered his own room he felt something like a touch of ice on his heart, like a recollection or, more exactly, a reminder, of something agonizing and revolting that was in that room now, at that moment, and had been there before. He sank wearily on his sofa. The old woman brought him a samovar; he made tea, but did not touch it. He sat on the sofa and felt giddy. He felt that he was ill and helpless. He was beginning to drop asleep, but got up uneasily and walked across the room to shake off his drowsiness. At moments he fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness that he thought of most. Sitting down again, he began looking round, as though searching for something. This happened several times. At last his eyes were fastened intently on one point. Ivan smiled, but an angry flush suffused his face. He sat a long time in his place, his head propped on both arms, though he looked sideways at the same point, at the sofa that stood against the opposite wall. There was evidently something, some object, that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him. Chapter IX. The Devil. Ivan's Nightmare I am not a doctor, but yet I feel that the moment has come when I must inevitably give the reader some account of the nature of Ivan's illness. Anticipating events I can say at least one thing: he was at that moment on the very eve of an attack of brain fever. Though his health had long been affected, it had offered a stubborn resistance to the fever which in the end gained complete mastery over it. Though I know nothing of medicine, I venture to hazard the suggestion that he really had perhaps, by a terrible effort of will, succeeded in delaying the attack for a time, hoping, of course, to check it completely. He knew that he was unwell, but he loathed the thought of being ill at that fatal time, at the approaching crisis in his life, when he needed to have all his wits about him, to say what he had to say boldly and resolutely and "to justify himself to himself." He had, however, consulted the new doctor, who had been brought from Moscow by a fantastic notion of Katerina Ivanovna's to which I have referred already. After listening to him and examining him the doctor came to the conclusion that he was actually suffering from some disorder of the brain, and was not at all surprised by an admission which Ivan had reluctantly made him. "Hallucinations are quite likely in your condition," the doctor opined, "though it would be better to verify them ... you must take steps at once, without a moment's delay, or things will go badly with you." But Ivan did not follow this judicious advice and did not take to his bed to be nursed. "I am walking about, so I am strong enough, if I drop, it'll be different then, any one may nurse me who likes," he decided, dismissing the subject. And so he was sitting almost conscious himself of his delirium and, as I have said already, looking persistently at some object on the sofa against the opposite wall. Some one appeared to be sitting there, though goodness knows how he had come in, for he had not been in the room when Ivan came into it, on his return from Smerdyakov. This was a person or, more accurately speaking, a Russian gentleman of a particular kind, no longer young, _qui faisait la cinquantaine_, as the French say, with rather long, still thick, dark hair, slightly streaked with gray and a small pointed beard. He was wearing a brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, evidently made by a good tailor though, and of a fashion at least three years old, that had been discarded by smart and well-to-do people for the last two years. His linen and his long scarf-like neck-tie were all such as are worn by people who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his linen was not over-clean and his wide scarf was very threadbare. The visitor's check trousers were of excellent cut, but were too light in color and too tight for the present fashion. His soft fluffy white hat was out of keeping with the season. In brief there was every appearance of gentility on straitened means. It looked as though the gentleman belonged to that class of idle landowners who used to flourish in the times of serfdom. He had unmistakably been, at some time, in good and fashionable society, had once had good connections, had possibly preserved them indeed, but, after a gay youth, becoming gradually impoverished on the abolition of serfdom, he had sunk into the position of a poor relation of the best class, wandering from one good old friend to another and received by them for his companionable and accommodating disposition and as being, after all, a gentleman who could be asked to sit down with any one, though, of course, not in a place of honor. Such gentlemen of accommodating temper and dependent position, who can tell a story, take a hand at cards, and who have a distinct aversion for any duties that may be forced upon them, are usually solitary creatures, either bachelors or widowers. Sometimes they have children, but if so, the children are always being brought up at a distance, at some aunt's, to whom these gentlemen never allude in good society, seeming ashamed of the relationship. They gradually lose sight of their children altogether, though at intervals they receive a birthday or Christmas letter from them and sometimes even answer it. The countenance of the unexpected visitor was not so much good-natured, as accommodating and ready to assume any amiable expression as occasion might arise. He had no watch, but he had a tortoise-shell lorgnette on a black ribbon. On the middle finger of his right hand was a massive gold ring with a cheap opal stone in it. Ivan was angrily silent and would not begin the conversation. The visitor waited and sat exactly like a poor relation who had come down from his room to keep his host company at tea, and was discreetly silent, seeing that his host was frowning and preoccupied. But he was ready for any affable conversation as soon as his host should begin it. All at once his face expressed a sudden solicitude. "I say," he began to Ivan, "excuse me, I only mention it to remind you. You went to Smerdyakov's to find out about Katerina Ivanovna, but you came away without finding out anything about her, you probably forgot--" "Ah, yes," broke from Ivan and his face grew gloomy with uneasiness. "Yes, I'd forgotten ... but it doesn't matter now, never mind, till to-morrow," he muttered to himself, "and you," he added, addressing his visitor, "I should have remembered that myself in a minute, for that was just what was tormenting me! Why do you interfere, as if I should believe that you prompted me, and that I didn't remember it of myself?" "Don't believe it then," said the gentleman, smiling amicably, "what's the good of believing against your will? Besides, proofs are no help to believing, especially material proofs. Thomas believed, not because he saw Christ risen, but because he wanted to believe, before he saw. Look at the spiritualists, for instance.... I am very fond of them ... only fancy, they imagine that they are serving the cause of religion, because the devils show them their horns from the other world. That, they say, is a material proof, so to speak, of the existence of another world. The other world and material proofs, what next! And if you come to that, does proving there's a devil prove that there's a God? I want to join an idealist society, I'll lead the opposition in it, I'll say I am a realist, but not a materialist, he he!" "Listen," Ivan suddenly got up from the table. "I seem to be delirious.... I am delirious, in fact, talk any nonsense you like, I don't care! You won't drive me to fury, as you did last time. But I feel somehow ashamed.... I want to walk about the room.... I sometimes don't see you and don't even hear your voice as I did last time, but I always guess what you are prating, for it's I, _I myself speaking, not you_. Only I don't know whether I was dreaming last time or whether I really saw you. I'll wet a towel and put it on my head and perhaps you'll vanish into air." Ivan went into the corner, took a towel, and did as he said, and with a wet towel on his head began walking up and down the room. "I am so glad you treat me so familiarly," the visitor began. "Fool," laughed Ivan, "do you suppose I should stand on ceremony with you? I am in good spirits now, though I've a pain in my forehead ... and in the top of my head ... only please don't talk philosophy, as you did last time. If you can't take yourself off, talk of something amusing. Talk gossip, you are a poor relation, you ought to talk gossip. What a nightmare to have! But I am not afraid of you. I'll get the better of you. I won't be taken to a mad-house!" "_C'est charmant_, poor relation. Yes, I am in my natural shape. For what am I on earth but a poor relation? By the way, I am listening to you and am rather surprised to find you are actually beginning to take me for something real, not simply your fancy, as you persisted in declaring last time--" "Never for one minute have I taken you for reality," Ivan cried with a sort of fury. "You are a lie, you are my illness, you are a phantom. It's only that I don't know how to destroy you and I see I must suffer for a time. You are my hallucination. You are the incarnation of myself, but only of one side of me ... of my thoughts and feelings, but only the nastiest and stupidest of them. From that point of view you might be of interest to me, if only I had time to waste on you--" "Excuse me, excuse me, I'll catch you. When you flew out at Alyosha under the lamp-post this evening and shouted to him, 'You learnt it from _him_! How do you know that _he_ visits me?' you were thinking of me then. So for one brief moment you did believe that I really exist," the gentleman laughed blandly. "Yes, that was a moment of weakness ... but I couldn't believe in you. I don't know whether I was asleep or awake last time. Perhaps I was only dreaming then and didn't see you really at all--" "And why were you so surly with Alyosha just now? He is a dear; I've treated him badly over Father Zossima." "Don't talk of Alyosha! How dare you, you flunkey!" Ivan laughed again. "You scold me, but you laugh--that's a good sign. But you are ever so much more polite than you were last time and I know why: that great resolution of yours--" "Don't speak of my resolution," cried Ivan, savagely. "I understand, I understand, _c'est noble, c'est charmant_, you are going to defend your brother and to sacrifice yourself ... _C'est chevaleresque_." "Hold your tongue, I'll kick you!" "I shan't be altogether sorry, for then my object will be attained. If you kick me, you must believe in my reality, for people don't kick ghosts. Joking apart, it doesn't matter to me, scold if you like, though it's better to be a trifle more polite even to me. 'Fool, flunkey!' what words!" "Scolding you, I scold myself," Ivan laughed again, "you are myself, myself, only with a different face. You just say what I am thinking ... and are incapable of saying anything new!" "If I am like you in my way of thinking, it's all to my credit," the gentleman declared, with delicacy and dignity. "You choose out only my worst thoughts, and what's more, the stupid ones. You are stupid and vulgar. You are awfully stupid. No, I can't put up with you! What am I to do, what am I to do?" Ivan said through his clenched teeth. "My dear friend, above all things I want to behave like a gentleman and to be recognized as such," the visitor began in an excess of deprecating and simple-hearted pride, typical of a poor relation. "I am poor, but ... I won't say very honest, but ... it's an axiom generally accepted in society that I am a fallen angel. I certainly can't conceive how I can ever have been an angel. If I ever was, it must have been so long ago that there's no harm in forgetting it. Now I only prize the reputation of being a gentlemanly person and live as I can, trying to make myself agreeable. I love men genuinely, I've been greatly calumniated! Here when I stay with you from time to time, my life gains a kind of reality and that's what I like most of all. You see, like you, I suffer from the fantastic and so I love the realism of earth. Here, with you, everything is circumscribed, here all is formulated and geometrical, while we have nothing but indeterminate equations! I wander about here dreaming. I like dreaming. Besides, on earth I become superstitious. Please don't laugh, that's just what I like, to become superstitious. I adopt all your habits here: I've grown fond of going to the public baths, would you believe it? and I go and steam myself with merchants and priests. What I dream of is becoming incarnate once for all and irrevocably in the form of some merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone, and of believing all she believes. My ideal is to go to church and offer a candle in simple-hearted faith, upon my word it is. Then there would be an end to my sufferings. I like being doctored too; in the spring there was an outbreak of smallpox and I went and was vaccinated in a foundling hospital--if only you knew how I enjoyed myself that day. I subscribed ten roubles in the cause of the Slavs!... But you are not listening. Do you know, you are not at all well this evening? I know you went yesterday to that doctor ... well, what about your health? What did the doctor say?" "Fool!" Ivan snapped out. "But you are clever, anyway. You are scolding again? I didn't ask out of sympathy. You needn't answer. Now rheumatism has come in again--" "Fool!" repeated Ivan. "You keep saying the same thing; but I had such an attack of rheumatism last year that I remember it to this day." "The devil have rheumatism!" "Why not, if I sometimes put on fleshly form? I put on fleshly form and I take the consequences. Satan _sum et nihil humanum a me alienum puto_." "What, what, Satan _sum et nihil humanum_ ... that's not bad for the devil!" "I am glad I've pleased you at last." "But you didn't get that from me." Ivan stopped suddenly, seeming struck. "That never entered my head, that's strange." "_C'est du nouveau, n'est-ce pas?_ This time I'll act honestly and explain to you. Listen, in dreams and especially in nightmares, from indigestion or anything, a man sees sometimes such artistic visions, such complex and real actuality, such events, even a whole world of events, woven into such a plot, with such unexpected details from the most exalted matters to the last button on a cuff, as I swear Leo Tolstoy has never invented. Yet such dreams are sometimes seen not by writers, but by the most ordinary people, officials, journalists, priests.... The subject is a complete enigma. A statesman confessed to me, indeed, that all his best ideas came to him when he was asleep. Well, that's how it is now, though I am your hallucination, yet just as in a nightmare, I say original things which had not entered your head before. So I don't repeat your ideas, yet I am only your nightmare, nothing more." "You are lying, your aim is to convince me you exist apart and are not my nightmare, and now you are asserting you are a dream." "My dear fellow, I've adopted a special method to-day, I'll explain it to you afterwards. Stay, where did I break off? Oh, yes! I caught cold then, only not here but yonder." "Where is yonder? Tell me, will you be here long? Can't you go away?" Ivan exclaimed almost in despair. He ceased walking to and fro, sat down on the sofa, leaned his elbows on the table again and held his head tight in both hands. He pulled the wet towel off and flung it away in vexation. It was evidently of no use. "Your nerves are out of order," observed the gentleman, with a carelessly easy, though perfectly polite, air. "You are angry with me even for being able to catch cold, though it happened in a most natural way. I was hurrying then to a diplomatic _soiree_ at the house of a lady of high rank in Petersburg, who was aiming at influence in the Ministry. Well, an evening suit, white tie, gloves, though I was God knows where and had to fly through space to reach your earth.... Of course, it took only an instant, but you know a ray of light from the sun takes full eight minutes, and fancy in an evening suit and open waistcoat. Spirits don't freeze, but when one's in fleshly form, well ... in brief, I didn't think, and set off, and you know in those ethereal spaces, in the water that is above the firmament, there's such a frost ... at least one can't call it frost, you can fancy, 150 degrees below zero! You know the game the village girls play--they invite the unwary to lick an ax in thirty degrees of frost, the tongue instantly freezes to it and the dupe tears the skin off, so it bleeds. But that's only in 30 degrees, in 150 degrees I imagine it would be enough to put your finger on the ax and it would be the end of it ... if only there could be an ax there." "And can there be an ax there?" Ivan interrupted, carelessly and disdainfully. He was exerting himself to the utmost not to believe in the delusion and not to sink into complete insanity. "An ax?" the guest interrupted in surprise. "Yes, what would become of an ax there?" Ivan cried suddenly, with a sort of savage and insistent obstinacy. "What would become of an ax in space? _Quelle idee!_ If it were to fall to any distance, it would begin, I think, flying round the earth without knowing why, like a satellite. The astronomers would calculate the rising and the setting of the ax, _Gatzuk_ would put it in his calendar, that's all." "You are stupid, awfully stupid," said Ivan peevishly. "Fib more cleverly or I won't listen. You want to get the better of me by realism, to convince me that you exist, but I don't want to believe you exist! I won't believe it!" "But I am not fibbing, it's all the truth; the truth is unhappily hardly ever amusing. I see you persist in expecting something big of me, and perhaps something fine. That's a great pity, for I only give what I can--" "Don't talk philosophy, you ass!" "Philosophy, indeed, when all my right side is numb and I am moaning and groaning. I've tried all the medical faculty: they can diagnose beautifully, they have the whole of your disease at their finger-tips, but they've no idea how to cure you. There was an enthusiastic little student here, 'You may die,' said he, 'but you'll know perfectly what disease you are dying of!' And then what a way they have sending people to specialists! 'We only diagnose,' they say, 'but go to such-and-such a specialist, he'll cure you.' The old doctor who used to cure all sorts of disease has completely disappeared, I assure you, now there are only specialists and they all advertise in the newspapers. If anything is wrong with your nose, they send you to Paris: there, they say, is a European specialist who cures noses. If you go to Paris, he'll look at your nose; I can only cure your right nostril, he'll tell you, for I don't cure the left nostril, that's not my speciality, but go to Vienna, there there's a specialist who will cure your left nostril. What are you to do? I fell back on popular remedies, a German doctor advised me to rub myself with honey and salt in the bath-house. Solely to get an extra bath I went, smeared myself all over and it did me no good at all. In despair I wrote to Count Mattei in Milan. He sent me a book and some drops, bless him, and, only fancy, Hoff's malt extract cured me! I bought it by accident, drank a bottle and a half of it, and I was ready to dance, it took it away completely. I made up my mind to write to the papers to thank him, I was prompted by a feeling of gratitude, and only fancy, it led to no end of a bother: not a single paper would take my letter. 'It would be very reactionary,' they said, 'no one will believe it. _Le diable n'existe point._ You'd better remain anonymous,' they advised me. What use is a letter of thanks if it's anonymous? I laughed with the men at the newspaper office; 'It's reactionary to believe in God in our days,' I said, 'but I am the devil, so I may be believed in.' 'We quite understand that,' they said. 'Who doesn't believe in the devil? Yet it won't do, it might injure our reputation. As a joke, if you like.' But I thought as a joke it wouldn't be very witty. So it wasn't printed. And do you know, I have felt sore about it to this day. My best feelings, gratitude, for instance, are literally denied me simply from my social position." "Philosophical reflections again?" Ivan snarled malignantly. "God preserve me from it, but one can't help complaining sometimes. I am a slandered man. You upbraid me every moment with being stupid. One can see you are young. My dear fellow, intelligence isn't the only thing! I have naturally a kind and merry heart. 'I also write vaudevilles of all sorts.' You seem to take me for Hlestakov grown old, but my fate is a far more serious one. Before time was, by some decree which I could never make out, I was pre-destined 'to deny' and yet I am genuinely good-hearted and not at all inclined to negation. 'No, you must go and deny, without denial there's no criticism and what would a journal be without a column of criticism?' Without criticism it would be nothing but one 'hosannah.' But nothing but hosannah is not enough for life, the hosannah must be tried in the crucible of doubt and so on, in the same style. But I don't meddle in that, I didn't create it, I am not answerable for it. Well, they've chosen their scapegoat, they've made me write the column of criticism and so life was made possible. We understand that comedy; I, for instance, simply ask for annihilation. No, live, I am told, for there'd be nothing without you. If everything in the universe were sensible, nothing would happen. There would be no events without you, and there must be events. So against the grain I serve to produce events and do what's irrational because I am commanded to. For all their indisputable intelligence, men take this farce as something serious, and that is their tragedy. They suffer, of course ... but then they live, they live a real life, not a fantastic one, for suffering is life. Without suffering what would be the pleasure of it? It would be transformed into an endless church service; it would be holy, but tedious. But what about me? I suffer, but still, I don't live. I am x in an indeterminate equation. I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name. You are laughing-- no, you are not laughing, you are angry again. You are for ever angry, all you care about is intelligence, but I repeat again that I would give away all this super-stellar life, all the ranks and honors, simply to be transformed into the soul of a merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone and set candles at God's shrine." "Then even you don't believe in God?" said Ivan, with a smile of hatred. "What can I say?--that is, if you are in earnest--" "Is there a God or not?" Ivan cried with the same savage intensity. "Ah, then you are in earnest! My dear fellow, upon my word I don't know. There! I've said it now!" "You don't know, but you see God? No, you are not some one apart, you are myself, you are I and nothing more! You are rubbish, you are my fancy!" "Well, if you like, I have the same philosophy as you, that would be true. _Je pense, donc je suis_, I know that for a fact; all the rest, all these worlds, God and even Satan--all that is not proved, to my mind. Does all that exist of itself, or is it only an emanation of myself, a logical development of my ego which alone has existed for ever: but I make haste to stop, for I believe you will be jumping up to beat me directly." "You'd better tell me some anecdote!" said Ivan miserably. "There is an anecdote precisely on our subject, or rather a legend, not an anecdote. You reproach me with unbelief, you see, you say, yet you don't believe. But, my dear fellow, I am not the only one like that. We are all in a muddle over there now and all through your science. Once there used to be atoms, five senses, four elements, and then everything hung together somehow. There were atoms in the ancient world even, but since we've learned that you've discovered the chemical molecule and protoplasm and the devil knows what, we had to lower our crest. There's a regular muddle, and, above all, superstition, scandal; there's as much scandal among us as among you, you know; a little more in fact, and spying, indeed, for we have our secret police department where private information is received. Well, this wild legend belongs to our middle ages--not yours, but ours--and no one believes it even among us, except the old ladies of eighteen stone, not your old ladies I mean, but ours. We've everything you have, I am revealing one of our secrets out of friendship for you; though it's forbidden. This legend is about Paradise. There was, they say, here on earth a thinker and philosopher. He rejected everything, 'laws, conscience, faith,' and, above all, the future life. He died; he expected to go straight to darkness and death and he found a future life before him. He was astounded and indignant. 'This is against my principles!' he said. And he was punished for that ... that is, you must excuse me, I am just repeating what I heard myself, it's only a legend ... he was sentenced to walk a quadrillion kilometers in the dark (we've adopted the metric system, you know) and when he has finished that quadrillion, the gates of heaven would be opened to him and he'll be forgiven--" "And what tortures have you in the other world besides the quadrillion kilometers?" asked Ivan, with a strange eagerness. "What tortures? Ah, don't ask. In old days we had all sorts, but now they have taken chiefly to moral punishments--'the stings of conscience' and all that nonsense. We got that, too, from you, from the softening of your manners. And who's the better for it? Only those who have got no conscience, for how can they be tortured by conscience when they have none? But decent people who have conscience and a sense of honor suffer for it. Reforms, when the ground has not been prepared for them, especially if they are institutions copied from abroad, do nothing but mischief! The ancient fire was better. Well, this man, who was condemned to the quadrillion kilometers, stood still, looked round and lay down across the road. 'I won't go, I refuse on principle!' Take the soul of an enlightened Russian atheist and mix it with the soul of the prophet Jonah, who sulked for three days and nights in the belly of the whale, and you get the character of that thinker who lay across the road." "What did he lie on there?" "Well, I suppose there was something to lie on. You are not laughing?" "Bravo!" cried Ivan, still with the same strange eagerness. Now he was listening with an unexpected curiosity. "Well, is he lying there now?" "That's the point, that he isn't. He lay there almost a thousand years and then he got up and went on." "What an ass!" cried Ivan, laughing nervously and still seeming to be pondering something intently. "Does it make any difference whether he lies there for ever or walks the quadrillion kilometers? It would take a billion years to walk it?" "Much more than that. I haven't got a pencil and paper or I could work it out. But he got there long ago, and that's where the story begins." "What, he got there? But how did he get the billion years to do it?" "Why, you keep thinking of our present earth! But our present earth may have been repeated a billion times. Why, it's become extinct, been frozen; cracked, broken to bits, disintegrated into its elements, again 'the water above the firmament,' then again a comet, again a sun, again from the sun it becomes earth--and the same sequence may have been repeated endlessly and exactly the same to every detail, most unseemly and insufferably tedious--" "Well, well, what happened when he arrived?" "Why, the moment the gates of Paradise were open and he walked in, before he had been there two seconds, by his watch (though to my thinking his watch must have long dissolved into its elements on the way), he cried out that those two seconds were worth walking not a quadrillion kilometers but a quadrillion of quadrillions, raised to the quadrillionth power! In fact, he sang 'hosannah' and overdid it so, that some persons there of lofty ideas wouldn't shake hands with him at first--he'd become too rapidly reactionary, they said. The Russian temperament. I repeat, it's a legend. I give it for what it's worth. So that's the sort of ideas we have on such subjects even now." "I've caught you!" Ivan cried, with an almost childish delight, as though he had succeeded in remembering something at last. "That anecdote about the quadrillion years, I made up myself! I was seventeen then, I was at the high school. I made up that anecdote and told it to a schoolfellow called Korovkin, it was at Moscow.... The anecdote is so characteristic that I couldn't have taken it from anywhere. I thought I'd forgotten it ... but I've unconsciously recalled it--I recalled it myself--it was not you telling it! Thousands of things are unconsciously remembered like that even when people are being taken to execution ... it's come back to me in a dream. You are that dream! You are a dream, not a living creature!" "From the vehemence with which you deny my existence," laughed the gentleman, "I am convinced that you believe in me." "Not in the slightest! I haven't a hundredth part of a grain of faith in you!" "But you have the thousandth of a grain. Homeopathic doses perhaps are the strongest. Confess that you have faith even to the ten-thousandth of a grain." "Not for one minute," cried Ivan furiously. "But I should like to believe in you," he added strangely. "Aha! There's an admission! But I am good-natured. I'll come to your assistance again. Listen, it was I caught you, not you me. I told you your anecdote you'd forgotten, on purpose, so as to destroy your faith in me completely." "You are lying. The object of your visit is to convince me of your existence!" "Just so. But hesitation, suspense, conflict between belief and disbelief--is sometimes such torture to a conscientious man, such as you are, that it's better to hang oneself at once. Knowing that you are inclined to believe in me, I administered some disbelief by telling you that anecdote. I lead you to belief and disbelief by turns, and I have my motive in it. It's the new method. As soon as you disbelieve in me completely, you'll begin assuring me to my face that I am not a dream but a reality. I know you. Then I shall have attained my object, which is an honorable one. I shall sow in you only a tiny grain of faith and it will grow into an oak-tree--and such an oak-tree that, sitting on it, you will long to enter the ranks of 'the hermits in the wilderness and the saintly women,' for that is what you are secretly longing for. You'll dine on locusts, you'll wander into the wilderness to save your soul!" "Then it's for the salvation of my soul you are working, is it, you scoundrel?" "One must do a good work sometimes. How ill-humored you are!" "Fool! did you ever tempt those holy men who ate locusts and prayed seventeen years in the wilderness till they were overgrown with moss?" "My dear fellow, I've done nothing else. One forgets the whole world and all the worlds, and sticks to one such saint, because he is a very precious diamond. One such soul, you know, is sometimes worth a whole constellation. We have our system of reckoning, you know. The conquest is priceless! And some of them, on my word, are not inferior to you in culture, though you won't believe it. They can contemplate such depths of belief and disbelief at the same moment that sometimes it really seems that they are within a hair's-breadth of being 'turned upside down,' as the actor Gorbunov says." "Well, did you get your nose pulled?"(8) "My dear fellow," observed the visitor sententiously, "it's better to get off with your nose pulled than without a nose at all. As an afflicted marquis observed not long ago (he must have been treated by a specialist) in confession to his spiritual father--a Jesuit. I was present, it was simply charming. 'Give me back my nose!' he said, and he beat his breast. 'My son,' said the priest evasively, 'all things are accomplished in accordance with the inscrutable decrees of Providence, and what seems a misfortune sometimes leads to extraordinary, though unapparent, benefits. If stern destiny has deprived you of your nose, it's to your advantage that no one can ever pull you by your nose.' 'Holy father, that's no comfort,' cried the despairing marquis. 'I'd be delighted to have my nose pulled every day of my life, if it were only in its proper place.' 'My son,' sighs the priest, 'you can't expect every blessing at once. This is murmuring against Providence, who even in this has not forgotten you, for if you repine as you repined just now, declaring you'd be glad to have your nose pulled for the rest of your life, your desire has already been fulfilled indirectly, for when you lost your nose, you were led by the nose.' " "Fool, how stupid!" cried Ivan. "My dear friend, I only wanted to amuse you. But I swear that's the genuine Jesuit casuistry and I swear that it all happened word for word as I've told you. It happened lately and gave me a great deal of trouble. The unhappy young man shot himself that very night when he got home. I was by his side till the very last moment. Those Jesuit confessionals are really my most delightful diversion at melancholy moments. Here's another incident that happened only the other day. A little blonde Norman girl of twenty--a buxom, unsophisticated beauty that would make your mouth water--comes to an old priest. She bends down and whispers her sin into the grating. 'Why, my daughter, have you fallen again already?' cries the priest. 'O Sancta Maria, what do I hear! Not the same man this time, how long is this going on? Aren't you ashamed!' '_Ah, mon pere_,' answers the sinner with tears of penitence, '_ca lui fait tant de plaisir, et a moi si peu de peine!_' Fancy, such an answer! I drew back. It was the cry of nature, better than innocence itself, if you like. I absolved her sin on the spot and was turning to go, but I was forced to turn back. I heard the priest at the grating making an appointment with her for the evening--though he was an old man hard as flint, he fell in an instant! It was nature, the truth of nature asserted its rights! What, you are turning up your nose again? Angry again? I don't know how to please you--" "Leave me alone, you are beating on my brain like a haunting nightmare," Ivan moaned miserably, helpless before his apparition. "I am bored with you, agonizingly and insufferably. I would give anything to be able to shake you off!" "I repeat, moderate your expectations, don't demand of me 'everything great and noble' and you'll see how well we shall get on," said the gentleman impressively. "You are really angry with me for not having appeared to you in a red glow, with thunder and lightning, with scorched wings, but have shown myself in such a modest form. You are wounded, in the first place, in your esthetic feelings, and, secondly, in your pride. How could such a vulgar devil visit such a great man as you! Yes, there is that romantic strain in you, that was so derided by Byelinsky. I can't help it, young man, as I got ready to come to you I did think as a joke of appearing in the figure of a retired general who had served in the Caucasus, with a star of the Lion and the Sun on my coat. But I was positively afraid of doing it, for you'd have thrashed me for daring to pin the Lion and the Sun on my coat, instead of, at least, the Polar Star or the Sirius. And you keep on saying I am stupid, but, mercy on us! I make no claim to be equal to you in intelligence. Mephistopheles declared to Faust that he desired evil, but did only good. Well, he can say what he likes, it's quite the opposite with me. I am perhaps the one man in all creation who loves the truth and genuinely desires good. I was there when the Word, Who died on the Cross, rose up into heaven bearing on His bosom the soul of the penitent thief. I heard the glad shrieks of the cherubim singing and shouting hosannah and the thunderous rapture of the seraphim which shook heaven and all creation, and I swear to you by all that's sacred, I longed to join the choir and shout hosannah with them all. The word had almost escaped me, had almost broken from my lips ... you know how susceptible and esthetically impressionable I am. But common sense--oh, a most unhappy trait in my character--kept me in due bounds and I let the moment pass! For what would have happened, I reflected, what would have happened after my hosannah? Everything on earth would have been extinguished at once and no events could have occurred. And so, solely from a sense of duty and my social position, I was forced to suppress the good moment and to stick to my nasty task. Somebody takes all the credit of what's good for Himself, and nothing but nastiness is left for me. But I don't envy the honor of a life of idle imposture, I am not ambitious. Why am I, of all creatures in the world, doomed to be cursed by all decent people and even to be kicked, for if I put on mortal form I am bound to take such consequences sometimes? I know, of course, there's a secret in it, but they won't tell me the secret for anything, for then perhaps, seeing the meaning of it, I might bawl hosannah, and the indispensable minus would disappear at once, and good sense would reign supreme throughout the whole world. And that, of course, would mean the end of everything, even of magazines and newspapers, for who would take them in? I know that at the end of all things I shall be reconciled. I, too, shall walk my quadrillion and learn the secret. But till that happens I am sulking and fulfill my destiny though it's against the grain--that is, to ruin thousands for the sake of saving one. How many souls have had to be ruined and how many honorable reputations destroyed for the sake of that one righteous man, Job, over whom they made such a fool of me in old days! Yes, till the secret is revealed, there are two sorts of truths for me--one, their truth, yonder, which I know nothing about so far, and the other my own. And there's no knowing which will turn out the better.... Are you asleep?" "I might well be," Ivan groaned angrily. "All my stupid ideas--outgrown, thrashed out long ago, and flung aside like a dead carcass--you present to me as something new!" "There's no pleasing you! And I thought I should fascinate you by my literary style. That hosannah in the skies really wasn't bad, was it? And then that ironical tone _a la_ Heine, eh?" "No, I was never such a flunkey! How then could my soul beget a flunkey like you?" "My dear fellow, I know a most charming and attractive young Russian gentleman, a young thinker and a great lover of literature and art, the author of a promising poem entitled _The Grand Inquisitor_. I was only thinking of him!" "I forbid you to speak of _The Grand Inquisitor_," cried Ivan, crimson with shame. "And the _Geological Cataclysm_. Do you remember? That was a poem, now!" "Hold your tongue, or I'll kill you!" "You'll kill me? No, excuse me, I will speak. I came to treat myself to that pleasure. Oh, I love the dreams of my ardent young friends, quivering with eagerness for life! 'There are new men,' you decided last spring, when you were meaning to come here, 'they propose to destroy everything and begin with cannibalism. Stupid fellows! they didn't ask my advice! I maintain that nothing need be destroyed, that we only need to destroy the idea of God in man, that's how we have to set to work. It's that, that we must begin with. Oh, blind race of men who have no understanding! As soon as men have all of them denied God--and I believe that period, analogous with geological periods, will come to pass--the old conception of the universe will fall of itself without cannibalism, and, what's more, the old morality, and everything will begin anew. Men will unite to take from life all it can give, but only for joy and happiness in the present world. Man will be lifted up with a spirit of divine Titanic pride and the man- god will appear. From hour to hour extending his conquest of nature infinitely by his will and his science, man will feel such lofty joy from hour to hour in doing it that it will make up for all his old dreams of the joys of heaven. Every one will know that he is mortal and will accept death proudly and serenely like a god. His pride will teach him that it's useless for him to repine at life's being a moment, and he will love his brother without need of reward. Love will be sufficient only for a moment of life, but the very consciousness of its momentariness will intensify its fire, which now is dissipated in dreams of eternal love beyond the grave'... and so on and so on in the same style. Charming!" Ivan sat with his eyes on the floor, and his hands pressed to his ears, but he began trembling all over. The voice continued. "The question now is, my young thinker reflected, is it possible that such a period will ever come? If it does, everything is determined and humanity is settled for ever. But as, owing to man's inveterate stupidity, this cannot come about for at least a thousand years, every one who recognizes the truth even now may legitimately order his life as he pleases, on the new principles. In that sense, 'all things are lawful' for him. What's more, even if this period never comes to pass, since there is anyway no God and no immortality, the new man may well become the man-god, even if he is the only one in the whole world, and promoted to his new position, he may lightheartedly overstep all the barriers of the old morality of the old slave-man, if necessary. There is no law for God. Where God stands, the place is holy. Where I stand will be at once the foremost place ... 'all things are lawful' and that's the end of it! That's all very charming; but if you want to swindle why do you want a moral sanction for doing it? But that's our modern Russian all over. He can't bring himself to swindle without a moral sanction. He is so in love with truth--" The visitor talked, obviously carried away by his own eloquence, speaking louder and louder and looking ironically at his host. But he did not succeed in finishing; Ivan suddenly snatched a glass from the table and flung it at the orator. "_Ah, mais c'est bete enfin_," cried the latter, jumping up from the sofa and shaking the drops of tea off himself. "He remembers Luther's inkstand! He takes me for a dream and throws glasses at a dream! It's like a woman! I suspected you were only pretending to stop up your ears." A loud, persistent knocking was suddenly heard at the window. Ivan jumped up from the sofa. "Do you hear? You'd better open," cried the visitor; "it's your brother Alyosha with the most interesting and surprising news, I'll be bound!" "Be silent, deceiver, I knew it was Alyosha, I felt he was coming, and of course he has not come for nothing; of course he brings 'news,' " Ivan exclaimed frantically. "Open, open to him. There's a snowstorm and he is your brother. _Monsieur sait-il le temps qu'il fait? C'est a ne pas mettre un chien dehors_." The knocking continued. Ivan wanted to rush to the window, but something seemed to fetter his arms and legs. He strained every effort to break his chains, but in vain. The knocking at the window grew louder and louder. At last the chains were broken and Ivan leapt up from the sofa. He looked round him wildly. Both candles had almost burnt out, the glass he had just thrown at his visitor stood before him on the table, and there was no one on the sofa opposite. The knocking on the window frame went on persistently, but it was by no means so loud as it had seemed in his dream; on the contrary, it was quite subdued. "It was not a dream! No, I swear it was not a dream, it all happened just now!" cried Ivan. He rushed to the window and opened the movable pane. "Alyosha, I told you not to come," he cried fiercely to his brother. "In two words, what do you want? In two words, do you hear?" "An hour ago Smerdyakov hanged himself," Alyosha answered from the yard. "Come round to the steps, I'll open at once," said Ivan, going to open the door to Alyosha. Chapter X. "It Was He Who Said That" Alyosha coming in told Ivan that a little over an hour ago Marya Kondratyevna had run to his rooms and informed him Smerdyakov had taken his own life. "I went in to clear away the samovar and he was hanging on a nail in the wall." On Alyosha's inquiring whether she had informed the police, she answered that she had told no one, "but I flew straight to you, I've run all the way." She seemed perfectly crazy, Alyosha reported, and was shaking like a leaf. When Alyosha ran with her to the cottage, he found Smerdyakov still hanging. On the table lay a note: "I destroy my life of my own will and desire, so as to throw no blame on any one." Alyosha left the note on the table and went straight to the police captain and told him all about it. "And from him I've come straight to you," said Alyosha, in conclusion, looking intently into Ivan's face. He had not taken his eyes off him while he told his story, as though struck by something in his expression. "Brother," he cried suddenly, "you must be terribly ill. You look and don't seem to understand what I tell you." "It's a good thing you came," said Ivan, as though brooding, and not hearing Alyosha's exclamation. "I knew he had hanged himself." "From whom?" "I don't know. But I knew. Did I know? Yes, he told me. He told me so just now." Ivan stood in the middle of the room, and still spoke in the same brooding tone, looking at the ground. "Who is _he_?" asked Alyosha, involuntarily looking round. "He's slipped away." Ivan raised his head and smiled softly. "He was afraid of you, of a dove like you. You are a 'pure cherub.' Dmitri calls you a cherub. Cherub!... the thunderous rapture of the seraphim. What are seraphim? Perhaps a whole constellation. But perhaps that constellation is only a chemical molecule. There's a constellation of the Lion and the Sun. Don't you know it?" "Brother, sit down," said Alyosha in alarm. "For goodness' sake, sit down on the sofa! You are delirious; put your head on the pillow, that's right. Would you like a wet towel on your head? Perhaps it will do you good." "Give me the towel: it's here on the chair. I just threw it down there." "It's not here. Don't worry yourself. I know where it is--here," said Alyosha, finding a clean towel, folded up and unused, by Ivan's dressing- table in the other corner of the room. Ivan looked strangely at the towel: recollection seemed to come back to him for an instant. "Stay"--he got up from the sofa--"an hour ago I took that new towel from there and wetted it. I wrapped it round my head and threw it down here ... How is it it's dry? There was no other." "You put that towel on your head?" asked Alyosha. "Yes, and walked up and down the room an hour ago ... Why have the candles burnt down so? What's the time?" "Nearly twelve." "No, no, no!" Ivan cried suddenly. "It was not a dream. He was here; he was sitting here, on that sofa. When you knocked at the window, I threw a glass at him ... this one. Wait a minute. I was asleep last time, but this dream was not a dream. It has happened before. I have dreams now, Alyosha ... yet they are not dreams, but reality. I walk about, talk and see ... though I am asleep. But he was sitting here, on that sofa there.... He is frightfully stupid, Alyosha, frightfully stupid." Ivan laughed suddenly and began pacing about the room. "Who is stupid? Of whom are you talking, brother?" Alyosha asked anxiously again. "The devil! He's taken to visiting me. He's been here twice, almost three times. He taunted me with being angry at his being a simple devil and not Satan, with scorched wings, in thunder and lightning. But he is not Satan: that's a lie. He is an impostor. He is simply a devil--a paltry, trivial devil. He goes to the baths. If you undressed him, you'd be sure to find he had a tail, long and smooth like a Danish dog's, a yard long, dun color.... Alyosha, you are cold. You've been in the snow. Would you like some tea? What? Is it cold? Shall I tell her to bring some? _C'est a ne pas mettre un chien dehors._..." Alyosha ran to the washing-stand, wetted the towel, persuaded Ivan to sit down again, and put the wet towel round his head. He sat down beside him. "What were you telling me just now about Lise?" Ivan began again. (He was becoming very talkative.) "I like Lise. I said something nasty about her. It was a lie. I like her ... I am afraid for Katya to-morrow. I am more afraid of her than of anything. On account of the future. She will cast me off to-morrow and trample me under foot. She thinks that I am ruining Mitya from jealousy on her account! Yes, she thinks that! But it's not so. To-morrow the cross, but not the gallows. No, I shan't hang myself. Do you know, I can never commit suicide, Alyosha. Is it because I am base? I am not a coward. Is it from love of life? How did I know that Smerdyakov had hanged himself? Yes, it was _he_ told me so." "And you are quite convinced that there has been some one here?" asked Alyosha. "Yes, on that sofa in the corner. You would have driven him away. You did drive him away: he disappeared when you arrived. I love your face, Alyosha. Did you know that I loved your face? And _he_ is myself, Alyosha. All that's base in me, all that's mean and contemptible. Yes, I am a romantic. He guessed it ... though it's a libel. He is frightfully stupid; but it's to his advantage. He has cunning, animal cunning--he knew how to infuriate me. He kept taunting me with believing in him, and that was how he made me listen to him. He fooled me like a boy. He told me a great deal that was true about myself, though. I should never have owned it to myself. Do you know, Alyosha," Ivan added in an intensely earnest and confidential tone, "I should be awfully glad to think that it was _he_ and not I." "He has worn you out," said Alyosha, looking compassionately at his brother. "He's been teasing me. And you know he does it so cleverly, so cleverly. 'Conscience! What is conscience? I make it up for myself. Why am I tormented by it? From habit. From the universal habit of mankind for the seven thousand years. So let us give it up, and we shall be gods.' It was he said that, it was he said that!" "And not you, not you?" Alyosha could not help crying, looking frankly at his brother. "Never mind him, anyway; have done with him and forget him. And let him take with him all that you curse now, and never come back!" "Yes, but he is spiteful. He laughed at me. He was impudent, Alyosha," Ivan said, with a shudder of offense. "But he was unfair to me, unfair to me about lots of things. He told lies about me to my face. 'Oh, you are going to perform an act of heroic virtue: to confess you murdered your father, that the valet murdered him at your instigation.' " "Brother," Alyosha interposed, "restrain yourself. It was not you murdered him. It's not true!" "That's what he says, he, and he knows it. 'You are going to perform an act of heroic virtue, and you don't believe in virtue; that's what tortures you and makes you angry, that's why you are so vindictive.' He said that to me about me and he knows what he says." "It's you say that, not he," exclaimed Alyosha mournfully, "and you say it because you are ill and delirious, tormenting yourself." "No, he knows what he says. 'You are going from pride,' he says. 'You'll stand up and say it was I killed him, and why do you writhe with horror? You are lying! I despise your opinion, I despise your horror!' He said that about me. 'And do you know you are longing for their praise--"he is a criminal, a murderer, but what a generous soul; he wanted to save his brother and he confessed." ' That's a lie, Alyosha!" Ivan cried suddenly, with flashing eyes. "I don't want the low rabble to praise me, I swear I don't! That's a lie! That's why I threw the glass at him and it broke against his ugly face." "Brother, calm yourself, stop!" Alyosha entreated him. "Yes, he knows how to torment one. He's cruel," Ivan went on, unheeding. "I had an inkling from the first what he came for. 'Granting that you go through pride, still you had a hope that Smerdyakov might be convicted and sent to Siberia, and Mitya would be acquitted, while you would only be punished with moral condemnation' ('Do you hear?' he laughed then)--'and some people will praise you. But now Smerdyakov's dead, he has hanged himself, and who'll believe you alone? But yet you are going, you are going, you'll go all the same, you've decided to go. What are you going for now?' That's awful, Alyosha. I can't endure such questions. Who dare ask me such questions?" "Brother," interposed Alyosha--his heart sank with terror, but he still seemed to hope to bring Ivan to reason--"how could he have told you of Smerdyakov's death before I came, when no one knew of it and there was no time for any one to know of it?" "He told me," said Ivan firmly, refusing to admit a doubt. "It was all he did talk about, if you come to that. 'And it would be all right if you believed in virtue,' he said. 'No matter if they disbelieve you, you are going for the sake of principle. But you are a little pig like Fyodor Pavlovitch, and what do you want with virtue? Why do you want to go meddling if your sacrifice is of no use to any one? Because you don't know yourself why you go! Oh, you'd give a great deal to know yourself why you go! And can you have made up your mind? You've not made up your mind. You'll sit all night deliberating whether to go or not. But you will go; you know you'll go. You know that whichever way you decide, the decision does not depend on you. You'll go because you won't dare not to go. Why won't you dare? You must guess that for yourself. That's a riddle for you!' He got up and went away. You came and he went. He called me a coward, Alyosha! _Le mot de l'enigme_ is that I am a coward. 'It is not for such eagles to soar above the earth.' It was he added that--he! And Smerdyakov said the same. He must be killed! Katya despises me. I've seen that for a month past. Even Lise will begin to despise me! 'You are going in order to be praised.' That's a brutal lie! And you despise me too, Alyosha. Now I am going to hate you again! And I hate the monster, too! I hate the monster! I don't want to save the monster. Let him rot in Siberia! He's begun singing a hymn! Oh, to-morrow I'll go, stand before them, and spit in their faces!" He jumped up in a frenzy, flung off the towel, and fell to pacing up and down the room again. Alyosha recalled what he had just said. "I seem to be sleeping awake.... I walk, I speak, I see, but I am asleep." It seemed to be just like that now. Alyosha did not leave him. The thought passed through his mind to run for a doctor, but he was afraid to leave his brother alone: there was no one to whom he could leave him. By degrees Ivan lost consciousness completely at last. He still went on talking, talking incessantly, but quite incoherently, and even articulated his words with difficulty. Suddenly he staggered violently; but Alyosha was in time to support him. Ivan let him lead him to his bed. Alyosha undressed him somehow and put him to bed. He sat watching over him for another two hours. The sick man slept soundly, without stirring, breathing softly and evenly. Alyosha took a pillow and lay down on the sofa, without undressing. As he fell asleep he prayed for Mitya and Ivan. He began to understand Ivan's illness. "The anguish of a proud determination. An earnest conscience!" God, in Whom he disbelieved, and His truth were gaining mastery over his heart, which still refused to submit. "Yes," the thought floated through Alyosha's head as it lay on the pillow, "yes, if Smerdyakov is dead, no one will believe Ivan's evidence; but he will go and give it." Alyosha smiled softly. "God will conquer!" he thought. "He will either rise up in the light of truth, or ... he'll perish in hate, revenging on himself and on every one his having served the cause he does not believe in," Alyosha added bitterly, and again he prayed for Ivan.

Book 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-11

A couple of months after Dmitri's arrest, Grushenka is undergoing a heavenly metamorphosis. She tells Alyosha that Dmitri is becoming smitten with Katerina again. She also thinks that Ivan and Dmitri have been talking. She thinks the two brothers are making a plan that they are keeping secret from her. She asks if Alyosha can find out what this secret plan is, and Alyosha, her friend, agrees. Alyosha visits Lise, who is agitated and feeling guilty about her life. She longs to experience God's retribution for her wickedness in life. She has no respect for her fellow human beings or the world around her, and she feels a very destructive impulse toward everyone and everything. As Alyosha leaves, she slams the door on her hand in a pathetic show of self-loathing. Alyosha visits Dmitri in prison. Dmitri tells Alyosha that Rakitin wants to write an expose about Dmitri being the victim of circumstances that led to the inevitable murder of his father. Even though Dmitri did not kill his father, he feels guilty for his reckless lifestyle and, much like Lise, feels a desire to be punished for his immorality. He believes that he will have a new lease on life if only Grushenka can come with him during his exile in Siberia. But he fears that the state will not let Grushenka follow him, and without her, he does not know what he will do. Dmitri tells Alyosha that Ivan has visited him and told him a plan he has made for Dmitri's escape. This is the secret that Grushenka suspected. Dmitri asks Alyosha if he thinks Dmitri is guilty, and Alyosha replies that he has always believed in his brother's innocence. Dmitri greatly appreciates his brother's support. Alyosha next visits Katerina, who has just been visited by Ivan. Katerina tells Alyosha she fears that Ivan is going crazy. He feels responsible for his father's death, and it is tormenting him. Alyosha catches up with Ivan to talk to him. He asks his brother what is troubling him, and Ivan tells Alyosha that Katerina has evidence that damns Dmitri. Alyosha wants to reassure his brother, but he is honest to a fault. Since he is convinced of Dmitri's innocence, he cannot believe that Katerina can have any evidence that proves an innocent man to be guilty. Alyosha also realizes that Ivan feels guilty for their father's death. He tells Ivan that God has given him the task of comforting him. He tells Ivan that he is not responsible for the murder-he is certain by divine knowledge. Ivan does not think that this comfort is founded in logic, however. Ivan is disgusted by Alyosha's talk of God and forgiveness. He asks Alyosha a question about the day Dmitri attacked their father. He asks if Alyosha believed that he wished that Dmitri would kill his father, that "one beast would devour the other?" Alyosha admits that he thought his brother was thinking this. Ivan thanks him bitterly and leaves. Ivan feels sick, but his sickness has more to do with Smerdyakov than with Alyosha. Smerdyakov is still in the hospital from his seizure the night of the murder. He says he knows Ivan wished for his father's death, and he stayed out of the way to facilitate this. Ivan, enraged, hits Smerdyakov, but this does not stop the servant from torturing Ivan with his theories. He says that Ivan wanted to leave for Moscow when Fyodor was murdered because he wanted to wash his hands of what he knew would be a messy situation. Ivan tells Smerdyakov he will not report his ability to fake a seizure to the authorities if Smerdyakov will stay silent about their previous conversation before the murder. Smerdyakov says Ivan probably just wanted his inheritance, and this is why he wanted his father dead. Ivan leaves and wrestles with the idea that he may be partly guilty for Fyodor's murder if Smerdyakov did indeed kill Fyodor. He visits Katerina and confesses his contrition to her. She eases his mind by telling him she has a letter from Dmitri saying that Dmitri will kill Fyodor as a last resort to reimburse her. Ivan feels better, thinking it is his brother Dmitri who is the culprit, not Smerdyakov. He leaves, somewhat comforted. But when Ivan talks to Smerdyakov again, Smerdyakov shatters his peace of mind by admitting to the murder. Worse, he tells Ivan that it was Ivan's words that helped him rationalize the act. "It was you who killed him all right," says Smerdyakov. He gives Ivan the 3,000 rubles he stole from Fyodor, and he begins to explain how he murdered the man. He explains how he faked an epileptic seizure the night of the murder . Smerdyakov tells Ivan that it was through their conversations about immorality and the nonexistence of God that he found the strength and rationalization to commit the murder. He explains that, after Dmitri attacked Grigory, Smerdyakov seized the opportunity to commit the murder. He lured Fyodor out of his room by saying Grushenka had come. Then, as Fyodor leaned out the window, he hit him with a paperweight. After Ivan is convinced that Smerdyakov did commit the murder and that it was his words that made the murder possible, he leaves Smerdyakov. When Ivan goes back home, he resolves to tell the court about Smerdyakov's confession during Dmitri's trial. To his chagrin, he finds a devil in his room, who chides Ivan about his wickedness. Blind with tears of rage, Ivan throws a cup at the devil. Alyosha comes to his door and tells Ivan that Smerdyakov has just hanged himself. Ivan's behavior worries Alyosha, but when he asks his brother what is wrong, Ivan is too upset to describe his ordeal with the devil. Alyosha realizes that Ivan is having a nervous breakdown, and he stays with his brother for the night.

Many characters experience intense guilt in the novel. Dmitri feels guilty for his treatment of Katerina, and Grushenka and Lise both express regret for their depravity. Ivan's guilt is even more extreme. He feels responsible for the murder he did not commit. There is a universal longing for catharsis and redemption among the characters in this novel. Though many characters feel contrition for their actions, it is not always clear if they deserve such castigation for their sins. Lise and Grushenka, for instance, are good-hearted girls, and "wickedness" is not something that obviously applies to them. Even Ivan, whose guilt is greater than any single character's guilt in the novel, feels guilty for a crime he did not technically commit. Father Zossima has laid out the idea that all men share in the sins of all other men, but many characters in this novel seems to feel the entire burden, not just a share. Ivan does not feel that he shares guilt; he feels that he is the only one responsible for his father's murder. Perhaps the characters all have inflated their own culpability. Dostoevsky puts stock in guilt and suffering. Father Zossima's lesson about men sharing each other's sins is thus somewhat misleading. One man's rightful guilt can be confused for his feelings of guilt, even if these feelings are misplaced. Some characters rationalize their internal turmoil, when in fact they are simply feeling the weight of hard times. Smerdyakov is an exception to this widespread guilt complex. He single-handedly murders Fyodor, yet he does not blame himself at all. Despite the fact that he is the only character technically guilty of this act, he feels the least liability for it. Smerdyakov is an unfeeling aberration. Can the actual act of murder be such a small proportion of the sin of killing a man? This seems counter to Dostoevsky's feelings of murder; characters in Dostoevsky's novels sometimes commit murder because they believe that some people do not deserve to live. They are eventually punished for their sins. For instance, Dostoevsky does not make Fyodor seem sympathetic. He does not make the old Karamazov seem anything but wicked, and his murder seems at worst logical and at best imminent. The only reason his killers feel guilt is because murder is against positive law and divine law. Hence, realizing that these men hardly deserve life is not a sin, but actually taking life is a sin. It follows that Smerdyakov is the only one who is truly responsible for the murder, but everyone else suffers for their part, real or imagined. Dostoevsky does not address the fact that characters like Ivan may be suffering without reason. Dostoevsky brings complexity to the point. He seemingly condemns the act of murder while allowing hateful feelings. He also promotes universal love toward all creatures while simultaneously portraying some characters as despicable beings unworthy of almost any kind of love. Perhaps it is this ambivalence that leads his characters to feel burdened with guilt. One of the most shocking events in the novel occurs when Ivan returns to find a devil in his room. Since no one else sees the devil, we assume it is a figment of Ivan's imagination. The devil is very real to Ivan, however. A devil is a very meaningful symbol in this novel--but not to Ivan. When Father Ferapont sees devils in Zossima's cell after Zossima's death, he is decried as a lunatic. He is religious--but Ivan does not believe in God at all, so why would his subconscious manifest a devil? More importantly, why would Dostoevsky choose to represent Ivan's conscience as a devil? Maybe Ivan is experiencing a religious awakening, realizing that his atheism has been wrong all along. That does not seem quite right, nor is the devil intended to be real. If the novel has a moral center, it is Father Zossima and his teachings, which might permit the reality of devils in the background, yet this is not part of Ivan's ontology. Ivan may be seeing a devil because devils are part of the mythic-religious culture of his town. If devils do exist, Father Ferapont is the only character in the novel who has an accurate conception of the world. Atheists like Ivan do not believe in God at all, and Alyosha and Father Zossima believe in a world of love and caring where devils are not needed; bad people are bad enough. The suggestion that devils do exist is quite a turn, casting doubt on the spiritual and moral center of the novel. Fyodor is not at the extreme anymore, now that devils are among the people. Before this, all signs have led to the view that Father Zossima's teachings are the moral anchor that holds everyone together. If characters stray from this path of love and understanding, they find longing and remorse. If they adhere to it as Alyosha does, they find strength and purpose. But a devil represents not just judgment but also evil, what is often glossed over in Father Zossima's world of sympathy and compassion. Despite the new, more fragile moral center in the novel, Alyosha's faith in his purpose and understanding of the world remain as strong as ever through the end of the novel. Love and understanding continue to help characters find personal salvation. From the point of view of an Ivan, if he could look at the whole story as we do, he might see a subtle implication that a religious lifestyle, even if deluded in some ways, is a decent and helpful one. For someone who is deeply ambivalent about religion, the introduction of a devil produces a complexity that might appeal to a rational mind that sees both good and evil in the world. Loving one's neighbor is a good thing, often producing good results even if one's motivations are misguided, and if there is something more beyond the tangible world, even if one does not understand it, it might seem reasonable to perceive devils as well as angels, a reality at least as complex as the one already on earth. When Dostoevsky brings a devil into Ivan's room, he thus sheds light on some of his own religious questions and ideas.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/52.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_50_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 51

chapter 51

{"name": "Phase VI: \"The Convert,\" Chapter Fifty-One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-51", "summary": "It's April 6--Old Lady Day--the day that lots of farm workers change positions and move from farm to farm looking for new work. When Joan Durbeyfield was a girl, everyone stayed their whole lives on one farm, but nowadays everyone likes to be on the move all the time. All the big farm owners liked to have as many cottages and houses available as possible to rent out to the migrant workers. Now that Jack Durbeyfield is dead, the local farm owners are legally able to evict the rest of the Durbeyfields. They might not have been evicted, except that Tess has a reputation as an \"improper\" woman. Tess, Mrs. Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, Abraham, and the younger children all have to move someplace else. Mrs. Durbeyfield and the children are all out running errands in preparation for their departure, so Tess is home alone. Tess is bitter, and angry at the universe. She's even angry with Angel, and in the heat of her despair she scribbles him an angry note and mails it before she can think better of it. Alec comes up, and asks through the open window why they're moving. Tess tells him that it's because her father is dead, and because she's not considered a \"proper\" woman. They're going to Kingsbere, where the D'Urbervilles originally lived. Alec asks that they come and live in the garden cottage at Trantridge, which used to be used as the poultry house. He says that they can fix it up quickly, and her mother can take care of the poultry, and the younger children can go to school. She refuses, but is clearly tempted by the offer to look after her siblings. He's determined, and asks her to let her mother decide. He gets a little bit too flirty in saying goodbye, so she slams the window on his fingers. That night, Tess gets her younger siblings to sing to her, and they choose a sad song, but it goes with her mood. Mrs. Durbeyfield sees the tracks of Alec's horse, and asks if he had come, and what he had said. Tess promises to tell her after they've settled at Kingsbere.", "analysis": ""}

At length it was the eve of Old Lady-Day, and the agricultural world was in a fever of mobility such as only occurs at that particular date of the year. It is a day of fulfilment; agreements for outdoor service during the ensuing year, entered into at Candlemas, are to be now carried out. The labourers--or "work-folk", as they used to call themselves immemorially till the other word was introduced from without--who wish to remain no longer in old places are removing to the new farms. These annual migrations from farm to farm were on the increase here. When Tess's mother was a child the majority of the field-folk about Marlott had remained all their lives on one farm, which had been the home also of their fathers and grandfathers; but latterly the desire for yearly removal had risen to a high pitch. With the younger families it was a pleasant excitement which might possibly be an advantage. The Egypt of one family was the Land of Promise to the family who saw it from a distance, till by residence there it became it turn their Egypt also; and so they changed and changed. However, all the mutations so increasingly discernible in village life did not originate entirely in the agricultural unrest. A depopulation was also going on. The village had formerly contained, side by side with the argicultural labourers, an interesting and better-informed class, ranking distinctly above the former--the class to which Tess's father and mother had belonged--and including the carpenter, the smith, the shoemaker, the huckster, together with nondescript workers other than farm-labourers; a set of people who owed a certain stability of aim and conduct to the fact of their being lifeholders like Tess's father, or copyholders, or occasionally, small freeholders. But as the long holdings fell in, they were seldom again let to similar tenants, and were mostly pulled down, if not absolutely required by the farmer for his hands. Cottagers who were not directly employed on the land were looked upon with disfavour, and the banishment of some starved the trade of others, who were thus obliged to follow. These families, who had formed the backbone of the village life in the past, who were the depositaries of the village traditions, had to seek refuge in the large centres; the process, humorously designated by statisticians as "the tendency of the rural population towards the large towns", being really the tendency of water to flow uphill when forced by machinery. The cottage accommodation at Marlott having been in this manner considerably curtailed by demolitions, every house which remained standing was required by the agriculturist for his work-people. Ever since the occurrence of the event which had cast such a shadow over Tess's life, the Durbeyfield family (whose descent was not credited) had been tacitly looked on as one which would have to go when their lease ended, if only in the interests of morality. It was, indeed, quite true that the household had not been shining examples either of temperance, soberness, or chastity. The father, and even the mother, had got drunk at times, the younger children seldom had gone to church, and the eldest daughter had made queer unions. By some means the village had to be kept pure. So on this, the first Lady-Day on which the Durbeyfields were expellable, the house, being roomy, was required for a carter with a large family; and Widow Joan, her daughters Tess and 'Liza-Lu, the boy Abraham, and the younger children had to go elsewhere. On the evening preceding their removal it was getting dark betimes by reason of a drizzling rain which blurred the sky. As it was the last night they would spend in the village which had been their home and birthplace, Mrs Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, and Abraham had gone out to bid some friends goodbye, and Tess was keeping house till they should return. She was kneeling in the window-bench, her face close to the casement, where an outer pane of rain-water was sliding down the inner pane of glass. Her eyes rested on the web of a spider, probably starved long ago, which had been mistakenly placed in a corner where no flies ever came, and shivered in the slight draught through the casement. Tess was reflecting on the position of the household, in which she perceived her own evil influence. Had she not come home, her mother and the children might probably have been allowed to stay on as weekly tenants. But she had been observed almost immediately on her return by some people of scrupulous character and great influence: they had seen her idling in the churchyard, restoring as well as she could with a little trowel a baby's obliterated grave. By this means they had found that she was living here again; her mother was scolded for "harbouring" her; sharp retorts had ensued from Joan, who had independently offered to leave at once; she had been taken at her word; and here was the result. "I ought never to have come home," said Tess to herself, bitterly. She was so intent upon these thoughts that she hardly at first took note of a man in a white mackintosh whom she saw riding down the street. Possibly it was owing to her face being near to the pane that he saw her so quickly, and directed his horse so close to the cottage-front that his hoofs were almost upon the narrow border for plants growing under the wall. It was not till he touched the window with his riding-crop that she observed him. The rain had nearly ceased, and she opened the casement in obedience to his gesture. "Didn't you see me?" asked d'Urberville. "I was not attending," she said. "I heard you, I believe, though I fancied it was a carriage and horses. I was in a sort of dream." "Ah! you heard the d'Urberville Coach, perhaps. You know the legend, I suppose?" "No. My--somebody was going to tell it me once, but didn't." "If you are a genuine d'Urberville I ought not to tell you either, I suppose. As for me, I'm a sham one, so it doesn't matter. It is rather dismal. It is that this sound of a non-existent coach can only be heard by one of d'Urberville blood, and it is held to be of ill-omen to the one who hears it. It has to do with a murder, committed by one of the family, centuries ago." "Now you have begun it, finish it." "Very well. One of the family is said to have abducted some beautiful woman, who tried to escape from the coach in which he was carrying her off, and in the struggle he killed her--or she killed him--I forget which. Such is one version of the tale... I see that your tubs and buckets are packed. Going away, aren't you?" "Yes, to-morrow--Old Lady Day." "I heard you were, but could hardly believe it; it seems so sudden. Why is it?" "Father's was the last life on the property, and when that dropped we had no further right to stay. Though we might, perhaps, have stayed as weekly tenants--if it had not been for me." "What about you?" "I am not a--proper woman." D'Urberville's face flushed. "What a blasted shame! Miserable snobs! May their dirty souls be burnt to cinders!" he exclaimed in tones of ironic resentment. "That's why you are going, is it? Turned out?" "We are not turned out exactly; but as they said we should have to go soon, it was best to go now everybody was moving, because there are better chances." "Where are you going to?" "Kingsbere. We have taken rooms there. Mother is so foolish about father's people that she will go there." "But your mother's family are not fit for lodgings, and in a little hole of a town like that. Now why not come to my garden-house at Trantridge? There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother's death; but there's the house, as you know it, and the garden. It can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school. Really I ought to do something for you!" "But we have already taken the rooms at Kingsbere!" she declared. "And we can wait there--" "Wait--what for? For that nice husband, no doubt. Now look here, Tess, I know what men are, and, bearing in mind the _grounds_ of your separation, I am quite positive he will never make it up with you. Now, though I have been your enemy, I am your friend, even if you won't believe it. Come to this cottage of mine. We'll get up a regular colony of fowls, and your mother can attend to them excellently; and the children can go to school." Tess breathed more and more quickly, and at length she said-- "How do I know that you would do all this? Your views may change--and then--we should be--my mother would be--homeless again." "O no--no. I would guarantee you against such as that in writing, if necessary. Think it over." Tess shook her head. But d'Urberville persisted; she had seldom seen him so determined; he would not take a negative. "Please just tell your mother," he said, in emphatic tones. "It is her business to judge--not yours. I shall get the house swept out and whitened to-morrow morning, and fires lit; and it will be dry by the evening, so that you can come straight there. Now mind, I shall expect you." Tess again shook her head, her throat swelling with complicated emotion. She could not look up at d'Urberville. "I owe you something for the past, you know," he resumed. "And you cured me, too, of that craze; so I am glad--" "I would rather you had kept the craze, so that you had kept the practice which went with it!" "I am glad of this opportunity of repaying you a little. To-morrow I shall expect to hear your mother's goods unloading... Give me your hand on it now--dear, beautiful Tess!" With the last sentence he had dropped his voice to a murmur, and put his hand in at the half-open casement. With stormy eyes she pulled the stay-bar quickly, and, in doing so, caught his arm between the casement and the stone mullion. "Damnation--you are very cruel!" he said, snatching out his arm. "No, no!--I know you didn't do it on purpose. Well I shall expect you, or your mother and children at least." "I shall not come--I have plenty of money!" she cried. "Where?" "At my father-in-law's, if I ask for it." "IF you ask for it. But you won't, Tess; I know you; you'll never ask for it--you'll starve first!" With these words he rode off. Just at the corner of the street he met the man with the paint-pot, who asked him if he had deserted the brethren. "You go to the devil!" said d'Urberville. Tess remained where she was a long while, till a sudden rebellious sense of injustice caused the region of her eyes to swell with the rush of hot tears thither. Her husband, Angel Clare himself, had, like others, dealt out hard measure to her; surely he had! She had never before admitted such a thought; but he had surely! Never in her life--she could swear it from the bottom of her soul--had she ever intended to do wrong; yet these hard judgements had come. Whatever her sins, they were not sins of intention, but of inadvertence, and why should she have been punished so persistently? She passionately seized the first piece of paper that came to hand, and scribbled the following lines: O why have you treated me so monstrously, Angel! I do not deserve it. I have thought it all over carefully, and I can never, never forgive you! You know that I did not intend to wrong you--why have you so wronged me? You are cruel, cruel indeed! I will try to forget you. It is all injustice I have received at your hands! T. She watched till the postman passed by, ran out to him with her epistle, and then again took her listless place inside the window-panes. It was just as well to write like that as to write tenderly. How could he give way to entreaty? The facts had not changed: there was no new event to alter his opinion. It grew darker, the fire-light shining over the room. The two biggest of the younger children had gone out with their mother; the four smallest, their ages ranging from three-and-a-half years to eleven, all in black frocks, were gathered round the hearth babbling their own little subjects. Tess at length joined them, without lighting a candle. "This is the last night that we shall sleep here, dears, in the house where we were born," she said quickly. "We ought to think of it, oughtn't we?" They all became silent; with the impressibility of their age they were ready to burst into tears at the picture of finality she had conjured up, though all the day hitherto they had been rejoicing in the idea of a new place. Tess changed the subject. "Sing to me, dears," she said. "What shall we sing?" "Anything you know; I don't mind." There was a momentary pause; it was broken, first, in one little tentative note; then a second voice strengthened it, and a third and a fourth chimed in unison, with words they had learnt at the Sunday-school-- Here we suffer grief and pain, Here we meet to part again; In Heaven we part no more. The four sang on with the phlegmatic passivity of persons who had long ago settled the question, and there being no mistake about it, felt that further thought was not required. With features strained hard to enunciate the syllables they continued to regard the centre of the flickering fire, the notes of the youngest straying over into the pauses of the rest. Tess turned from them, and went to the window again. Darkness had now fallen without, but she put her face to the pane as though to peer into the gloom. It was really to hide her tears. If she could only believe what the children were singing; if she were only sure, how different all would now be; how confidently she would leave them to Providence and their future kingdom! But, in default of that, it behoved her to do something; to be their Providence; for to Tess, as to not a few millions of others, there was ghastly satire in the poet's lines-- Not in utter nakedness But trailing clouds of glory do we come. To her and her like, birth itself was an ordeal of degrading personal compulsion, whose gratuitousness nothing in the result seemed to justify, and at best could only palliate. In the shades of the wet road she soon discerned her mother with tall 'Liza-Lu and Abraham. Mrs Durbeyfield's pattens clicked up to the door, and Tess opened it. "I see the tracks of a horse outside the window," said Joan. "Hev somebody called?" "No," said Tess. The children by the fire looked gravely at her, and one murmured-- "Why, Tess, the gentleman a-horseback!" "He didn't call," said Tess. "He spoke to me in passing." "Who was the gentleman?" asked the mother. "Your husband?" "No. He'll never, never come," answered Tess in stony hopelessness. "Then who was it?" "Oh, you needn't ask. You've seen him before, and so have I." "Ah! What did he say?" said Joan curiously. "I will tell you when we are settled in our lodging at Kingsbere to-morrow--every word." It was not her husband, she had said. Yet a consciousness that in a physical sense this man alone was her husband seemed to weigh on her more and more.

Phase VI: "The Convert," Chapter Fifty-One

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-51

It's April 6--Old Lady Day--the day that lots of farm workers change positions and move from farm to farm looking for new work. When Joan Durbeyfield was a girl, everyone stayed their whole lives on one farm, but nowadays everyone likes to be on the move all the time. All the big farm owners liked to have as many cottages and houses available as possible to rent out to the migrant workers. Now that Jack Durbeyfield is dead, the local farm owners are legally able to evict the rest of the Durbeyfields. They might not have been evicted, except that Tess has a reputation as an "improper" woman. Tess, Mrs. Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, Abraham, and the younger children all have to move someplace else. Mrs. Durbeyfield and the children are all out running errands in preparation for their departure, so Tess is home alone. Tess is bitter, and angry at the universe. She's even angry with Angel, and in the heat of her despair she scribbles him an angry note and mails it before she can think better of it. Alec comes up, and asks through the open window why they're moving. Tess tells him that it's because her father is dead, and because she's not considered a "proper" woman. They're going to Kingsbere, where the D'Urbervilles originally lived. Alec asks that they come and live in the garden cottage at Trantridge, which used to be used as the poultry house. He says that they can fix it up quickly, and her mother can take care of the poultry, and the younger children can go to school. She refuses, but is clearly tempted by the offer to look after her siblings. He's determined, and asks her to let her mother decide. He gets a little bit too flirty in saying goodbye, so she slams the window on his fingers. That night, Tess gets her younger siblings to sing to her, and they choose a sad song, but it goes with her mood. Mrs. Durbeyfield sees the tracks of Alec's horse, and asks if he had come, and what he had said. Tess promises to tell her after they've settled at Kingsbere.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/03.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_0_part_3.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 3

chapter 3

{"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-10", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters stay at Norland for a few months, because it is difficult to find a new home which they can afford with their small income. She knows of John Dashwood's promise to his father, her late husband, and this reassures her; neither she nor her husband were certain of John's sincerity, but he has been kind to her and her daughters, which means that he feels some sort of obligation at least. However, she does not like Fanny Dashwood at all, and would have left Norland sooner had it not been for the friendship developing between Elinor and Edward Ferrars, Fanny's brother. Edward is very shy, but is a pleasant and kind person once people become familiar with him. Mrs. Dashwood is glad at the attraction between him and Elinor, more because he is nice and good-hearted than the fact that his family is very wealthy. Although his mother and sister have great ambitions for him, he is a very retiring sort, and wants a quiet life and peace instead. Mrs. Dashwood grows to admire him, and believes that the affection between him and Elinor will lead to marriage. However, Marianne does not approve so much, as she finds Edward less dashing and charming than is ideal. Marianne requires a man who is far more passionate yet has all of Edward's virtues; she despairs that she will never find such a man, though her mother reassures her.", "analysis": "Money again becomes an issue, as it will be a determining factor in how well the girls marry. Although Mrs. Dashwood believes that money will not prove to be much of an obstacle if a couple is in love, reality is that money does and will play a part in the Dashwood girls' hopes for marriage. Mrs. Dashwood is perhaps too hopeful and idealistic in her appraisal that there are no financial barriers to Elinor and Edward's relationship; for in Austen's time, women of good family but little money would certainly not be able to acquire a match with a wealthy, high-born gentleman like Edward. Austen's dry, witty tone is evident in her description of Edward coming into Mrs. Dashwood's favor; Austen states that Mrs. Dashwood only began to take notice of him after Elinor stated how different he was from his sister, and this \"recommended him most forcibly\" to Mrs. Dashwood. This sort of comment epitomizes the combination of understatement, a wry tone, and sharp observation which marks Austen's appraisal of an often ridiculous society and its less pleasing members. The contrast between Elinor and Marianne is highlighted through their ideas of a suitable man. Elinor's model of a suitable man is Edward, very virtuous, kind, though rather sedate. Marianne wants someone more dashing, artistic, and passionate, to coincide with her own interests and qualities. However, that she also says she would like a man with all of Edward's virtues foreshadows that she may end up with a man who is more sensible than she expects, and likely more tempered in his passions than she is"}

Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have approved. Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions. The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland. This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there. Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible. Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished--as--they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising. Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother. "It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him already." "I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him." "Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love." "You may esteem him." "I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love." Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate. No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching. "In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in all probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but SHE will be happy." "Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?" "My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your sister's choice?" "Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet--he is not the kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!" "He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper." "Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke MY heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!"

Chapter 3

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

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters stay at Norland for a few months, because it is difficult to find a new home which they can afford with their small income. She knows of John Dashwood's promise to his father, her late husband, and this reassures her; neither she nor her husband were certain of John's sincerity, but he has been kind to her and her daughters, which means that he feels some sort of obligation at least. However, she does not like Fanny Dashwood at all, and would have left Norland sooner had it not been for the friendship developing between Elinor and Edward Ferrars, Fanny's brother. Edward is very shy, but is a pleasant and kind person once people become familiar with him. Mrs. Dashwood is glad at the attraction between him and Elinor, more because he is nice and good-hearted than the fact that his family is very wealthy. Although his mother and sister have great ambitions for him, he is a very retiring sort, and wants a quiet life and peace instead. Mrs. Dashwood grows to admire him, and believes that the affection between him and Elinor will lead to marriage. However, Marianne does not approve so much, as she finds Edward less dashing and charming than is ideal. Marianne requires a man who is far more passionate yet has all of Edward's virtues; she despairs that she will never find such a man, though her mother reassures her.

Money again becomes an issue, as it will be a determining factor in how well the girls marry. Although Mrs. Dashwood believes that money will not prove to be much of an obstacle if a couple is in love, reality is that money does and will play a part in the Dashwood girls' hopes for marriage. Mrs. Dashwood is perhaps too hopeful and idealistic in her appraisal that there are no financial barriers to Elinor and Edward's relationship; for in Austen's time, women of good family but little money would certainly not be able to acquire a match with a wealthy, high-born gentleman like Edward. Austen's dry, witty tone is evident in her description of Edward coming into Mrs. Dashwood's favor; Austen states that Mrs. Dashwood only began to take notice of him after Elinor stated how different he was from his sister, and this "recommended him most forcibly" to Mrs. Dashwood. This sort of comment epitomizes the combination of understatement, a wry tone, and sharp observation which marks Austen's appraisal of an often ridiculous society and its less pleasing members. The contrast between Elinor and Marianne is highlighted through their ideas of a suitable man. Elinor's model of a suitable man is Edward, very virtuous, kind, though rather sedate. Marianne wants someone more dashing, artistic, and passionate, to coincide with her own interests and qualities. However, that she also says she would like a man with all of Edward's virtues foreshadows that she may end up with a man who is more sensible than she expects, and likely more tempered in his passions than she is

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/45.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_44_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 45

chapter 45

{"name": "Chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility61.asp", "summary": "Willoughby pours out his heart to Elinor. He had heard about Marianne's illness and thus decided to undertake a journey to Cleveland. He insists on talking extensively to Elinor. He tells her about his genuine affection for Marianne. In the beginning he had the intention of only flirting with her, since he had wanted to marry a wealthy girl. His dalliance with Marianne had to be cut short because of Mrs. Smith. The old lady had insisted that Willoughby marry Miss Williams, and when he had refused to obey her order, she had disowned him. Hence, Willoughby had to leave for London. In the city he had met Miss Grey, who is wealthy, and had become engaged to her. Marianne's letter had reached the hand of his fiancee, who had made him write the offensive letter to Marianne, whose heart was broken. Willoughby concludes his tale with regret at marrying the wealthy but cold Miss Grey.", "analysis": "Notes Willoughby arrives at Cleveland in order to clear his conscience because he has feared that Marianne might die from this strange illness. He portrays himself as a pitiable creature, dominated by a rich but cruel wife. He tries to justify his actions with Miss Williams and professes love for Marianne. At the end of his emotional tale, he still appears as a heartless man who has deceived two innocent girls. Even Elinor, who possesses a generous heart, fails to excuse him for his wrongs. She also condemns his criticism of his wife. She considers his behavior unpardonable and allows him to relate his tale only out of a sense of courtesy. CHAPTER 45 Summary After Willoughby leaves, Elinor continues to think about what he has told her. Elinor's generous heart sympathizes with Willoughby's plight, even though she considers him selfish in the ultimate analysis. She is one of the few characters prepared to listen to Willoughby after all that he has done. Mrs. Dashwood arrives in great agony. Elinor relieves her of her anxiety by informing her immediately about Marianne's recovery. Nevertheless, Mrs. Dashwood rushes in to meet her sick daughter. Marianne is delighted to see her mother. After their reunion, Mrs. Dashwood reveals to Elinor that Colonel Brandon has confessed his love for Marianne and his desire to marry her. She thinks highly of Brandon and is glad about the prospect of her daughter becoming his wife. Notes Elinor, aware of her mother's anxiety, informs her immediately about Marianne's recovery, thus sparing the elderly lady from further agony. She also offers solace to her mother. Mrs. Dashwood is like Marianne in her temperament. She is sensitive, emotional and judgmental. She criticizes Willoughby and praises Brandon because the Colonel has professed his love for Marianne. She attributes exaggerated defects and merits to Willoughby and Brandon respectively, according to the changed circumstances. Mrs. Dashwood even finds fault with Willoughby's appearance and manners because he has rejected her daughter. CHAPTER 46 Summary Marianne recovers steadily. She is grateful to the Colonel for taking the trouble of bringing her mother to Cleveland, and at such short notice. Brandon is overwhelmed by the attention she gives him. He arranges a special carriage to take the family to Barton and prepares to leave for Delaford. Marianne bears the journey well and becomes emotional upon reaching Barton. At home, she devises a program to keep herself occupied. Elinor is relieved to see her sister's renewed zest for life. One day, as they go out for a walk, Marianne takes Elinor to the spot where she fell and where Willoughby rescued her. Elinor informs Marianne of Willoughby's visit to Cleveland and relates his tale of confession. Marianne is moved to tears and asks Elinor to share the facts with her mother as well. Notes The chapter presents a mature Marianne. She appears confident and cheerful. She withstands the pressures of the journey with a smile. She is thankful to those who have helped her to recover. She is courteous enough to express her gratitude to the Colonel. She also shows a desire to make the best of her life. At Barton, she resolves to utilize her time by reading, practicing music and appreciating the beauty of nature through walks. She wants to forget the past and start life anew. Her sincere desire is to divert her mind from thoughts of Willoughby \"by religion, by reason, by constant employment.\" Marianne regrets her past behavior with friends and acquaintances. Her days of sickness have made her contemplative: she emerges from the illness a different person. She resolves to understand and appreciate the views of the people around her. Elinor, who had been burdened with Willoughby's story, finally gets the opportunity to reveal it to Marianne: when Marianne asks Elinor to gauge the true feelings of Willoughby for her, Elinor relates Willoughby's confession to her. Marianne is moved to tears after hearing the story, but at the same time, she is relieved to hear the facts."}

Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister. Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself--to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it. Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own. As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night; and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs. Willoughby's death. The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection. Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had contributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred. "At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself." Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention. "You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two." Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile. "He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her." Here, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose. "His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could he have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!--such openness, such sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM." "Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is well established." "I know it is,"--replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men." "His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on ONE act of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What answer did you give him?--Did you allow him to hope?" "Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent. Yet after a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it." "To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine." "No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much more pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like." Elinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her assent, continued, "And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with HIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon." She paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence. "At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs. Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present situation." Poor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but her spirit was stubborn. "His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares about THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it really is, I am sure it must be a good one." Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.

Chapter 45

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility61.asp

Willoughby pours out his heart to Elinor. He had heard about Marianne's illness and thus decided to undertake a journey to Cleveland. He insists on talking extensively to Elinor. He tells her about his genuine affection for Marianne. In the beginning he had the intention of only flirting with her, since he had wanted to marry a wealthy girl. His dalliance with Marianne had to be cut short because of Mrs. Smith. The old lady had insisted that Willoughby marry Miss Williams, and when he had refused to obey her order, she had disowned him. Hence, Willoughby had to leave for London. In the city he had met Miss Grey, who is wealthy, and had become engaged to her. Marianne's letter had reached the hand of his fiancee, who had made him write the offensive letter to Marianne, whose heart was broken. Willoughby concludes his tale with regret at marrying the wealthy but cold Miss Grey.

Notes Willoughby arrives at Cleveland in order to clear his conscience because he has feared that Marianne might die from this strange illness. He portrays himself as a pitiable creature, dominated by a rich but cruel wife. He tries to justify his actions with Miss Williams and professes love for Marianne. At the end of his emotional tale, he still appears as a heartless man who has deceived two innocent girls. Even Elinor, who possesses a generous heart, fails to excuse him for his wrongs. She also condemns his criticism of his wife. She considers his behavior unpardonable and allows him to relate his tale only out of a sense of courtesy. CHAPTER 45 Summary After Willoughby leaves, Elinor continues to think about what he has told her. Elinor's generous heart sympathizes with Willoughby's plight, even though she considers him selfish in the ultimate analysis. She is one of the few characters prepared to listen to Willoughby after all that he has done. Mrs. Dashwood arrives in great agony. Elinor relieves her of her anxiety by informing her immediately about Marianne's recovery. Nevertheless, Mrs. Dashwood rushes in to meet her sick daughter. Marianne is delighted to see her mother. After their reunion, Mrs. Dashwood reveals to Elinor that Colonel Brandon has confessed his love for Marianne and his desire to marry her. She thinks highly of Brandon and is glad about the prospect of her daughter becoming his wife. Notes Elinor, aware of her mother's anxiety, informs her immediately about Marianne's recovery, thus sparing the elderly lady from further agony. She also offers solace to her mother. Mrs. Dashwood is like Marianne in her temperament. She is sensitive, emotional and judgmental. She criticizes Willoughby and praises Brandon because the Colonel has professed his love for Marianne. She attributes exaggerated defects and merits to Willoughby and Brandon respectively, according to the changed circumstances. Mrs. Dashwood even finds fault with Willoughby's appearance and manners because he has rejected her daughter. CHAPTER 46 Summary Marianne recovers steadily. She is grateful to the Colonel for taking the trouble of bringing her mother to Cleveland, and at such short notice. Brandon is overwhelmed by the attention she gives him. He arranges a special carriage to take the family to Barton and prepares to leave for Delaford. Marianne bears the journey well and becomes emotional upon reaching Barton. At home, she devises a program to keep herself occupied. Elinor is relieved to see her sister's renewed zest for life. One day, as they go out for a walk, Marianne takes Elinor to the spot where she fell and where Willoughby rescued her. Elinor informs Marianne of Willoughby's visit to Cleveland and relates his tale of confession. Marianne is moved to tears and asks Elinor to share the facts with her mother as well. Notes The chapter presents a mature Marianne. She appears confident and cheerful. She withstands the pressures of the journey with a smile. She is thankful to those who have helped her to recover. She is courteous enough to express her gratitude to the Colonel. She also shows a desire to make the best of her life. At Barton, she resolves to utilize her time by reading, practicing music and appreciating the beauty of nature through walks. She wants to forget the past and start life anew. Her sincere desire is to divert her mind from thoughts of Willoughby "by religion, by reason, by constant employment." Marianne regrets her past behavior with friends and acquaintances. Her days of sickness have made her contemplative: she emerges from the illness a different person. She resolves to understand and appreciate the views of the people around her. Elinor, who had been burdened with Willoughby's story, finally gets the opportunity to reveal it to Marianne: when Marianne asks Elinor to gauge the true feelings of Willoughby for her, Elinor relates Willoughby's confession to her. Marianne is moved to tears after hearing the story, but at the same time, she is relieved to hear the facts.

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The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 8

book 11, chapter 8

{"name": "Book 11, Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-8", "summary": "A blizzard starts up as Ivan heads over to Smerdyakov's. On the way he bumps into a peasant and shoves him violently out of the way. The peasant lies on the ground, unconscious, but Ivan doesn't help - nor does he seem to care that the peasant is dead. At Smerdyakov's, Maria informs Ivan that Smerdyakov is quite ill. When Ivan enters, Smerdyakov is laid up in bed, and Ivan notices that his eyes are yellow . Smerdyakov taunts Ivan with the suggestion that they killed Fyodor together. When Ivan calls him on it, Smerdyakov pulls out from his sock - bam! - a wad of 3,000 roubles. Ivan is flabbergasted by the sight of the incriminating evidence. Smerdyakov admits that he faked his epileptic fit on the day of the murder. And the money was never under Fyodor's mattress, as everyone, including Dmitri, thought; Smerdyakov had convinced Fyodor to hide it behind the icons. Smerdyakov slyly suggests that Ivan is actually the real murderer because he is just a simple servant, while Ivan is the mastermind. Ivan rejects this point and tells Smerdyakov that he's a lot smarter than people give him credit for. Smerdyakov had predicted that Dmitri would come out and try to steal the money that night, so when Dmitri finally left after hitting Grigory, Smerdyakov had gone up to Fyodor's window. Fyodor had been terrified by Dmitri's visit, so Smerdyakov tricked him into believing that Grushenka was outside, waiting to visit him. When Fyodor opened his window to look, Smerdyakov grabbed a cast-iron inkstand and clopped Fyodor over the head with it. Then he stole the money, leaving the envelope on the floor as if Dmitri had opened it up in a frenzy, and hid the money in the hollow of an apple tree in the yard. When Ivan asks Smerdyakov about the gate that Grigory had insisted was open, Smerdyakov smiles and confirms that it was closed; Grigory was simply confused. Ivan denounces Smerdyakov and tells him that the two of them are going to reveal everything at Dmitri's trial tomorrow. To Ivan's surprise, Smerdyakov offers him the 3,000 roubles. Ivan tells him this money doesn't change his mind and leaves. On the way back, Ivan comes across the unconscious peasant in the road. This time he picks him up and carries him on his back to get some help at a nearby cottage. Ivan thinks he might go directly to the commissioner to reveal everything, but then decides to wait until Dmitri's trial for the great revelation. Back in his own room, Ivan feels irritable and can't help staring at the empty sofa across from him.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VIII. The Third And Last Interview With Smerdyakov When he was half-way there, the keen dry wind that had been blowing early that morning rose again, and a fine dry snow began falling thickly. It did not lie on the ground, but was whirled about by the wind, and soon there was a regular snowstorm. There were scarcely any lamp-posts in the part of the town where Smerdyakov lived. Ivan strode alone in the darkness, unconscious of the storm, instinctively picking out his way. His head ached and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. He felt that his hands were twitching convulsively. Not far from Marya Kondratyevna's cottage, Ivan suddenly came upon a solitary drunken little peasant. He was wearing a coarse and patched coat, and was walking in zigzags, grumbling and swearing to himself. Then suddenly he would begin singing in a husky drunken voice: "Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg; I won't wait till he comes back." But he broke off every time at the second line and began swearing again; then he would begin the same song again. Ivan felt an intense hatred for him before he had thought about him at all. Suddenly he realized his presence and felt an irresistible impulse to knock him down. At that moment they met, and the peasant with a violent lurch fell full tilt against Ivan, who pushed him back furiously. The peasant went flying backwards and fell like a log on the frozen ground. He uttered one plaintive "O--oh!" and then was silent. Ivan stepped up to him. He was lying on his back, without movement or consciousness. "He will be frozen," thought Ivan, and he went on his way to Smerdyakov's. In the passage, Marya Kondratyevna, who ran out to open the door with a candle in her hand, whispered that Smerdyakov was very ill, "It's not that he's laid up, but he seems not himself, and he even told us to take the tea away; he wouldn't have any." "Why, does he make a row?" asked Ivan coarsely. "Oh, dear, no, quite the contrary, he's very quiet. Only please don't talk to him too long," Marya Kondratyevna begged him. Ivan opened the door and stepped into the room. It was over-heated as before, but there were changes in the room. One of the benches at the side had been removed, and in its place had been put a large old mahogany leather sofa, on which a bed had been made up, with fairly clean white pillows. Smerdyakov was sitting on the sofa, wearing the same dressing-gown. The table had been brought out in front of the sofa, so that there was hardly room to move. On the table lay a thick book in yellow cover, but Smerdyakov was not reading it. He seemed to be sitting doing nothing. He met Ivan with a slow silent gaze, and was apparently not at all surprised at his coming. There was a great change in his face; he was much thinner and sallower. His eyes were sunken and there were blue marks under them. "Why, you really are ill?" Ivan stopped short. "I won't keep you long, I won't even take off my coat. Where can one sit down?" He went to the other end of the table, moved up a chair and sat down on it. "Why do you look at me without speaking? I've only come with one question, and I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young lady, Katerina Ivanovna, been with you?" Smerdyakov still remained silent, looking quietly at Ivan as before. Suddenly, with a motion of his hand, he turned his face away. "What's the matter with you?" cried Ivan. "Nothing." "What do you mean by 'nothing'?" "Yes, she has. It's no matter to you. Let me alone." "No, I won't let you alone. Tell me, when was she here?" "Why, I'd quite forgotten about her," said Smerdyakov, with a scornful smile, and turning his face to Ivan again, he stared at him with a look of frenzied hatred, the same look that he had fixed on him at their last interview, a month before. "You seem very ill yourself, your face is sunken; you don't look like yourself," he said to Ivan. "Never mind my health, tell me what I ask you." "But why are your eyes so yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are you so worried?" He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed outright. "Listen; I've told you I won't go away without an answer!" Ivan cried, intensely irritated. "Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me?" said Smerdyakov, with a look of suffering. "Damn it! I've nothing to do with you. Just answer my question and I'll go away." "I've no answer to give you," said Smerdyakov, looking down again. "You may be sure I'll make you answer!" "Why are you so uneasy?" Smerdyakov stared at him, not simply with contempt, but almost with repulsion. "Is this because the trial begins to- morrow? Nothing will happen to you; can't you believe that at last? Go home, go to bed and sleep in peace, don't be afraid of anything." "I don't understand you.... What have I to be afraid of to-morrow?" Ivan articulated in astonishment, and suddenly a chill breath of fear did in fact pass over his soul. Smerdyakov measured him with his eyes. "You don't understand?" he drawled reproachfully. "It's a strange thing a sensible man should care to play such a farce!" Ivan looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly supercilious tone of this man who had once been his valet, was extraordinary in itself. He had not taken such a tone even at their last interview. "I tell you, you've nothing to be afraid of. I won't say anything about you; there's no proof against you. I say, how your hands are trembling! Why are your fingers moving like that? Go home, _you_ did not murder him." Ivan started. He remembered Alyosha. "I know it was not I," he faltered. "Do you?" Smerdyakov caught him up again. Ivan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder. "Tell me everything, you viper! Tell me everything!" Smerdyakov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes on Ivan with insane hatred. "Well, it was you who murdered him, if that's it," he whispered furiously. Ivan sank back on his chair, as though pondering something. He laughed malignantly. "You mean my going away. What you talked about last time?" "You stood before me last time and understood it all, and you understand it now." "All I understand is that you are mad." "Aren't you tired of it? Here we are face to face; what's the use of going on keeping up a farce to each other? Are you still trying to throw it all on me, to my face? _You_ murdered him; you are the real murderer, I was only your instrument, your faithful servant, and it was following your words I did it." "_Did_ it? Why, did you murder him?" Ivan turned cold. Something seemed to give way in his brain, and he shuddered all over with a cold shiver. Then Smerdyakov himself looked at him wonderingly; probably the genuineness of Ivan's horror struck him. "You don't mean to say you really did not know?" he faltered mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Ivan still gazed at him, and seemed unable to speak. Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg; I won't wait till he comes back, suddenly echoed in his head. "Do you know, I am afraid that you are a dream, a phantom sitting before me," he muttered. "There's no phantom here, but only us two and one other. No doubt he is here, that third, between us." "Who is he? Who is here? What third person?" Ivan cried in alarm, looking about him, his eyes hastily searching in every corner. "That third is God Himself--Providence. He is the third beside us now. Only don't look for Him, you won't find Him." "It's a lie that you killed him!" Ivan cried madly. "You are mad, or teasing me again!" Smerdyakov, as before, watched him curiously, with no sign of fear. He could still scarcely get over his incredulity; he still fancied that Ivan knew everything and was trying to "throw it all on him to his face." "Wait a minute," he said at last in a weak voice, and suddenly bringing up his left leg from under the table, he began turning up his trouser leg. He was wearing long white stockings and slippers. Slowly he took off his garter and fumbled to the bottom of his stocking. Ivan gazed at him, and suddenly shuddered in a paroxysm of terror. "He's mad!" he cried, and rapidly jumping up, he drew back, so that he knocked his back against the wall and stood up against it, stiff and straight. He looked with insane terror at Smerdyakov, who, entirely unaffected by his terror, continued fumbling in his stocking, as though he were making an effort to get hold of something with his fingers and pull it out. At last he got hold of it and began pulling it out. Ivan saw that it was a piece of paper, or perhaps a roll of papers. Smerdyakov pulled it out and laid it on the table. "Here," he said quietly. "What is it?" asked Ivan, trembling. "Kindly look at it," Smerdyakov answered, still in the same low tone. Ivan stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and began unfolding it, but suddenly he drew back his fingers, as though from contact with a loathsome reptile. "Your hands keep twitching," observed Smerdyakov, and he deliberately unfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three packets of hundred-rouble notes. "They are all here, all the three thousand roubles; you need not count them. Take them," Smerdyakov suggested to Ivan, nodding at the notes. Ivan sank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief. "You frightened me ... with your stocking," he said, with a strange grin. "Can you really not have known till now?" Smerdyakov asked once more. "No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitri. Brother, brother! Ach!" He suddenly clutched his head in both hands. "Listen. Did you kill him alone? With my brother's help or without?" "It was only with you, with your help, I killed him, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch is quite innocent." "All right, all right. Talk about me later. Why do I keep on trembling? I can't speak properly." "You were bold enough then. You said 'everything was lawful,' and how frightened you are now," Smerdyakov muttered in surprise. "Won't you have some lemonade? I'll ask for some at once. It's very refreshing. Only I must hide this first." And again he motioned at the notes. He was just going to get up and call at the door to Marya Kondratyevna to make some lemonade and bring it them, but, looking for something to cover up the notes that she might not see them, he first took out his handkerchief, and as it turned out to be very dirty, took up the big yellow book that Ivan had noticed at first lying on the table, and put it over the notes. The book was _The Sayings of the Holy Father Isaac the Syrian_. Ivan read it mechanically. "I won't have any lemonade," he said. "Talk of me later. Sit down and tell me how you did it. Tell me all about it." "You'd better take off your greatcoat, or you'll be too hot." Ivan, as though he'd only just thought of it, took off his coat, and, without getting up from his chair, threw it on the bench. "Speak, please, speak." He seemed calmer. He waited, feeling sure that Smerdyakov would tell him _all_ about it. "How it was done?" sighed Smerdyakov. "It was done in a most natural way, following your very words." "Of my words later," Ivan broke in again, apparently with complete self- possession, firmly uttering his words, and not shouting as before. "Only tell me in detail how you did it. Everything, as it happened. Don't forget anything. The details, above everything, the details, I beg you." "You'd gone away, then I fell into the cellar." "In a fit or in a sham one?" "A sham one, naturally. I shammed it all. I went quietly down the steps to the very bottom and lay down quietly, and as I lay down I gave a scream, and struggled, till they carried me out." "Stay! And were you shamming all along, afterwards, and in the hospital?" "No, not at all. Next day, in the morning, before they took me to the hospital, I had a real attack and a more violent one than I've had for years. For two days I was quite unconscious." "All right, all right. Go on." "They laid me on the bed. I knew I'd be the other side of the partition, for whenever I was ill, Marfa Ignatyevna used to put me there, near them. She's always been very kind to me, from my birth up. At night I moaned, but quietly. I kept expecting Dmitri Fyodorovitch to come." "Expecting him? To come to you?" "Not to me. I expected him to come into the house, for I'd no doubt that he'd come that night, for being without me and getting no news, he'd be sure to come and climb over the fence, as he used to, and do something." "And if he hadn't come?" "Then nothing would have happened. I should never have brought myself to it without him." "All right, all right ... speak more intelligibly, don't hurry; above all, don't leave anything out!" "I expected him to kill Fyodor Pavlovitch. I thought that was certain, for I had prepared him for it ... during the last few days.... He knew about the knocks, that was the chief thing. With his suspiciousness and the fury which had been growing in him all those days, he was bound to get into the house by means of those taps. That was inevitable, so I was expecting him." "Stay," Ivan interrupted; "if he had killed him, he would have taken the money and carried it away; you must have considered that. What would you have got by it afterwards? I don't see." "But he would never have found the money. That was only what I told him, that the money was under the mattress. But that wasn't true. It had been lying in a box. And afterwards I suggested to Fyodor Pavlovitch, as I was the only person he trusted, to hide the envelope with the notes in the corner behind the ikons, for no one would have guessed that place, especially if they came in a hurry. So that's where the envelope lay, in the corner behind the ikons. It would have been absurd to keep it under the mattress; the box, anyway, could be locked. But all believe it was under the mattress. A stupid thing to believe. So if Dmitri Fyodorovitch had committed the murder, finding nothing, he would either have run away in a hurry, afraid of every sound, as always happens with murderers, or he would have been arrested. So I could always have clambered up to the ikons and have taken away the money next morning or even that night, and it would have all been put down to Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I could reckon upon that." "But what if he did not kill him, but only knocked him down?" "If he did not kill him, of course, I would not have ventured to take the money, and nothing would have happened. But I calculated that he would beat him senseless, and I should have time to take it then, and then I'd make out to Fyodor Pavlovitch that it was no one but Dmitri Fyodorovitch who had taken the money after beating him." "Stop ... I am getting mixed. Then it was Dmitri after all who killed him; you only took the money?" "No, he didn't kill him. Well, I might as well have told you now that he was the murderer.... But I don't want to lie to you now, because ... because if you really haven't understood till now, as I see for myself, and are not pretending, so as to throw your guilt on me to my very face, you are still responsible for it all, since you knew of the murder and charged me to do it, and went away knowing all about it. And so I want to prove to your face this evening that you are the only real murderer in the whole affair, and I am not the real murderer, though I did kill him. You are the rightful murderer." "Why, why, am I a murderer? Oh, God!" Ivan cried, unable to restrain himself at last, and forgetting that he had put off discussing himself till the end of the conversation. "You still mean that Tchermashnya? Stay, tell me, why did you want my consent, if you really took Tchermashnya for consent? How will you explain that now?" "Assured of your consent, I should have known that you wouldn't have made an outcry over those three thousand being lost, even if I'd been suspected, instead of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, or as his accomplice; on the contrary, you would have protected me from others.... And when you got your inheritance you would have rewarded me when you were able, all the rest of your life. For you'd have received your inheritance through me, seeing that if he had married Agrafena Alexandrovna, you wouldn't have had a farthing." "Ah! Then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards," snarled Ivan. "And what if I hadn't gone away then, but had informed against you?" "What could you have informed? That I persuaded you to go to Tchermashnya? That's all nonsense. Besides, after our conversation you would either have gone away or have stayed. If you had stayed, nothing would have happened. I should have known that you didn't want it done, and should have attempted nothing. As you went away, it meant you assured me that you wouldn't dare to inform against me at the trial, and that you'd overlook my having the three thousand. And, indeed, you couldn't have prosecuted me afterwards, because then I should have told it all in the court; that is, not that I had stolen the money or killed him--I shouldn't have said that--but that you'd put me up to the theft and the murder, though I didn't consent to it. That's why I needed your consent, so that you couldn't have cornered me afterwards, for what proof could you have had? I could always have cornered you, revealing your eagerness for your father's death, and I tell you the public would have believed it all, and you would have been ashamed for the rest of your life." "Was I then so eager, was I?" Ivan snarled again. "To be sure you were, and by your consent you silently sanctioned my doing it." Smerdyakov looked resolutely at Ivan. He was very weak and spoke slowly and wearily, but some hidden inner force urged him on. He evidently had some design. Ivan felt that. "Go on," he said. "Tell me what happened that night." "What more is there to tell! I lay there and I thought I heard the master shout. And before that Grigory Vassilyevitch had suddenly got up and came out, and he suddenly gave a scream, and then all was silence and darkness. I lay there waiting, my heart beating; I couldn't bear it. I got up at last, went out. I saw the window open on the left into the garden, and I stepped to the left to listen whether he was sitting there alive, and I heard the master moving about, sighing, so I knew he was alive. 'Ech!' I thought. I went to the window and shouted to the master, 'It's I.' And he shouted to me, 'He's been, he's been; he's run away.' He meant Dmitri Fyodorovitch had been. 'He's killed Grigory!' 'Where?' I whispered. 'There, in the corner,' he pointed. He was whispering, too. 'Wait a bit,' I said. I went to the corner of the garden to look, and there I came upon Grigory Vassilyevitch lying by the wall, covered with blood, senseless. So it's true that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, was the thought that came into my head, and I determined on the spot to make an end of it, as Grigory Vassilyevitch, even if he were alive, would see nothing of it, as he lay there senseless. The only risk was that Marfa Ignatyevna might wake up. I felt that at the moment, but the longing to get it done came over me, till I could scarcely breathe. I went back to the window to the master and said, 'She's here, she's come; Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, wants to be let in.' And he started like a baby. 'Where is she?' he fairly gasped, but couldn't believe it. 'She's standing there,' said I. 'Open.' He looked out of the window at me, half believing and half distrustful, but afraid to open. 'Why, he is afraid of me now,' I thought. And it was funny. I bethought me to knock on the window-frame those taps we'd agreed upon as a signal that Grushenka had come, in his presence, before his eyes. He didn't seem to believe my word, but as soon as he heard the taps, he ran at once to open the door. He opened it. I would have gone in, but he stood in the way to prevent me passing. 'Where is she? Where is she?' He looked at me, all of a tremble. 'Well,' thought I, 'if he's so frightened of me as all that, it's a bad look out!' And my legs went weak with fright that he wouldn't let me in or would call out, or Marfa Ignatyevna would run up, or something else might happen. I don't remember now, but I must have stood pale, facing him. I whispered to him, 'Why, she's there, there, under the window; how is it you don't see her?' I said. 'Bring her then, bring her.' 'She's afraid,' said I; 'she was frightened at the noise, she's hidden in the bushes; go and call to her yourself from the study.' He ran to the window, put the candle in the window. 'Grushenka,' he cried, 'Grushenka, are you here?' Though he cried that, he didn't want to lean out of the window, he didn't want to move away from me, for he was panic-stricken; he was so frightened he didn't dare to turn his back on me. 'Why, here she is,' said I. I went up to the window and leaned right out of it. 'Here she is; she's in the bush, laughing at you, don't you see her?' He suddenly believed it; he was all of a shake--he was awfully crazy about her--and he leaned right out of the window. I snatched up that iron paper-weight from his table; do you remember, weighing about three pounds? I swung it and hit him on the top of the skull with the corner of it. He didn't even cry out. He only sank down suddenly, and I hit him again and a third time. And the third time I knew I'd broken his skull. He suddenly rolled on his back, face upwards, covered with blood. I looked round. There was no blood on me, not a spot. I wiped the paper-weight, put it back, went up to the ikons, took the money out of the envelope, and flung the envelope on the floor and the pink ribbon beside it. I went out into the garden all of a tremble, straight to the apple-tree with a hollow in it--you know that hollow. I'd marked it long before and put a rag and a piece of paper ready in it. I wrapped all the notes in the rag and stuffed it deep down in the hole. And there it stayed for over a fortnight. I took it out later, when I came out of the hospital. I went back to my bed, lay down and thought, 'If Grigory Vassilyevitch has been killed outright it may be a bad job for me, but if he is not killed and recovers, it will be first-rate, for then he'll bear witness that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, and so he must have killed him and taken the money.' Then I began groaning with suspense and impatience, so as to wake Marfa Ignatyevna as soon as possible. At last she got up and she rushed to me, but when she saw Grigory Vassilyevitch was not there, she ran out, and I heard her scream in the garden. And that set it all going and set my mind at rest." He stopped. Ivan had listened all the time in dead silence without stirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his story Smerdyakov glanced at him from time to time, but for the most part kept his eyes averted. When he had finished he was evidently agitated and was breathing hard. The perspiration stood out on his face. But it was impossible to tell whether it was remorse he was feeling, or what. "Stay," cried Ivan, pondering. "What about the door? If he only opened the door to you, how could Grigory have seen it open before? For Grigory saw it before you went." It was remarkable that Ivan spoke quite amicably, in a different tone, not angry as before, so if any one had opened the door at that moment and peeped in at them, he would certainly have concluded that they were talking peaceably about some ordinary, though interesting, subject. "As for that door and Grigory Vassilyevitch's having seen it open, that's only his fancy," said Smerdyakov, with a wry smile. "He is not a man, I assure you, but an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancied he had seen it, and there's no shaking him. It's just our luck he took that notion into his head, for they can't fail to convict Dmitri Fyodorovitch after that." "Listen ..." said Ivan, beginning to seem bewildered again and making an effort to grasp something. "Listen. There are a lot of questions I want to ask you, but I forget them ... I keep forgetting and getting mixed up. Yes. Tell me this at least, why did you open the envelope and leave it there on the floor? Why didn't you simply carry off the envelope?... When you were telling me, I thought you spoke about it as though it were the right thing to do ... but why, I can't understand...." "I did that for a good reason. For if a man had known all about it, as I did for instance, if he'd seen those notes before, and perhaps had put them in that envelope himself, and had seen the envelope sealed up and addressed, with his own eyes, if such a man had done the murder, what should have made him tear open the envelope afterwards, especially in such desperate haste, since he'd know for certain the notes must be in the envelope? No, if the robber had been some one like me, he'd simply have put the envelope straight in his pocket and got away with it as fast as he could. But it'd be quite different with Dmitri Fyodorovitch. He only knew about the envelope by hearsay; he had never seen it, and if he'd found it, for instance, under the mattress, he'd have torn it open as quickly as possible to make sure the notes were in it. And he'd have thrown the envelope down, without having time to think that it would be evidence against him. Because he was not an habitual thief and had never directly stolen anything before, for he is a gentleman born, and if he did bring himself to steal, it would not be regular stealing, but simply taking what was his own, for he'd told the whole town he meant to before, and had even bragged aloud before every one that he'd go and take his property from Fyodor Pavlovitch. I didn't say that openly to the prosecutor when I was being examined, but quite the contrary, I brought him to it by a hint, as though I didn't see it myself, and as though he'd thought of it himself and I hadn't prompted him; so that Mr. Prosecutor's mouth positively watered at my suggestion." "But can you possibly have thought of all that on the spot?" cried Ivan, overcome with astonishment. He looked at Smerdyakov again with alarm. "Mercy on us! Could any one think of it all in such a desperate hurry? It was all thought out beforehand." "Well ... well, it was the devil helped you!" Ivan cried again. "No, you are not a fool, you are far cleverer than I thought...." He got up, obviously intending to walk across the room. He was in terrible distress. But as the table blocked his way, and there was hardly room to pass between the table and the wall, he only turned round where he stood and sat down again. Perhaps the impossibility of moving irritated him, as he suddenly cried out almost as furiously as before. "Listen, you miserable, contemptible creature! Don't you understand that if I haven't killed you, it's simply because I am keeping you to answer to-morrow at the trial. God sees," Ivan raised his hand, "perhaps I, too, was guilty; perhaps I really had a secret desire for my father's ... death, but I swear I was not as guilty as you think, and perhaps I didn't urge you on at all. No, no, I didn't urge you on! But no matter, I will give evidence against myself to-morrow at the trial. I'm determined to! I shall tell everything, everything. But we'll make our appearance together. And whatever you may say against me at the trial, whatever evidence you give, I'll face it; I am not afraid of you. I'll confirm it all myself! But you must confess, too! You must, you must; we'll go together. That's how it shall be!" Ivan said this solemnly and resolutely and from his flashing eyes alone it could be seen that it would be so. "You are ill, I see; you are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow," Smerdyakov commented, without the least irony, with apparent sympathy in fact. "We'll go together," Ivan repeated. "And if you won't go, no matter, I'll go alone." Smerdyakov paused as though pondering. "There'll be nothing of the sort, and you won't go," he concluded at last positively. "You don't understand me," Ivan exclaimed reproachfully. "You'll be too much ashamed, if you confess it all. And, what's more, it will be no use at all, for I shall say straight out that I never said anything of the sort to you, and that you are either ill (and it looks like it, too), or that you're so sorry for your brother that you are sacrificing yourself to save him and have invented it all against me, for you've always thought no more of me than if I'd been a fly. And who will believe you, and what single proof have you got?" "Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me." Smerdyakov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side. "Take that money away with you," Smerdyakov sighed. "Of course, I shall take it. But why do you give it to me, if you committed the murder for the sake of it?" Ivan looked at him with great surprise. "I don't want it," Smerdyakov articulated in a shaking voice, with a gesture of refusal. "I did have an idea of beginning a new life with that money in Moscow or, better still, abroad. I did dream of it, chiefly because 'all things are lawful.' That was quite right what you taught me, for you talked a lot to me about that. For if there's no everlasting God, there's no such thing as virtue, and there's no need of it. You were right there. So that's how I looked at it." "Did you come to that of yourself?" asked Ivan, with a wry smile. "With your guidance." "And now, I suppose, you believe in God, since you are giving back the money?" "No, I don't believe," whispered Smerdyakov. "Then why are you giving it back?" "Leave off ... that's enough!" Smerdyakov waved his hand again. "You used to say yourself that everything was lawful, so now why are you so upset, too? You even want to go and give evidence against yourself.... Only there'll be nothing of the sort! You won't go to give evidence," Smerdyakov decided with conviction. "You'll see," said Ivan. "It isn't possible. You are very clever. You are fond of money, I know that. You like to be respected, too, for you're very proud; you are far too fond of female charms, too, and you mind most of all about living in undisturbed comfort, without having to depend on any one--that's what you care most about. You won't want to spoil your life for ever by taking such a disgrace on yourself. You are like Fyodor Pavlovitch, you are more like him than any of his children; you've the same soul as he had." "You are not a fool," said Ivan, seeming struck. The blood rushed to his face. "You are serious now!" he observed, looking suddenly at Smerdyakov with a different expression. "It was your pride made you think I was a fool. Take the money." Ivan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without wrapping them in anything. "I shall show them at the court to-morrow," he said. "Nobody will believe you, as you've plenty of money of your own; you may simply have taken it out of your cash-box and brought it to the court." Ivan rose from his seat. "I repeat," he said, "the only reason I haven't killed you is that I need you for to-morrow, remember that, don't forget it!" "Well, kill me. Kill me now," Smerdyakov said, all at once looking strangely at Ivan. "You won't dare do that even!" he added, with a bitter smile. "You won't dare to do anything, you, who used to be so bold!" "Till to-morrow," cried Ivan, and moved to go out. "Stay a moment.... Show me those notes again." Ivan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov looked at them for ten seconds. "Well, you can go," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Ivan Fyodorovitch!" he called after him again. "What do you want?" Ivan turned without stopping. "Good-by!" "Till to-morrow!" Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the cottage. The snowstorm was still raging. He walked the first few steps boldly, but suddenly began staggering. "It's something physical," he thought with a grin. Something like joy was springing up in his heart. He was conscious of unbounded resolution; he would make an end of the wavering that had so tortured him of late. His determination was taken, "and now it will not be changed," he thought with relief. At that moment he stumbled against something and almost fell down. Stopping short, he made out at his feet the peasant he had knocked down, still lying senseless and motionless. The snow had almost covered his face. Ivan seized him and lifted him in his arms. Seeing a light in the little house to the right he went up, knocked at the shutters, and asked the man to whom the house belonged to help him carry the peasant to the police-station, promising him three roubles. The man got ready and came out. I won't describe in detail how Ivan succeeded in his object, bringing the peasant to the police-station and arranging for a doctor to see him at once, providing with a liberal hand for the expenses. I will only say that this business took a whole hour, but Ivan was well content with it. His mind wandered and worked incessantly. "If I had not taken my decision so firmly for to-morrow," he reflected with satisfaction, "I should not have stayed a whole hour to look after the peasant, but should have passed by, without caring about his being frozen. I am quite capable of watching myself, by the way," he thought at the same instant, with still greater satisfaction, "although they have decided that I am going out of my mind!" Just as he reached his own house he stopped short, asking himself suddenly hadn't he better go at once to the prosecutor and tell him everything. He decided the question by turning back to the house. "Everything together to-morrow!" he whispered to himself, and, strange to say, almost all his gladness and self-satisfaction passed in one instant. As he entered his own room he felt something like a touch of ice on his heart, like a recollection or, more exactly, a reminder, of something agonizing and revolting that was in that room now, at that moment, and had been there before. He sank wearily on his sofa. The old woman brought him a samovar; he made tea, but did not touch it. He sat on the sofa and felt giddy. He felt that he was ill and helpless. He was beginning to drop asleep, but got up uneasily and walked across the room to shake off his drowsiness. At moments he fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness that he thought of most. Sitting down again, he began looking round, as though searching for something. This happened several times. At last his eyes were fastened intently on one point. Ivan smiled, but an angry flush suffused his face. He sat a long time in his place, his head propped on both arms, though he looked sideways at the same point, at the sofa that stood against the opposite wall. There was evidently something, some object, that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him.

Book 11, Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-8

A blizzard starts up as Ivan heads over to Smerdyakov's. On the way he bumps into a peasant and shoves him violently out of the way. The peasant lies on the ground, unconscious, but Ivan doesn't help - nor does he seem to care that the peasant is dead. At Smerdyakov's, Maria informs Ivan that Smerdyakov is quite ill. When Ivan enters, Smerdyakov is laid up in bed, and Ivan notices that his eyes are yellow . Smerdyakov taunts Ivan with the suggestion that they killed Fyodor together. When Ivan calls him on it, Smerdyakov pulls out from his sock - bam! - a wad of 3,000 roubles. Ivan is flabbergasted by the sight of the incriminating evidence. Smerdyakov admits that he faked his epileptic fit on the day of the murder. And the money was never under Fyodor's mattress, as everyone, including Dmitri, thought; Smerdyakov had convinced Fyodor to hide it behind the icons. Smerdyakov slyly suggests that Ivan is actually the real murderer because he is just a simple servant, while Ivan is the mastermind. Ivan rejects this point and tells Smerdyakov that he's a lot smarter than people give him credit for. Smerdyakov had predicted that Dmitri would come out and try to steal the money that night, so when Dmitri finally left after hitting Grigory, Smerdyakov had gone up to Fyodor's window. Fyodor had been terrified by Dmitri's visit, so Smerdyakov tricked him into believing that Grushenka was outside, waiting to visit him. When Fyodor opened his window to look, Smerdyakov grabbed a cast-iron inkstand and clopped Fyodor over the head with it. Then he stole the money, leaving the envelope on the floor as if Dmitri had opened it up in a frenzy, and hid the money in the hollow of an apple tree in the yard. When Ivan asks Smerdyakov about the gate that Grigory had insisted was open, Smerdyakov smiles and confirms that it was closed; Grigory was simply confused. Ivan denounces Smerdyakov and tells him that the two of them are going to reveal everything at Dmitri's trial tomorrow. To Ivan's surprise, Smerdyakov offers him the 3,000 roubles. Ivan tells him this money doesn't change his mind and leaves. On the way back, Ivan comes across the unconscious peasant in the road. This time he picks him up and carries him on his back to get some help at a nearby cottage. Ivan thinks he might go directly to the commissioner to reveal everything, but then decides to wait until Dmitri's trial for the great revelation. Back in his own room, Ivan feels irritable and can't help staring at the empty sofa across from him.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_34_to_35.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Lord Jim/section_20_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 34-35

chapters 34-35

{"name": "Chapters 34-35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219145744/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/l/lord-jim/summary-and-analysis/chapters-3435", "summary": "The footsteps which Marlow heard that night were Jim's, but Marlow was unable to talk any further with Jewel that night -- or with Jim. He left, and as he walked away in the cool darkness of the night, he was awed anew at Jim's plans for a coffee plantation on Patusan, along with all of Jim's other plans and his seemingly inexhaustible energy; Marlow could not understand Jim's optimistic enthusiasm for ever so many experiments.\" Marlow confesses that he stood alone that night long enough to succumb to \"a sentimental mood.\" He felt strange and melancholy, remote and lost. Here he was in Patusan, in this forgotten, obscure corner of the world, where he was privy to terrible secrets, and where a man's destiny was being decided and where a woman's love was breaking her heart. Marlow knew that the essence of that moment and the emotions of that moment would be lost tomorrow, and even if that moment were remembered, it would never again seem as real as it did at that moment; it would always seem as if it were an illusion. And yet it is that moment which Marlow has tried to recount for his listeners. Marlow's moment of insight into Jim's destiny was shattered by Cornelius, who bolted out of the undergrowth, \"vermin-like\" and running toward Marlow, whining and cringing, trying to confide in him. Usually, Marlow says, he was so repulsed by the creature that a quick glance at him had always caused him to slink away. But that night, I let him capture me without even a show of resistance.\" Marlow says that he felt \"doomed to be the recipient of confidences.\" Cornelius came immediately to the point. He wanted Marlow to talk to Jim and ask him for \"some money in exchange for the girl.\" He had raised her, and she had been someone else's child. Now he was an old man, and he felt that a \"suitable present\" should be given to him when Jim decided to \"go home.\" Marlow insisted that Jim was not preparing to leave; in fact, he said \"the time will never come.\" Jim would never go home, Marlow emphasized. Cornelius nearly went into convulsions when he heard this statement. He cried out that he would be \"trampled\" by Jim until the day he died. He leaned his head against the fence and began uttering threats and blasphemies in Portuguese, mingled with groans and cries of sickness. It was, says Marlow, \"an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance,\" and so he departed. Next morning, as Marlow was leaving, he watched the houses of Patusan disappearing behind him. The trees and the river and the people all disappeared, but their clear-cut, indelible, unchanging, unfaded images were stamped upon Marlow's memory. All of these memories, especially those of the people, are suspended now-flat replicas filed away forever, unchanging. All unchanging, that is, except Marlow's memory of Jim. Marlow can't be certain of his final image of Jim. \"No magician's wand can immobilize him under my eyes,\" he says, because \"he is one of us.\" Jim accompanied Marlow on the first stage of his journey back to \"the real world,\" and after they landed on a bit of white beach, Jim noticed a fisherman signaling to him and he knew what must be done. Tomorrow, he told Marlow, he would meet with Rajah Allang and discuss the fisherman's problems concerning some turtle eggs, no doubt weighing the fisherman's claim against those of Rajah Allang's men. As Jim said, \"the old rip can't get it into his head that . . .\" and Marlow finished Jim's sentence: that you have changed all that.\" The two men shook hands then, and Marlow told Jim that he would be returning to England in a year or so, and Jim asked Marlow to \"Tell them and then he stopped. \"Tell them nothing,\" he said finally. Marlow clamored on board his schooner. The sun had set, and the western horizon was a blaze of gold and crimson. He saw two half-naked fishermen talking to their \"white lord.\" As Marlow sailed away, the white figure of Jim, pasted against the stillness of the sea, became only a tiny white speck. And, suddenly, Marlow says, \"I lost him. . . .\"", "analysis": "These two chapters end Marlow's direct association with Lord Jim. The rest of Jim's story will be given to us by reports, documents, and letters concerning Jim, along with Jewel's and Tamb' Itam's reports of Jim. We hear again that Jewel refuses to believe that Jim is not \"good enough\" for the outside world, and Marlow's attempts to convince her of Jim's loyalty by his explanations \"only succeeded in adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her forever in the dark.\" Marlow was ready to leave because he was now convinced that his earlier views of Jim were the correct ones -- that is, Jim had indeed proved to all concerned that \"he was one of us,\" and now Marlow saw that all of his efforts on Jim's behalf and all of his trust in Jim's essential goodness had been fully justified; thus, Marlow was now content to leave Jim to his own destiny, knowing full well that they would never meet again -- that is, that he would never return to Patusan and that Jim would never leave Patusan. These chapters also present more of Cornelius, a villainous man whom Marlow completely misreads. Marlow considers Cornelius to be such a repulsive, spiteful, cringing, insidious insect that he, Cornelius, is not really dangerous. Marlow, in essence, dismisses this obnoxious creature as being \"too insignificant to be dangerous.\" In terms of Cornelius' treachery with \"Gentleman Brown\" later, we realize that Marlow is wrong in his interpretation of Comelius' \"insignificance.\""}

Marlow swung his legs out, got up quickly, and staggered a little, as though he had been set down after a rush through space. He leaned his back against the balustrade and faced a disordered array of long cane chairs. The bodies prone in them seemed startled out of their torpor by his movement. One or two sat up as if alarmed; here and there a cigar glowed yet; Marlow looked at them all with the eyes of a man returning from the excessive remoteness of a dream. A throat was cleared; a calm voice encouraged negligently, 'Well.' 'Nothing,' said Marlow with a slight start. 'He had told her--that's all. She did not believe him--nothing more. As to myself, I do not know whether it be just, proper, decent for me to rejoice or to be sorry. For my part, I cannot say what I believed--indeed I don't know to this day, and never shall probably. But what did the poor devil believe himself? Truth shall prevail--don't you know Magna est veritas el . . . Yes, when it gets a chance. There is a law, no doubt--and likewise a law regulates your luck in the throwing of dice. It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient Time--that holds an even and scrupulous balance. Both of us had said the very same thing. Did we both speak the truth--or one of us did--or neither? . . .' Marlow paused, crossed his arms on his breast, and in a changed tone-- 'She said we lied. Poor soul! Well--let's leave it to Chance, whose ally is Time, that cannot be hurried, and whose enemy is Death, that will not wait. I had retreated--a little cowed, I must own. I had tried a fall with fear itself and got thrown--of course. I had only succeeded in adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her for ever in the dark. And it had come easily, naturally, unavoidably, by his act, by her own act! It was as though I had been shown the working of the implacable destiny of which we are the victims--and the tools. It was appalling to think of the girl whom I had left standing there motionless; Jim's footsteps had a fateful sound as he tramped by, without seeing me, in his heavy laced boots. "What? No lights!" he said in a loud, surprised voice. "What are you doing in the dark--you two?" Next moment he caught sight of her, I suppose. "Hallo, girl!" he cried cheerily. "Hallo, boy!" she answered at once, with amazing pluck. 'This was their usual greeting to each other, and the bit of swagger she would put into her rather high but sweet voice was very droll, pretty, and childlike. It delighted Jim greatly. This was the last occasion on which I heard them exchange this familiar hail, and it struck a chill into my heart. There was the high sweet voice, the pretty effort, the swagger; but it all seemed to die out prematurely, and the playful call sounded like a moan. It was too confoundedly awful. "What have you done with Marlow?" Jim was asking; and then, "Gone down--has he? Funny I didn't meet him. . . . You there, Marlow?" 'I didn't answer. I wasn't going in--not yet at any rate. I really couldn't. While he was calling me I was engaged in making my escape through a little gate leading out upon a stretch of newly cleared ground. No; I couldn't face them yet. I walked hastily with lowered head along a trodden path. The ground rose gently, the few big trees had been felled, the undergrowth had been cut down and the grass fired. He had a mind to try a coffee-plantation there. The big hill, rearing its double summit coal-black in the clear yellow glow of the rising moon, seemed to cast its shadow upon the ground prepared for that experiment. He was going to try ever so many experiments; I had admired his energy, his enterprise, and his shrewdness. Nothing on earth seemed less real now than his plans, his energy, and his enthusiasm; and raising my eyes, I saw part of the moon glittering through the bushes at the bottom of the chasm. For a moment it looked as though the smooth disc, falling from its place in the sky upon the earth, had rolled to the bottom of that precipice: its ascending movement was like a leisurely rebound; it disengaged itself from the tangle of twigs; the bare contorted limb of some tree, growing on the slope, made a black crack right across its face. It threw its level rays afar as if from a cavern, and in this mournful eclipse-like light the stumps of felled trees uprose very dark, the heavy shadows fell at my feet on all sides, my own moving shadow, and across my path the shadow of the solitary grave perpetually garlanded with flowers. In the darkened moonlight the interlaced blossoms took on shapes foreign to one's memory and colours indefinable to the eye, as though they had been special flowers gathered by no man, grown not in this world, and destined for the use of the dead alone. Their powerful scent hung in the warm air, making it thick and heavy like the fumes of incense. The lumps of white coral shone round the dark mound like a chaplet of bleached skulls, and everything around was so quiet that when I stood still all sound and all movement in the world seemed to come to an end. 'It was a great peace, as if the earth had been one grave, and for a time I stood there thinking mostly of the living who, buried in remote places out of the knowledge of mankind, still are fated to share in its tragic or grotesque miseries. In its noble struggles too--who knows? The human heart is vast enough to contain all the world. It is valiant enough to bear the burden, but where is the courage that would cast it off? 'I suppose I must have fallen into a sentimental mood; I only know that I stood there long enough for the sense of utter solitude to get hold of me so completely that all I had lately seen, all I had heard, and the very human speech itself, seemed to have passed away out of existence, living only for a while longer in my memory, as though I had been the last of mankind. It was a strange and melancholy illusion, evolved half-consciously like all our illusions, which I suspect only to be visions of remote unattainable truth, seen dimly. This was, indeed, one of the lost, forgotten, unknown places of the earth; I had looked under its obscure surface; and I felt that when to-morrow I had left it for ever, it would slip out of existence, to live only in my memory till I myself passed into oblivion. I have that feeling about me now; perhaps it is that feeling which has incited me to tell you the story, to try to hand over to you, as it were, its very existence, its reality--the truth disclosed in a moment of illusion. 'Cornelius broke upon it. He bolted out, vermin-like, from the long grass growing in a depression of the ground. I believe his house was rotting somewhere near by, though I've never seen it, not having been far enough in that direction. He ran towards me upon the path; his feet, shod in dirty white shoes, twinkled on the dark earth; he pulled himself up, and began to whine and cringe under a tall stove-pipe hat. His dried-up little carcass was swallowed up, totally lost, in a suit of black broadcloth. That was his costume for holidays and ceremonies, and it reminded me that this was the fourth Sunday I had spent in Patusan. All the time of my stay I had been vaguely aware of his desire to confide in me, if he only could get me all to himself. He hung about with an eager craving look on his sour yellow little face; but his timidity had kept him back as much as my natural reluctance to have anything to do with such an unsavoury creature. He would have succeeded, nevertheless, had he not been so ready to slink off as soon as you looked at him. He would slink off before Jim's severe gaze, before my own, which I tried to make indifferent, even before Tamb' Itam's surly, superior glance. He was perpetually slinking away; whenever seen he was seen moving off deviously, his face over his shoulder, with either a mistrustful snarl or a woe-begone, piteous, mute aspect; but no assumed expression could conceal this innate irremediable abjectness of his nature, any more than an arrangement of clothing can conceal some monstrous deformity of the body. 'I don't know whether it was the demoralisation of my utter defeat in my encounter with a spectre of fear less than an hour ago, but I let him capture me without even a show of resistance. I was doomed to be the recipient of confidences, and to be confronted with unanswerable questions. It was trying; but the contempt, the unreasoned contempt, the man's appearance provoked, made it easier to bear. He couldn't possibly matter. Nothing mattered, since I had made up my mind that Jim, for whom alone I cared, had at last mastered his fate. He had told me he was satisfied . . . nearly. This is going further than most of us dare. I--who have the right to think myself good enough--dare not. Neither does any of you here, I suppose? . . .' Marlow paused, as if expecting an answer. Nobody spoke. 'Quite right,' he began again. 'Let no soul know, since the truth can be wrung out of us only by some cruel, little, awful catastrophe. But he is one of us, and he could say he was satisfied . . . nearly. Just fancy this! Nearly satisfied. One could almost envy him his catastrophe. Nearly satisfied. After this nothing could matter. It did not matter who suspected him, who trusted him, who loved him, who hated him--especially as it was Cornelius who hated him. 'Yet after all this was a kind of recognition. You shall judge of a man by his foes as well as by his friends, and this enemy of Jim was such as no decent man would be ashamed to own, without, however, making too much of him. This was the view Jim took, and in which I shared; but Jim disregarded him on general grounds. "My dear Marlow," he said, "I feel that if I go straight nothing can touch me. Indeed I do. Now you have been long enough here to have a good look round--and, frankly, don't you think I am pretty safe? It all depends upon me, and, by Jove! I have lots of confidence in myself. The worst thing he could do would be to kill me, I suppose. I don't think for a moment he would. He couldn't, you know--not if I were myself to hand him a loaded rifle for the purpose, and then turn my back on him. That's the sort of thing he is. And suppose he would--suppose he could? Well--what of that? I didn't come here flying for my life--did I? I came here to set my back against the wall, and I am going to stay here . . ." '"Till you are _quite_ satisfied," I struck in. 'We were sitting at the time under the roof in the stern of his boat; twenty paddles flashed like one, ten on a side, striking the water with a single splash, while behind our backs Tamb' Itam dipped silently right and left, and stared right down the river, attentive to keep the long canoe in the greatest strength of the current. Jim bowed his head, and our last talk seemed to flicker out for good. He was seeing me off as far as the mouth of the river. The schooner had left the day before, working down and drifting on the ebb, while I had prolonged my stay overnight. And now he was seeing me off. 'Jim had been a little angry with me for mentioning Cornelius at all. I had not, in truth, said much. The man was too insignificant to be dangerous, though he was as full of hate as he could hold. He had called me "honourable sir" at every second sentence, and had whined at my elbow as he followed me from the grave of his "late wife" to the gate of Jim's compound. He declared himself the most unhappy of men, a victim, crushed like a worm; he entreated me to look at him. I wouldn't turn my head to do so; but I could see out of the corner of my eye his obsequious shadow gliding after mine, while the moon, suspended on our right hand, seemed to gloat serenely upon the spectacle. He tried to explain--as I've told you--his share in the events of the memorable night. It was a matter of expediency. How could he know who was going to get the upper hand? "I would have saved him, honourable sir! I would have saved him for eighty dollars," he protested in dulcet tones, keeping a pace behind me. "He has saved himself," I said, "and he has forgiven you." I heard a sort of tittering, and turned upon him; at once he appeared ready to take to his heels. "What are you laughing at?" I asked, standing still. "Don't be deceived, honourable sir!" he shrieked, seemingly losing all control over his feelings. "_He_ save himself! He knows nothing, honourable sir--nothing whatever. Who is he? What does he want here--the big thief? What does he want here? He throws dust into everybody's eyes; he throws dust into your eyes, honourable sir; but he can't throw dust into my eyes. He is a big fool, honourable sir." I laughed contemptuously, and, turning on my heel, began to walk on again. He ran up to my elbow and whispered forcibly, "He's no more than a little child here--like a little child--a little child." Of course I didn't take the slightest notice, and seeing the time pressed, because we were approaching the bamboo fence that glittered over the blackened ground of the clearing, he came to the point. He commenced by being abjectly lachrymose. His great misfortunes had affected his head. He hoped I would kindly forget what nothing but his troubles made him say. He didn't mean anything by it; only the honourable sir did not know what it was to be ruined, broken down, trampled upon. After this introduction he approached the matter near his heart, but in such a rambling, ejaculatory, craven fashion, that for a long time I couldn't make out what he was driving at. He wanted me to intercede with Jim in his favour. It seemed, too, to be some sort of money affair. I heard time and again the words, "Moderate provision--suitable present." He seemed to be claiming value for something, and he even went the length of saying with some warmth that life was not worth having if a man were to be robbed of everything. I did not breathe a word, of course, but neither did I stop my ears. The gist of the affair, which became clear to me gradually, was in this, that he regarded himself as entitled to some money in exchange for the girl. He had brought her up. Somebody else's child. Great trouble and pains--old man now--suitable present. If the honourable sir would say a word. . . . I stood still to look at him with curiosity, and fearful lest I should think him extortionate, I suppose, he hastily brought himself to make a concession. In consideration of a "suitable present" given at once, he would, he declared, be willing to undertake the charge of the girl, "without any other provision--when the time came for the gentleman to go home." His little yellow face, all crumpled as though it had been squeezed together, expressed the most anxious, eager avarice. His voice whined coaxingly, "No more trouble--natural guardian--a sum of money . . ." 'I stood there and marvelled. That kind of thing, with him, was evidently a vocation. I discovered suddenly in his cringing attitude a sort of assurance, as though he had been all his life dealing in certitudes. He must have thought I was dispassionately considering his proposal, because he became as sweet as honey. "Every gentleman made a provision when the time came to go home," he began insinuatingly. I slammed the little gate. "In this case, Mr. Cornelius," I said, "the time will never come." He took a few seconds to gather this in. "What!" he fairly squealed. "Why," I continued from my side of the gate, "haven't you heard him say so himself? He will never go home." "Oh! this is too much," he shouted. He would not address me as "honoured sir" any more. He was very still for a time, and then without a trace of humility began very low: "Never go--ah! He--he--he comes here devil knows from where--comes here--devil knows why--to trample on me till I die--ah--trample" (he stamped softly with both feet), "trample like this--nobody knows why--till I die. . . ." His voice became quite extinct; he was bothered by a little cough; he came up close to the fence and told me, dropping into a confidential and piteous tone, that he would not be trampled upon. "Patience--patience," he muttered, striking his breast. I had done laughing at him, but unexpectedly he treated me to a wild cracked burst of it. "Ha! ha! ha! We shall see! We shall see! What! Steal from me! Steal from me everything! Everything! Everything!" His head drooped on one shoulder, his hands were hanging before him lightly clasped. One would have thought he had cherished the girl with surpassing love, that his spirit had been crushed and his heart broken by the most cruel of spoliations. Suddenly he lifted his head and shot out an infamous word. "Like her mother--she is like her deceitful mother. Exactly. In her face, too. In her face. The devil!" He leaned his forehead against the fence, and in that position uttered threats and horrible blasphemies in Portuguese in very weak ejaculations, mingled with miserable plaints and groans, coming out with a heave of the shoulders as though he had been overtaken by a deadly fit of sickness. It was an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance, and I hastened away. He tried to shout something after me. Some disparagement of Jim, I believe--not too loud though, we were too near the house. All I heard distinctly was, "No more than a little child--a little child."' 'But next morning, at the first bend of the river shutting off the houses of Patusan, all this dropped out of my sight bodily, with its colour, its design, and its meaning, like a picture created by fancy on a canvas, upon which, after long contemplation, you turn your back for the last time. It remains in the memory motionless, unfaded, with its life arrested, in an unchanging light. There are the ambitions, the fears, the hate, the hopes, and they remain in my mind just as I had seen them--intense and as if for ever suspended in their expression. I had turned away from the picture and was going back to the world where events move, men change, light flickers, life flows in a clear stream, no matter whether over mud or over stones. I wasn't going to dive into it; I would have enough to do to keep my head above the surface. But as to what I was leaving behind, I cannot imagine any alteration. The immense and magnanimous Doramin and his little motherly witch of a wife, gazing together upon the land and nursing secretly their dreams of parental ambition; Tunku Allang, wizened and greatly perplexed; Dain Waris, intelligent and brave, with his faith in Jim, with his firm glance and his ironic friendliness; the girl, absorbed in her frightened, suspicious adoration; Tamb' Itam, surly and faithful; Cornelius, leaning his forehead against the fence under the moonlight--I am certain of them. They exist as if under an enchanter's wand. But the figure round which all these are grouped--that one lives, and I am not certain of him. No magician's wand can immobilise him under my eyes. He is one of us. 'Jim, as I've told you, accompanied me on the first stage of my journey back to the world he had renounced, and the way at times seemed to lead through the very heart of untouched wilderness. The empty reaches sparkled under the high sun; between the high walls of vegetation the heat drowsed upon the water, and the boat, impelled vigorously, cut her way through the air that seemed to have settled dense and warm under the shelter of lofty trees. 'The shadow of the impending separation had already put an immense space between us, and when we spoke it was with an effort, as if to force our low voices across a vast and increasing distance. The boat fairly flew; we sweltered side by side in the stagnant superheated air; the smell of mud, of mush, the primeval smell of fecund earth, seemed to sting our faces; till suddenly at a bend it was as if a great hand far away had lifted a heavy curtain, had flung open un immense portal. The light itself seemed to stir, the sky above our heads widened, a far-off murmur reached our ears, a freshness enveloped us, filled our lungs, quickened our thoughts, our blood, our regrets--and, straight ahead, the forests sank down against the dark-blue ridge of the sea. 'I breathed deeply, I revelled in the vastness of the opened horizon, in the different atmosphere that seemed to vibrate with the toil of life, with the energy of an impeccable world. This sky and this sea were open to me. The girl was right--there was a sign, a call in them--something to which I responded with every fibre of my being. I let my eyes roam through space, like a man released from bonds who stretches his cramped limbs, runs, leaps, responds to the inspiring elation of freedom. "This is glorious!" I cried, and then I looked at the sinner by my side. He sat with his head sunk on his breast and said "Yes," without raising his eyes, as if afraid to see writ large on the clear sky of the offing the reproach of his romantic conscience. 'I remember the smallest details of that afternoon. We landed on a bit of white beach. It was backed by a low cliff wooded on the brow, draped in creepers to the very foot. Below us the plain of the sea, of a serene and intense blue, stretched with a slight upward tilt to the thread-like horizon drawn at the height of our eyes. Great waves of glitter blew lightly along the pitted dark surface, as swift as feathers chased by the breeze. A chain of islands sat broken and massive facing the wide estuary, displayed in a sheet of pale glassy water reflecting faithfully the contour of the shore. High in the colourless sunshine a solitary bird, all black, hovered, dropping and soaring above the same spot with a slight rocking motion of the wings. A ragged, sooty bunch of flimsy mat hovels was perched over its own inverted image upon a crooked multitude of high piles the colour of ebony. A tiny black canoe put off from amongst them with two tiny men, all black, who toiled exceedingly, striking down at the pale water: and the canoe seemed to slide painfully on a mirror. This bunch of miserable hovels was the fishing village that boasted of the white lord's especial protection, and the two men crossing over were the old headman and his son-in-law. They landed and walked up to us on the white sand, lean, dark-brown as if dried in smoke, with ashy patches on the skin of their naked shoulders and breasts. Their heads were bound in dirty but carefully folded headkerchiefs, and the old man began at once to state a complaint, voluble, stretching a lank arm, screwing up at Jim his old bleared eyes confidently. The Rajah's people would not leave them alone; there had been some trouble about a lot of turtles' eggs his people had collected on the islets there--and leaning at arm's-length upon his paddle, he pointed with a brown skinny hand over the sea. Jim listened for a time without looking up, and at last told him gently to wait. He would hear him by-and-by. They withdrew obediently to some little distance, and sat on their heels, with their paddles lying before them on the sand; the silvery gleams in their eyes followed our movements patiently; and the immensity of the outspread sea, the stillness of the coast, passing north and south beyond the limits of my vision, made up one colossal Presence watching us four dwarfs isolated on a strip of glistening sand. '"The trouble is," remarked Jim moodily, "that for generations these beggars of fishermen in that village there had been considered as the Rajah's personal slaves--and the old rip can't get it into his head that . . ." 'He paused. "That you have changed all that," I said. '"Yes I've changed all that," he muttered in a gloomy voice. '"You have had your opportunity," I pursued. '"Have I?" he said. "Well, yes. I suppose so. Yes. I have got back my confidence in myself--a good name--yet sometimes I wish . . . No! I shall hold what I've got. Can't expect anything more." He flung his arm out towards the sea. "Not out there anyhow." He stamped his foot upon the sand. "This is my limit, because nothing less will do." 'We continued pacing the beach. "Yes, I've changed all that," he went on, with a sidelong glance at the two patient squatting fishermen; "but only try to think what it would be if I went away. Jove! can't you see it? Hell loose. No! To-morrow I shall go and take my chance of drinking that silly old Tunku Allang's coffee, and I shall make no end of fuss over these rotten turtles' eggs. No. I can't say--enough. Never. I must go on, go on for ever holding up my end, to feel sure that nothing can touch me. I must stick to their belief in me to feel safe and to--to" . . . He cast about for a word, seemed to look for it on the sea . . . "to keep in touch with" . . . His voice sank suddenly to a murmur . . . "with those whom, perhaps, I shall never see any more. With--with--you, for instance." 'I was profoundly humbled by his words. "For God's sake," I said, "don't set me up, my dear fellow; just look to yourself." I felt a gratitude, an affection, for that straggler whose eyes had singled me out, keeping my place in the ranks of an insignificant multitude. How little that was to boast of, after all! I turned my burning face away; under the low sun, glowing, darkened and crimson, like un ember snatched from the fire, the sea lay outspread, offering all its immense stillness to the approach of the fiery orb. Twice he was going to speak, but checked himself; at last, as if he had found a formula-- '"I shall be faithful," he said quietly. "I shall be faithful," he repeated, without looking at me, but for the first time letting his eyes wander upon the waters, whose blueness had changed to a gloomy purple under the fires of sunset. Ah! he was romantic, romantic. I recalled some words of Stein's. . . . "In the destructive element immerse! . . . To follow the dream, and again to follow the dream--and so--always--usque ad finem . . ." He was romantic, but none the less true. Who could tell what forms, what visions, what faces, what forgiveness he could see in the glow of the west! . . . A small boat, leaving the schooner, moved slowly, with a regular beat of two oars, towards the sandbank to take me off. "And then there's Jewel," he said, out of the great silence of earth, sky, and sea, which had mastered my very thoughts so that his voice made me start. "There's Jewel." "Yes," I murmured. "I need not tell you what she is to me," he pursued. "You've seen. In time she will come to understand . . ." "I hope so," I interrupted. "She trusts me, too," he mused, and then changed his tone. "When shall we meet next, I wonder?" he said. '"Never--unless you come out," I answered, avoiding his glance. He didn't seem to be surprised; he kept very quiet for a while. '"Good-bye, then," he said, after a pause. "Perhaps it's just as well." 'We shook hands, and I walked to the boat, which waited with her nose on the beach. The schooner, her mainsail set and jib-sheet to windward, curveted on the purple sea; there was a rosy tinge on her sails. "Will you be going home again soon?" asked Jim, just as I swung my leg over the gunwale. "In a year or so if I live," I said. The forefoot grated on the sand, the boat floated, the wet oars flashed and dipped once, twice. Jim, at the water's edge, raised his voice. "Tell them . . ." he began. I signed to the men to cease rowing, and waited in wonder. Tell who? The half-submerged sun faced him; I could see its red gleam in his eyes that looked dumbly at me. . . . "No--nothing," he said, and with a slight wave of his hand motioned the boat away. I did not look again at the shore till I had clambered on board the schooner. 'By that time the sun had set. The twilight lay over the east, and the coast, turned black, extended infinitely its sombre wall that seemed the very stronghold of the night; the western horizon was one great blaze of gold and crimson in which a big detached cloud floated dark and still, casting a slaty shadow on the water beneath, and I saw Jim on the beach watching the schooner fall off and gather headway. 'The two half-naked fishermen had arisen as soon as I had gone; they were no doubt pouring the plaint of their trifling, miserable, oppressed lives into the ears of the white lord, and no doubt he was listening to it, making it his own, for was it not a part of his luck--the luck "from the word Go"--the luck to which he had assured me he was so completely equal? They, too, I should think, were in luck, and I was sure their pertinacity would be equal to it. Their dark-skinned bodies vanished on the dark background long before I had lost sight of their protector. He was white from head to foot, and remained persistently visible with the stronghold of the night at his back, the sea at his feet, the opportunity by his side--still veiled. What do you say? Was it still veiled? I don't know. For me that white figure in the stillness of coast and sea seemed to stand at the heart of a vast enigma. The twilight was ebbing fast from the sky above his head, the strip of sand had sunk already under his feet, he himself appeared no bigger than a child--then only a speck, a tiny white speck, that seemed to catch all the light left in a darkened world. . . . And, suddenly, I lost him. . . .

Chapters 34-35

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The footsteps which Marlow heard that night were Jim's, but Marlow was unable to talk any further with Jewel that night -- or with Jim. He left, and as he walked away in the cool darkness of the night, he was awed anew at Jim's plans for a coffee plantation on Patusan, along with all of Jim's other plans and his seemingly inexhaustible energy; Marlow could not understand Jim's optimistic enthusiasm for ever so many experiments." Marlow confesses that he stood alone that night long enough to succumb to "a sentimental mood." He felt strange and melancholy, remote and lost. Here he was in Patusan, in this forgotten, obscure corner of the world, where he was privy to terrible secrets, and where a man's destiny was being decided and where a woman's love was breaking her heart. Marlow knew that the essence of that moment and the emotions of that moment would be lost tomorrow, and even if that moment were remembered, it would never again seem as real as it did at that moment; it would always seem as if it were an illusion. And yet it is that moment which Marlow has tried to recount for his listeners. Marlow's moment of insight into Jim's destiny was shattered by Cornelius, who bolted out of the undergrowth, "vermin-like" and running toward Marlow, whining and cringing, trying to confide in him. Usually, Marlow says, he was so repulsed by the creature that a quick glance at him had always caused him to slink away. But that night, I let him capture me without even a show of resistance." Marlow says that he felt "doomed to be the recipient of confidences." Cornelius came immediately to the point. He wanted Marlow to talk to Jim and ask him for "some money in exchange for the girl." He had raised her, and she had been someone else's child. Now he was an old man, and he felt that a "suitable present" should be given to him when Jim decided to "go home." Marlow insisted that Jim was not preparing to leave; in fact, he said "the time will never come." Jim would never go home, Marlow emphasized. Cornelius nearly went into convulsions when he heard this statement. He cried out that he would be "trampled" by Jim until the day he died. He leaned his head against the fence and began uttering threats and blasphemies in Portuguese, mingled with groans and cries of sickness. It was, says Marlow, "an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance," and so he departed. Next morning, as Marlow was leaving, he watched the houses of Patusan disappearing behind him. The trees and the river and the people all disappeared, but their clear-cut, indelible, unchanging, unfaded images were stamped upon Marlow's memory. All of these memories, especially those of the people, are suspended now-flat replicas filed away forever, unchanging. All unchanging, that is, except Marlow's memory of Jim. Marlow can't be certain of his final image of Jim. "No magician's wand can immobilize him under my eyes," he says, because "he is one of us." Jim accompanied Marlow on the first stage of his journey back to "the real world," and after they landed on a bit of white beach, Jim noticed a fisherman signaling to him and he knew what must be done. Tomorrow, he told Marlow, he would meet with Rajah Allang and discuss the fisherman's problems concerning some turtle eggs, no doubt weighing the fisherman's claim against those of Rajah Allang's men. As Jim said, "the old rip can't get it into his head that . . ." and Marlow finished Jim's sentence: that you have changed all that." The two men shook hands then, and Marlow told Jim that he would be returning to England in a year or so, and Jim asked Marlow to "Tell them and then he stopped. "Tell them nothing," he said finally. Marlow clamored on board his schooner. The sun had set, and the western horizon was a blaze of gold and crimson. He saw two half-naked fishermen talking to their "white lord." As Marlow sailed away, the white figure of Jim, pasted against the stillness of the sea, became only a tiny white speck. And, suddenly, Marlow says, "I lost him. . . ."

These two chapters end Marlow's direct association with Lord Jim. The rest of Jim's story will be given to us by reports, documents, and letters concerning Jim, along with Jewel's and Tamb' Itam's reports of Jim. We hear again that Jewel refuses to believe that Jim is not "good enough" for the outside world, and Marlow's attempts to convince her of Jim's loyalty by his explanations "only succeeded in adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her forever in the dark." Marlow was ready to leave because he was now convinced that his earlier views of Jim were the correct ones -- that is, Jim had indeed proved to all concerned that "he was one of us," and now Marlow saw that all of his efforts on Jim's behalf and all of his trust in Jim's essential goodness had been fully justified; thus, Marlow was now content to leave Jim to his own destiny, knowing full well that they would never meet again -- that is, that he would never return to Patusan and that Jim would never leave Patusan. These chapters also present more of Cornelius, a villainous man whom Marlow completely misreads. Marlow considers Cornelius to be such a repulsive, spiteful, cringing, insidious insect that he, Cornelius, is not really dangerous. Marlow, in essence, dismisses this obnoxious creature as being "too insignificant to be dangerous." In terms of Cornelius' treachery with "Gentleman Brown" later, we realize that Marlow is wrong in his interpretation of Comelius' "insignificance."

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/96.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_15_part_3.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.epilogue.chapter 3

chapter 3

{"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section16/", "summary": "Ilyushechka's Funeral. The Speech at the Stone Ilyusha is dead, and Alyosha must now attend his funeral. He discusses Dmitri's case with Kolya and some of Ilyusha's other friends. He asks them earnestly always to hang on to the feeling of closeness, love, and companionship that they now share. The crowd of schoolboys cheers Alyosha adoringly.", "analysis": "Epilogue, Chapters 1-3 The epilogue of the novel discusses the redemption of the main characters. The first part of the novel's short epilogue completes the redemption of Katerina, which begins at the trial when she cries out to save Ivan. In bringing Ivan back to her house to recover from his illness, Katerina has finally become capable of seeking her own happiness in the world honestly and without choosing to suffer merely to point out the guilt of those who make her suffer. She and Dmitri are now fully capable of forgiving one another because they have both been purged of the sins that have plagued them for so long. Though Dmitri has not lost the desire to repent for his sins through suffering--a desire very different from Katerina's urge to suffer in order to draw attention to the sins of others--he is willing to accept the escape plan because he has come to the mature realization that there is more to goodness and faith than suffering. His spirit will be stronger if he can be with Grushenka. Grushenka's inability to forgive Katerina shows that her own redemption is incomplete. She is still proud, but, as Alyosha realizes when he scolds Dmitri for criticizing her, she is on the right path. The novel ends, paradoxically, on notes of warmth, hope, and optimism in the middle of a funeral. Alyosha's words to the schoolboys again emphasize his influence with children and the promise that influence holds for the future. As in Book X, Alyosha emerges as a natural teacher, capable of continuing Zosima's legacy of faith, love, and forgiveness throughout his life. The novel's last words are very hopeful: Kolya leads the schoolboys in chanting, \"Hurrah for Karamazov. The use of the family surname is significant here, since throughout the novel, characters have discussed \"the Karamazov quality\" and \"the Karamazov legacy\" as being defined by Fyodor Pavlovich's violence, uncontrolled passion, and lust. The final words of the novel imply that the Karamazov legacy has changed: it is no longer defined by Fyodor Pavlovich, but by Alyosha. The Karamazov family has been redeemed"}

Chapter III. Ilusha's Funeral. The Speech At The Stone He really was late. They had waited for him and had already decided to bear the pretty flower-decked little coffin to the church without him. It was the coffin of poor little Ilusha. He had died two days after Mitya was sentenced. At the gate of the house Alyosha was met by the shouts of the boys, Ilusha's schoolfellows. They had all been impatiently expecting him and were glad that he had come at last. There were about twelve of them, they all had their school-bags or satchels on their shoulders. "Father will cry, be with father," Ilusha had told them as he lay dying, and the boys remembered it. Kolya Krassotkin was the foremost of them. "How glad I am you've come, Karamazov!" he cried, holding out his hand to Alyosha. "It's awful here. It's really horrible to see it. Snegiryov is not drunk, we know for a fact he's had nothing to drink to-day, but he seems as if he were drunk ... I am always manly, but this is awful. Karamazov, if I am not keeping you, one question before you go in?" "What is it, Kolya?" said Alyosha. "Is your brother innocent or guilty? Was it he killed your father or was it the valet? As you say, so it will be. I haven't slept for the last four nights for thinking of it." "The valet killed him, my brother is innocent," answered Alyosha. "That's what I said," cried Smurov. "So he will perish an innocent victim!" exclaimed Kolya; "though he is ruined he is happy! I could envy him!" "What do you mean? How can you? Why?" cried Alyosha surprised. "Oh, if I, too, could sacrifice myself some day for truth!" said Kolya with enthusiasm. "But not in such a cause, not with such disgrace and such horror!" said Alyosha. "Of course ... I should like to die for all humanity, and as for disgrace, I don't care about that--our names may perish. I respect your brother!" "And so do I!" the boy, who had once declared that he knew who had founded Troy, cried suddenly and unexpectedly, and he blushed up to his ears like a peony as he had done on that occasion. Alyosha went into the room. Ilusha lay with his hands folded and his eyes closed in a blue coffin with a white frill round it. His thin face was hardly changed at all, and strange to say there was no smell of decay from the corpse. The expression of his face was serious and, as it were, thoughtful. His hands, crossed over his breast, looked particularly beautiful, as though chiseled in marble. There were flowers in his hands and the coffin, inside and out, was decked with flowers, which had been sent early in the morning by Lise Hohlakov. But there were flowers too from Katerina Ivanovna, and when Alyosha opened the door, the captain had a bunch in his trembling hands and was strewing them again over his dear boy. He scarcely glanced at Alyosha when he came in, and he would not look at any one, even at his crazy weeping wife, "mamma," who kept trying to stand on her crippled legs to get a nearer look at her dead boy. Nina had been pushed in her chair by the boys close up to the coffin. She sat with her head pressed to it and she too was no doubt quietly weeping. Snegiryov's face looked eager, yet bewildered and exasperated. There was something crazy about his gestures and the words that broke from him. "Old man, dear old man!" he exclaimed every minute, gazing at Ilusha. It was his habit to call Ilusha "old man," as a term of affection when he was alive. "Father, give me a flower, too; take that white one out of his hand and give it me," the crazy mother begged, whimpering. Either because the little white rose in Ilusha's hand had caught her fancy or that she wanted one from his hand to keep in memory of him, she moved restlessly, stretching out her hands for the flower. "I won't give it to any one, I won't give you anything," Snegiryov cried callously. "They are his flowers, not yours! Everything is his, nothing is yours!" "Father, give mother a flower!" said Nina, lifting her face wet with tears. "I won't give away anything and to her less than any one! She didn't love Ilusha. She took away his little cannon and he gave it to her," the captain broke into loud sobs at the thought of how Ilusha had given up his cannon to his mother. The poor, crazy creature was bathed in noiseless tears, hiding her face in her hands. The boys, seeing that the father would not leave the coffin and that it was time to carry it out, stood round it in a close circle and began to lift it up. "I don't want him to be buried in the churchyard," Snegiryov wailed suddenly; "I'll bury him by the stone, by our stone! Ilusha told me to. I won't let him be carried out!" He had been saying for the last three days that he would bury him by the stone, but Alyosha, Krassotkin, the landlady, her sister and all the boys interfered. "What an idea, bury him by an unholy stone, as though he had hanged himself!" the old landlady said sternly. "There in the churchyard the ground has been crossed. He'll be prayed for there. One can hear the singing in church and the deacon reads so plainly and verbally that it will reach him every time just as though it were read over his grave." At last the captain made a gesture of despair as though to say, "Take him where you will." The boys raised the coffin, but as they passed the mother, they stopped for a moment and lowered it that she might say good- by to Ilusha. But on seeing that precious little face, which for the last three days she had only looked at from a distance, she trembled all over and her gray head began twitching spasmodically over the coffin. "Mother, make the sign of the cross over him, give him your blessing, kiss him," Nina cried to her. But her head still twitched like an automaton and with a face contorted with bitter grief she began, without a word, beating her breast with her fist. They carried the coffin past her. Nina pressed her lips to her brother's for the last time as they bore the coffin by her. As Alyosha went out of the house he begged the landlady to look after those who were left behind, but she interrupted him before he had finished. "To be sure, I'll stay with them, we are Christians, too." The old woman wept as she said it. They had not far to carry the coffin to the church, not more than three hundred paces. It was a still, clear day, with a slight frost. The church bells were still ringing. Snegiryov ran fussing and distracted after the coffin, in his short old summer overcoat, with his head bare and his soft, old, wide-brimmed hat in his hand. He seemed in a state of bewildered anxiety. At one minute he stretched out his hand to support the head of the coffin and only hindered the bearers, at another he ran alongside and tried to find a place for himself there. A flower fell on the snow and he rushed to pick it up as though everything in the world depended on the loss of that flower. "And the crust of bread, we've forgotten the crust!" he cried suddenly in dismay. But the boys reminded him at once that he had taken the crust of bread already and that it was in his pocket. He instantly pulled it out and was reassured. "Ilusha told me to, Ilusha," he explained at once to Alyosha. "I was sitting by him one night and he suddenly told me: 'Father, when my grave is filled up crumble a piece of bread on it so that the sparrows may fly down, I shall hear and it will cheer me up not to be lying alone.' " "That's a good thing," said Alyosha, "we must often take some." "Every day, every day!" said the captain quickly, seeming cheered at the thought. They reached the church at last and set the coffin in the middle of it. The boys surrounded it and remained reverently standing so, all through the service. It was an old and rather poor church; many of the ikons were without settings; but such churches are the best for praying in. During the mass Snegiryov became somewhat calmer, though at times he had outbursts of the same unconscious and, as it were, incoherent anxiety. At one moment he went up to the coffin to set straight the cover or the wreath, when a candle fell out of the candlestick he rushed to replace it and was a fearful time fumbling over it, then he subsided and stood quietly by the coffin with a look of blank uneasiness and perplexity. After the Epistle he suddenly whispered to Alyosha, who was standing beside him, that the Epistle had not been read properly but did not explain what he meant. During the prayer, "Like the Cherubim," he joined in the singing but did not go on to the end. Falling on his knees, he pressed his forehead to the stone floor and lay so for a long while. At last came the funeral service itself and candles were distributed. The distracted father began fussing about again, but the touching and impressive funeral prayers moved and roused his soul. He seemed suddenly to shrink together and broke into rapid, short sobs, which he tried at first to smother, but at last he sobbed aloud. When they began taking leave of the dead and closing the coffin, he flung his arms about, as though he would not allow them to cover Ilusha, and began greedily and persistently kissing his dead boy on the lips. At last they succeeded in persuading him to come away from the step, but suddenly he impulsively stretched out his hand and snatched a few flowers from the coffin. He looked at them and a new idea seemed to dawn upon him, so that he apparently forgot his grief for a minute. Gradually he seemed to sink into brooding and did not resist when the coffin was lifted up and carried to the grave. It was an expensive one in the churchyard close to the church, Katerina Ivanovna had paid for it. After the customary rites the grave- diggers lowered the coffin. Snegiryov with his flowers in his hands bent down so low over the open grave that the boys caught hold of his coat in alarm and pulled him back. He did not seem to understand fully what was happening. When they began filling up the grave, he suddenly pointed anxiously at the falling earth and began trying to say something, but no one could make out what he meant, and he stopped suddenly. Then he was reminded that he must crumble the bread and he was awfully excited, snatched up the bread and began pulling it to pieces and flinging the morsels on the grave. "Come, fly down, birds, fly down, sparrows!" he muttered anxiously. One of the boys observed that it was awkward for him to crumble the bread with the flowers in his hands and suggested he should give them to some one to hold for a time. But he would not do this and seemed indeed suddenly alarmed for his flowers, as though they wanted to take them from him altogether. And after looking at the grave, and as it were, satisfying himself that everything had been done and the bread had been crumbled, he suddenly, to the surprise of every one, turned, quite composedly even, and made his way homewards. But his steps became more and more hurried, he almost ran. The boys and Alyosha kept up with him. "The flowers are for mamma, the flowers are for mamma! I was unkind to mamma," he began exclaiming suddenly. Some one called to him to put on his hat as it was cold. But he flung the hat in the snow as though he were angry and kept repeating, "I won't have the hat, I won't have the hat." Smurov picked it up and carried it after him. All the boys were crying, and Kolya and the boy who discovered about Troy most of all. Though Smurov, with the captain's hat in his hand, was crying bitterly too, he managed, as he ran, to snatch up a piece of red brick that lay on the snow of the path, to fling it at the flock of sparrows that was flying by. He missed them, of course, and went on crying as he ran. Half-way, Snegiryov suddenly stopped, stood still for half a minute, as though struck by something, and suddenly turning back to the church, ran towards the deserted grave. But the boys instantly overtook him and caught hold of him on all sides. Then he fell helpless on the snow as though he had been knocked down, and struggling, sobbing, and wailing, he began crying out, "Ilusha, old man, dear old man!" Alyosha and Kolya tried to make him get up, soothing and persuading him. "Captain, give over, a brave man must show fortitude," muttered Kolya. "You'll spoil the flowers," said Alyosha, "and mamma is expecting them, she is sitting crying because you would not give her any before. Ilusha's little bed is still there--" "Yes, yes, mamma!" Snegiryov suddenly recollected, "they'll take away the bed, they'll take it away," he added as though alarmed that they really would. He jumped up and ran homewards again. But it was not far off and they all arrived together. Snegiryov opened the door hurriedly and called to his wife with whom he had so cruelly quarreled just before: "Mamma, poor crippled darling, Ilusha has sent you these flowers," he cried, holding out to her a little bunch of flowers that had been frozen and broken while he was struggling in the snow. But at that instant he saw in the corner, by the little bed, Ilusha's little boots, which the landlady had put tidily side by side. Seeing the old, patched, rusty- looking, stiff boots he flung up his hands and rushed to them, fell on his knees, snatched up one boot and, pressing his lips to it, began kissing it greedily, crying, "Ilusha, old man, dear old man, where are your little feet?" "Where have you taken him away? Where have you taken him?" the lunatic cried in a heartrending voice. Nina, too, broke into sobs. Kolya ran out of the room, the boys followed him. At last Alyosha too went out. "Let them weep," he said to Kolya, "it's no use trying to comfort them just now. Let us wait a minute and then go back." "No, it's no use, it's awful," Kolya assented. "Do you know, Karamazov," he dropped his voice so that no one could hear them, "I feel dreadfully sad, and if it were only possible to bring him back, I'd give anything in the world to do it." "Ah, so would I," said Alyosha. "What do you think, Karamazov? Had we better come back here to-night? He'll be drunk, you know." "Perhaps he will. Let us come together, you and I, that will be enough, to spend an hour with them, with the mother and Nina. If we all come together we shall remind them of everything again," Alyosha suggested. "The landlady is laying the table for them now--there'll be a funeral dinner or something, the priest is coming; shall we go back to it, Karamazov?" "Of course," said Alyosha. "It's all so strange, Karamazov, such sorrow and then pancakes after it, it all seems so unnatural in our religion." "They are going to have salmon, too," the boy who had discovered about Troy observed in a loud voice. "I beg you most earnestly, Kartashov, not to interrupt again with your idiotic remarks, especially when one is not talking to you and doesn't care to know whether you exist or not!" Kolya snapped out irritably. The boy flushed crimson but did not dare to reply. Meantime they were strolling slowly along the path and suddenly Smurov exclaimed: "There's Ilusha's stone, under which they wanted to bury him." They all stood still by the big stone. Alyosha looked and the whole picture of what Snegiryov had described to him that day, how Ilusha, weeping and hugging his father, had cried, "Father, father, how he insulted you," rose at once before his imagination. A sudden impulse seemed to come into his soul. With a serious and earnest expression he looked from one to another of the bright, pleasant faces of Ilusha's schoolfellows, and suddenly said to them: "Boys, I should like to say one word to you, here at this place." The boys stood round him and at once bent attentive and expectant eyes upon him. "Boys, we shall soon part. I shall be for some time with my two brothers, of whom one is going to Siberia and the other is lying at death's door. But soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time, so we shall part. Let us make a compact here, at Ilusha's stone, that we will never forget Ilusha and one another. And whatever happens to us later in life, if we don't meet for twenty years afterwards, let us always remember how we buried the poor boy at whom we once threw stones, do you remember, by the bridge? and afterwards we all grew so fond of him. He was a fine boy, a kind-hearted, brave boy, he felt for his father's honor and resented the cruel insult to him and stood up for him. And so in the first place, we will remember him, boys, all our lives. And even if we are occupied with most important things, if we attain to honor or fall into great misfortune--still let us remember how good it was once here, when we were all together, united by a good and kind feeling which made us, for the time we were loving that poor boy, better perhaps than we are. My little doves--let me call you so, for you are very like them, those pretty blue birds, at this minute as I look at your good dear faces. My dear children, perhaps you won't understand what I am saying to you, because I often speak very unintelligibly, but you'll remember it all the same and will agree with my words some time. You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may sometime be the means of saving us. Perhaps we may even grow wicked later on, may be unable to refrain from a bad action, may laugh at men's tears and at those people who say as Kolya did just now, 'I want to suffer for all men,' and may even jeer spitefully at such people. But however bad we may become--which God forbid--yet, when we recall how we buried Ilusha, how we loved him in his last days, and how we have been talking like friends all together, at this stone, the cruelest and most mocking of us--if we do become so--will not dare to laugh inwardly at having been kind and good at this moment! What's more, perhaps, that one memory may keep him from great evil and he will reflect and say, 'Yes, I was good and brave and honest then!' Let him laugh to himself, that's no matter, a man often laughs at what's good and kind. That's only from thoughtlessness. But I assure you, boys, that as he laughs he will say at once in his heart, 'No, I do wrong to laugh, for that's not a thing to laugh at.' " "That will be so, I understand you, Karamazov!" cried Kolya, with flashing eyes. The boys were excited and they, too, wanted to say something, but they restrained themselves, looking with intentness and emotion at the speaker. "I say this in case we become bad," Alyosha went on, "but there's no reason why we should become bad, is there, boys? Let us be, first and above all, kind, then honest and then let us never forget each other! I say that again. I give you my word for my part that I'll never forget one of you. Every face looking at me now I shall remember even for thirty years. Just now Kolya said to Kartashov that we did not care to know whether he exists or not. But I cannot forget that Kartashov exists and that he is not blushing now as he did when he discovered the founders of Troy, but is looking at me with his jolly, kind, dear little eyes. Boys, my dear boys, let us all be generous and brave like Ilusha, clever, brave and generous like Kolya (though he will be ever so much cleverer when he is grown up), and let us all be as modest, as clever and sweet as Kartashov. But why am I talking about those two? You are all dear to me, boys, from this day forth, I have a place in my heart for you all, and I beg you to keep a place in your hearts for me! Well, and who has united us in this kind, good feeling which we shall remember and intend to remember all our lives? Who, if not Ilusha, the good boy, the dear boy, precious to us for ever! Let us never forget him. May his memory live for ever in our hearts from this time forth!" "Yes, yes, for ever, for ever!" the boys cried in their ringing voices, with softened faces. "Let us remember his face and his clothes and his poor little boots, his coffin and his unhappy, sinful father, and how boldly he stood up for him alone against the whole school." "We will remember, we will remember," cried the boys. "He was brave, he was good!" "Ah, how I loved him!" exclaimed Kolya. "Ah, children, ah, dear friends, don't be afraid of life! How good life is when one does something good and just!" "Yes, yes," the boys repeated enthusiastically. "Karamazov, we love you!" a voice, probably Kartashov's, cried impulsively. "We love you, we love you!" they all caught it up. There were tears in the eyes of many of them. "Hurrah for Karamazov!" Kolya shouted ecstatically. "And may the dead boy's memory live for ever!" Alyosha added again with feeling. "For ever!" the boys chimed in again. "Karamazov," cried Kolya, "can it be true what's taught us in religion, that we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each other again, all, Ilusha too?" "Certainly we shall all rise again, certainly we shall see each other and shall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened!" Alyosha answered, half laughing, half enthusiastic. "Ah, how splendid it will be!" broke from Kolya. "Well, now we will finish talking and go to his funeral dinner. Don't be put out at our eating pancakes--it's a very old custom and there's something nice in that!" laughed Alyosha. "Well, let us go! And now we go hand in hand." "And always so, all our lives hand in hand! Hurrah for Karamazov!" Kolya cried once more rapturously, and once more the boys took up his exclamation: "Hurrah for Karamazov!" THE END FOOTNOTES 1 In Russian, "silen." 2 A proverbial expression in Russia. 3 Grushenka. 4 i.e. setter dog. 5 Probably the public event was the Decabrist plot against the Tsar, of December 1825, in which the most distinguished men in Russia were concerned.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE. 6 When a monk's body is carried out from the cell to the church and from the church to the graveyard, the canticle "What earthly joy..." is sung. If the deceased was a priest as well as a monk the canticle "Our Helper and Defender" is sung instead. 7 i.e. a chime of bells. 8 Literally: "Did you get off with a long nose made at you?"--a proverbial expression in Russia for failure. 9 Gogol is meant.

Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section16/

Ilyushechka's Funeral. The Speech at the Stone Ilyusha is dead, and Alyosha must now attend his funeral. He discusses Dmitri's case with Kolya and some of Ilyusha's other friends. He asks them earnestly always to hang on to the feeling of closeness, love, and companionship that they now share. The crowd of schoolboys cheers Alyosha adoringly.

Epilogue, Chapters 1-3 The epilogue of the novel discusses the redemption of the main characters. The first part of the novel's short epilogue completes the redemption of Katerina, which begins at the trial when she cries out to save Ivan. In bringing Ivan back to her house to recover from his illness, Katerina has finally become capable of seeking her own happiness in the world honestly and without choosing to suffer merely to point out the guilt of those who make her suffer. She and Dmitri are now fully capable of forgiving one another because they have both been purged of the sins that have plagued them for so long. Though Dmitri has not lost the desire to repent for his sins through suffering--a desire very different from Katerina's urge to suffer in order to draw attention to the sins of others--he is willing to accept the escape plan because he has come to the mature realization that there is more to goodness and faith than suffering. His spirit will be stronger if he can be with Grushenka. Grushenka's inability to forgive Katerina shows that her own redemption is incomplete. She is still proud, but, as Alyosha realizes when he scolds Dmitri for criticizing her, she is on the right path. The novel ends, paradoxically, on notes of warmth, hope, and optimism in the middle of a funeral. Alyosha's words to the schoolboys again emphasize his influence with children and the promise that influence holds for the future. As in Book X, Alyosha emerges as a natural teacher, capable of continuing Zosima's legacy of faith, love, and forgiveness throughout his life. The novel's last words are very hopeful: Kolya leads the schoolboys in chanting, "Hurrah for Karamazov. The use of the family surname is significant here, since throughout the novel, characters have discussed "the Karamazov quality" and "the Karamazov legacy" as being defined by Fyodor Pavlovich's violence, uncontrolled passion, and lust. The final words of the novel imply that the Karamazov legacy has changed: it is no longer defined by Fyodor Pavlovich, but by Alyosha. The Karamazov family has been redeemed

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/chapters_42_to_44.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_10_part_0.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapters 42-44

chapters 42-44

{"name": "Chapters 42-44", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151046/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary-and-analysis/phase-the-fifth-the-woman-pays-chapters-4244", "summary": "To ward off the men who might find her attractive, Tess puts on a handkerchief as though she has a toothache and clips her eyebrows. She arrives at Flintcomb-Ash to find Marian already at work. Marian calls the farm a \"starve-acre place,\" not like the lush dairy at Talbothays. The work is digging rutabagas, harvesting corn, and making the thatch for roofs. It is indeed difficult work for men and women alike. Tess agrees to work until April 6, also know as \"Old Lady-Day.\" The two friends work in the rain and snow at the farm. Marian writes to Izz Huett, who later comes to Flintcomb-Ash for work as well. One day, when it is too cold to dig swedes, the ladies are sent by the farmer to make roof thatching in a nearby farm. Also working there are Dark Car and the Queen of Diamonds, both former employees of the d'Urbervilles at The Slopes. These \"two Amazionian sisters\" do not remember Tess from their previous encounter. Tess meets her employer, the farmer, the same man who had insulted her in town in Chapter 33 and who appears again in a second chance encounter in Chapter 41. He is mean and vengeful toward Tess, telling her, \"But we'll see which is master here.\" He urges the girls to work harder, and Tess stays behind to finish her work with Izz and Marian. Tess is overcome by exhaustion and faints. As she recovers on a haystack, she overhears Izz tell the story of Angel asking her to accompany him to Brazil. Tess decides to contact Angel's parents to ask about Angel. The next Sunday, Tess sets out for Emminster, a 30-mile roundtrip walk for her. A year has passed since her marriage to Angel, and she is determined to make her plight known to her in-laws and to see if they have heard from Angel. She removes her walking boots, stashes them in a nearby bush and puts on her dress boots to impress her in-laws. Angel's brothers discover Tess' boots, not knowing she is nearby, and takes them back to the Clare's vicarage. Tess loses her nerve to see the Clares and returns to Flintcomb-Ash dejected and depressed. On the way back to the farm, Tess encounters Alec d'Urberville, now an evangelical \"fire and brimstone\" street preacher.", "analysis": "The contrast between Flintcomb-Ash and Talbothays is clear. Flintcomb-Ash is described as \"sublime in its dreariness.\" Conversely, Talbothays is portrayed as ideal and beautiful, \"the verdant plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom.\" Flintcomb has Farmer Groby, a mean-spirited man who demands that his workers work even harder. Mr. Crick gets results from his workers with humor and aplomb, even regaling them with his humorous tales, as evidenced by the William Dewy tale from Chapter 17 and the Jack Dollop tales from Chapters 21 and 29. The indifference that Angel's brothers show towards Tess is not altogether surprising based on what we already know of them. However, it is Tess' first encounter with her brothers-in-law, and she hears for herself their contempt for her marriage to Angel and for Angel himself -- \"His ill-considered marriage seems to have completed that estrangement from me which was begun by his extraordinary opinions.\" The brothers, both ministers themselves, have little regard for those in desperate situations, reserving their charity to those they deem worthy to receive it. Mercy Chant, whose name implies sympathy and kindness, adds her own insensitive opinion when Tess' boots are discovered in some bushes, viewing them as belonging to \"ome impostor who wished to come into town barefoot, perhaps, and so excite our sympathies.\" Thus, all three -- Mercy, Cuthbert, and Felix -- display a lack of compassion that Tess could use at that moment. Hardy further emphasizes the uncharitable nature of these three in his descriptions: Hardy describes the brothers as \"starched and ironed\"; he describes Mercy as \"a trifle guindee and prudish.\" The word guindee in French means \"stiff\" or \"formal.\" This episode recalls earlier episodes in which action or inaction rest on a single turn of fate. By encountering her brothers-in-law first, Tess is exposed to unkind and uncharitable notions about herself and her marriage to Angel. Hardy says \"it was somewhat unfortunate that she had encountered the sons and not the father, who, despite his narrowness, was far less starched and ironed than they, and had to the full the gift of charity.\" If Tess had met her father and mother-in-law first, the outcome might have been different. In these chapters, Tess also is reunited with Alec d'Urberville, who is in the guise of a street corner minister. Alec claims to have repented of his former sins, recanting his past excesses, taking up the teachings of Reverend Clare and the lessons of St. Paul. Nevertheless, as is made clear in the following chapters, Alec is a hollow cleric. Even though he himself condemns the faithless in his sermons, he will leave his ministry to pursue Tess. Glossary mommet a term of abuse or contempt. \"dust and ashes\" Job 42:6. Cybele the Many-breasted Phrygian fertility goddess who, in the form of a mother with many breasts, symbolizes nature. \"clipsed or colled\" embraced. swede-hacking a swede is a Swedish turnip, or rutabaga. Old Lady Day April 6, date used to set the beginning or ending of employment. copy-holders people who hold land by copyhold. wroppers wrappers. \"early Italian conception of the two Marys\"` because of their weepings and pensive looks, they resemble painted representations from the Renaissance of Mary, the mother of Christ, and Mary Magdalen after the death of Jesus. \"like the moves of a chess player\" death is sometimes represented as a chess player. reed-drawing preparing straw to be used as thatching material. \"white pillar of a cloud\" from Exodus 13:21. percipience a perceiving, esp. keenly or readily. premonitory giving previous warning or notice. thirtover thwart-over, meaning perverse. guindee stiff, stilted, formal . prudish like or characteristic of a prude; too modest or proper. impressibility the state of being impressed or impressionable. contravene to go against; oppose; conflict with; violate; to disagree with in argument; contradict. habiliments clothing; dress; attire. supervened came or happened as something extraneous or unexpected; to take place; ensued. \"Publicans and Sinners . . . Scribes and Pharisees\" they were biased in favor of those who had fallen. publican in Britain, any owner or proprietor of a pub. Antinomian a believer in the Christian doctrine that faith alone, not obedience to the moral law, is necessary for salvation. \"O foolish Galatians . . . \" from Galatians 3:1."}

It was now broad day, and she started again, emerging cautiously upon the highway. But there was no need for caution; not a soul was at hand, and Tess went onward with fortitude, her recollection of the birds' silent endurance of their night of agony impressing upon her the relativity of sorrows and the tolerable nature of her own, if she could once rise high enough to despise opinion. But that she could not do so long as it was held by Clare. She reached Chalk-Newton, and breakfasted at an inn, where several young men were troublesomely complimentary to her good looks. Somehow she felt hopeful, for was it not possible that her husband also might say these same things to her even yet? She was bound to take care of herself on the chance of it, and keep off these casual lovers. To this end Tess resolved to run no further risks from her appearance. As soon as she got out of the village she entered a thicket and took from her basket one of the oldest field-gowns, which she had never put on even at the dairy--never since she had worked among the stubble at Marlott. She also, by a felicitous thought, took a handkerchief from her bundle and tied it round her face under her bonnet, covering her chin and half her cheeks and temples, as if she were suffering from toothache. Then with her little scissors, by the aid of a pocket looking-glass, she mercilessly nipped her eyebrows off, and thus insured against aggressive admiration, she went on her uneven way. "What a mommet of a maid!" said the next man who met her to a companion. Tears came into her eyes for very pity of herself as she heard him. "But I don't care!" she said. "O no--I don't care! I'll always be ugly now, because Angel is not here, and I have nobody to take care of me. My husband that was is gone away, and never will love me any more; but I love him just the same, and hate all other men, and like to make 'em think scornfully of me!" Thus Tess walks on; a figure which is part of the landscape; a fieldwoman pure and simple, in winter guise; a gray serge cape, a red woollen cravat, a stuff skirt covered by a whitey-brown rough wrapper, and buff-leather gloves. Every thread of that old attire has become faded and thin under the stroke of raindrops, the burn of sunbeams, and the stress of winds. There is no sign of young passion in her now-- The maiden's mouth is cold . . . Fold over simple fold Binding her head. Inside this exterior, over which the eye might have roved as over a thing scarcely percipient, almost inorganic, there was the record of a pulsing life which had learnt too well, for its years, of the dust and ashes of things, of the cruelty of lust and the fragility of love. Next day the weather was bad, but she trudged on, the honesty, directness, and impartiality of elemental enmity disconcerting her but little. Her object being a winter's occupation and a winter's home, there was no time to lose. Her experience of short hirings had been such that she was determined to accept no more. Thus she went forward from farm to farm in the direction of the place whence Marian had written to her, which she determined to make use of as a last shift only, its rumoured stringencies being the reverse of tempting. First she inquired for the lighter kinds of employment, and, as acceptance in any variety of these grew hopeless, applied next for the less light, till, beginning with the dairy and poultry tendance that she liked best, she ended with the heavy and course pursuits which she liked least--work on arable land: work of such roughness, indeed, as she would never have deliberately voluteered for. Towards the second evening she reached the irregular chalk table-land or plateau, bosomed with semi-globular tumuli--as if Cybele the Many-breasted were supinely extended there--which stretched between the valley of her birth and the valley of her love. Here the air was dry and cold, and the long cart-roads were blown white and dusty within a few hours after rain. There were few trees, or none, those that would have grown in the hedges being mercilessly plashed down with the quickset by the tenant-farmers, the natural enemies of tree, bush, and brake. In the middle distance ahead of her she could see the summits of Bulbarrow and of Nettlecombe Tout, and they seemed friendly. They had a low and unassuming aspect from this upland, though as approached on the other side from Blackmoor in her childhood they were as lofty bastions against the sky. Southerly, at many miles' distance, and over the hills and ridges coastward, she could discern a surface like polished steel: it was the English Channel at a point far out towards France. Before her, in a slight depression, were the remains of a village. She had, in fact, reached Flintcomb-Ash, the place of Marian's sojourn. There seemed to be no help for it; hither she was doomed to come. The stubborn soil around her showed plainly enough that the kind of labour in demand here was of the roughest kind; but it was time to rest from searching, and she resolved to stay, particularly as it began to rain. At the entrance to the village was a cottage whose gable jutted into the road, and before applying for a lodging she stood under its shelter, and watched the evening close in. "Who would think I was Mrs Angel Clare!" she said. The wall felt warm to her back and shoulders, and she found that immediately within the gable was the cottage fireplace, the heat of which came through the bricks. She warmed her hands upon them, and also put her cheek--red and moist with the drizzle--against their comforting surface. The wall seemed to be the only friend she had. She had so little wish to leave it that she could have stayed there all night. Tess could hear the occupants of the cottage--gathered together after their day's labour--talking to each other within, and the rattle of their supper-plates was also audible. But in the village-street she had seen no soul as yet. The solitude was at last broken by the approach of one feminine figure, who, though the evening was cold, wore the print gown and the tilt-bonnet of summer time. Tess instinctively thought it might be Marian, and when she came near enough to be distinguishable in the gloom, surely enough it was she. Marian was even stouter and redder in the face than formerly, and decidedly shabbier in attire. At any previous period of her existence Tess would hardly have cared to renew the acquaintance in such conditions; but her loneliness was excessive, and she responded readily to Marian's greeting. Marian was quite respectful in her inquiries, but seemed much moved by the fact that Tess should still continue in no better condition than at first; though she had dimly heard of the separation. "Tess--Mrs Clare--the dear wife of dear he! And is it really so bad as this, my child? Why is your cwomely face tied up in such a way? Anybody been beating 'ee? Not HE?" "No, no, no! I merely did it not to be clipsed or colled, Marian." She pulled off in disgust a bandage which could suggest such wild thoughts. "And you've got no collar on" (Tess had been accustomed to wear a little white collar at the dairy). "I know it, Marian." "You've lost it travelling." "I've not lost it. The truth is, I don't care anything about my looks; and so I didn't put it on." "And you don't wear your wedding-ring?" "Yes, I do; but not in public. I wear it round my neck on a ribbon. I don't wish people to think who I am by marriage, or that I am married at all; it would be so awkward while I lead my present life." Marian paused. "But you BE a gentleman's wife; and it seems hardly fair that you should live like this!" "O yes it is, quite fair; though I am very unhappy." "Well, well. HE married you--and you can be unhappy!" "Wives are unhappy sometimes; from no fault of their husbands--from their own." "You've no faults, deary; that I'm sure of. And he's none. So it must be something outside ye both." "Marian, dear Marian, will you do me a good turn without asking questions? My husband has gone abroad, and somehow I have overrun my allowance, so that I have to fall back upon my old work for a time. Do not call me Mrs Clare, but Tess, as before. Do they want a hand here?" "O yes; they'll take one always, because few care to come. 'Tis a starve-acre place. Corn and swedes are all they grow. Though I be here myself, I feel 'tis a pity for such as you to come." "But you used to be as good a dairywoman as I." "Yes; but I've got out o' that since I took to drink. Lord, that's the only comfort I've got now! If you engage, you'll be set swede-hacking. That's what I be doing; but you won't like it." "O--anything! Will you speak for me?" "You will do better by speaking for yourself." "Very well. Now, Marian, remember--nothing about HIM if I get the place. I don't wish to bring his name down to the dirt." Marian, who was really a trustworthy girl though of coarser grain than Tess, promised anything she asked. "This is pay-night," she said, "and if you were to come with me you would know at once. I be real sorry that you are not happy; but 'tis because he's away, I know. You couldn't be unhappy if he were here, even if he gie'd ye no money--even if he used you like a drudge." "That's true; I could not!" They walked on together and soon reached the farmhouse, which was almost sublime in its dreariness. There was not a tree within sight; there was not, at this season, a green pasture--nothing but fallow and turnips everywhere, in large fields divided by hedges plashed to unrelieved levels. Tess waited outside the door of the farmhouse till the group of workfolk had received their wages, and then Marian introduced her. The farmer himself, it appeared, was not at home, but his wife, who represented him this evening, made no objection to hiring Tess, on her agreeing to remain till Old Lady-Day. Female field-labour was seldom offered now, and its cheapness made it profitable for tasks which women could perform as readily as men. Having signed the agreement, there was nothing more for Tess to do at present than to get a lodging, and she found one in the house at whose gable-wall she had warmed herself. It was a poor subsistence that she had ensured, but it would afford a shelter for the winter at any rate. That night she wrote to inform her parents of her new address, in case a letter should arrive at Marlott from her husband. But she did not tell them of the sorriness of her situation: it might have brought reproach upon him. There was no exaggeration in Marian's definition of Flintcomb-Ash farm as a starve-acre place. The single fat thing on the soil was Marian herself; and she was an importation. Of the three classes of village, the village cared for by its lord, the village cared for by itself, and the village uncared for either by itself or by its lord (in other words, the village of a resident squires's tenantry, the village of free- or copy-holders, and the absentee-owner's village, farmed with the land) this place, Flintcomb-Ash, was the third. But Tess set to work. Patience, that blending of moral courage with physical timidity, was now no longer a minor feature in Mrs Angel Clare; and it sustained her. The swede-field in which she and her companion were set hacking was a stretch of a hundred odd acres in one patch, on the highest ground of the farm, rising above stony lanchets or lynchets--the outcrop of siliceous veins in the chalk formation, composed of myriads of loose white flints in bulbous, cusped, and phallic shapes. The upper half of each turnip had been eaten off by the live-stock, and it was the business of the two women to grub up the lower or earthy half of the root with a hooked fork called a hacker, that it might be eaten also. Every leaf of the vegetable having already been consumed, the whole field was in colour a desolate drab; it was a complexion without features, as if a face, from chin to brow, should be only an expanse of skin. The sky wore, in another colour, the same likeness; a white vacuity of countenance with the lineaments gone. So these two upper and nether visages confronted each other all day long, the white face looking down on the brown face, and the brown face looking up at the white face, without anything standing between them but the two girls crawling over the surface of the former like flies. Nobody came near them, and their movements showed a mechanical regularity; their forms standing enshrouded in Hessian "wroppers"-- sleeved brown pinafores, tied behind to the bottom, to keep their gowns from blowing about--scant skirts revealing boots that reached high up the ankles, and yellow sheepskin gloves with gauntlets. The pensive character which the curtained hood lent to their bent heads would have reminded the observer of some early Italian conception of the two Marys. They worked on hour after hour, unconscious of the forlorn aspect they bore in the landscape, not thinking of the justice or injustice of their lot. Even in such a position as theirs it was possible to exist in a dream. In the afternoon the rain came on again, and Marian said that they need not work any more. But if they did not work they would not be paid; so they worked on. It was so high a situation, this field, that the rain had no occasion to fall, but raced along horizontally upon the yelling wind, sticking into them like glass splinters till they were wet through. Tess had not known till now what was really meant by that. There are degrees of dampness, and a very little is called being wet through in common talk. But to stand working slowly in a field, and feel the creep of rain-water, first in legs and shoulders, then on hips and head, then at back, front, and sides, and yet to work on till the leaden light diminishes and marks that the sun is down, demands a distinct modicum of stoicism, even of valour. Yet they did not feel the wetness so much as might be supposed. They were both young, and they were talking of the time when they lived and loved together at Talbothays Dairy, that happy green tract of land where summer had been liberal in her gifts; in substance to all, emotionally to these. Tess would fain not have conversed with Marian of the man who was legally, if not actually, her husband; but the irresistible fascination of the subject betrayed her into reciprocating Marian's remarks. And thus, as has been said, though the damp curtains of their bonnets flapped smartly into their faces, and their wrappers clung about them to wearisomeness, they lived all this afternoon in memories of green, sunny, romantic Talbothays. "You can see a gleam of a hill within a few miles o' Froom Valley from here when 'tis fine," said Marian. "Ah! Can you?" said Tess, awake to the new value of this locality. So the two forces were at work here as everywhere, the inherent will to enjoy, and the circumstantial will against enjoyment. Marian's will had a method of assisting itself by taking from her pocket as the afternoon wore on a pint bottle corked with white rag, from which she invited Tess to drink. Tess's unassisted power of dreaming, however, being enough for her sublimation at present, she declined except the merest sip, and then Marian took a pull from the spirits. "I've got used to it," she said, "and can't leave it off now. 'Tis my only comfort--You see I lost him: you didn't; and you can do without it perhaps." Tess thought her loss as great as Marian's, but upheld by the dignity of being Angel's wife, in the letter at least, she accepted Marian's differentiation. Amid this scene Tess slaved in the morning frosts and in the afternoon rains. When it was not swede-grubbing it was swede-trimming, in which process they sliced off the earth and the fibres with a bill-hook before storing the roots for future use. At this occupation they could shelter themselves by a thatched hurdle if it rained; but if it was frosty even their thick leather gloves could not prevent the frozen masses they handled from biting their fingers. Still Tess hoped. She had a conviction that sooner or later the magnanimity which she persisted in reckoning as a chief ingredient of Clare's character would lead him to rejoin her. Marian, primed to a humorous mood, would discover the queer-shaped flints aforesaid, and shriek with laughter, Tess remaining severely obtuse. They often looked across the country to where the Var or Froom was know to stretch, even though they might not be able to see it; and, fixing their eyes on the cloaking gray mist, imagined the old times they had spent out there. "Ah," said Marian, "how I should like another or two of our old set to come here! Then we could bring up Talbothays every day here afield, and talk of he, and of what nice times we had there, and o' the old things we used to know, and make it all come back a'most, in seeming!" Marian's eyes softened, and her voice grew vague as the visions returned. "I'll write to Izz Huett," she said. "She's biding at home doing nothing now, I know, and I'll tell her we be here, and ask her to come; and perhaps Retty is well enough now." Tess had nothing to say against the proposal, and the next she heard of this plan for importing old Talbothays' joys was two or three days later, when Marian informed her that Izz had replied to her inquiry, and had promised to come if she could. There had not been such a winter for years. It came on in stealthy and measured glides, like the moves of a chess-player. One morning the few lonely trees and the thorns of the hedgerows appeared as if they had put off a vegetable for an animal integument. Every twig was covered with a white nap as of fur grown from the rind during the night, giving it four times its usual stoutness; the whole bush or tree forming a staring sketch in white lines on the mournful gray of the sky and horizon. Cobwebs revealed their presence on sheds and walls where none had ever been observed till brought out into visibility by the crystallizing atmosphere, hanging like loops of white worsted from salient points of the out-houses, posts, and gates. After this season of congealed dampness came a spell of dry frost, when strange birds from behind the North Pole began to arrive silently on the upland of Flintcomb-Ash; gaunt spectral creatures with tragical eyes--eyes which had witnessed scenes of cataclysmal horror in inaccessible polar regions of a magnitude such as no human being had ever conceived, in curdling temperatures that no man could endure; which had beheld the crash of icebergs and the slide of snow-hills by the shooting light of the Aurora; been half blinded by the whirl of colossal storms and terraqueous distortions; and retained the expression of feature that such scenes had engendered. These nameless birds came quite near to Tess and Marian, but of all they had seen which humanity would never see, they brought no account. The traveller's ambition to tell was not theirs, and, with dumb impassivity, they dismissed experiences which they did not value for the immediate incidents of this homely upland--the trivial movements of the two girls in disturbing the clods with their hackers so as to uncover something or other that these visitants relished as food. Then one day a peculiar quality invaded the air of this open country. There came a moisture which was not of rain, and a cold which was not of frost. It chilled the eyeballs of the twain, made their brows ache, penetrated to their skeletons, affecting the surface of the body less than its core. They knew that it meant snow, and in the night the snow came. Tess, who continued to live at the cottage with the warm gable that cheered any lonely pedestrian who paused beside it, awoke in the night, and heard above the thatch noises which seemed to signify that the roof had turned itself into a gymnasium of all the winds. When she lit her lamp to get up in the morning she found that the snow had blown through a chink in the casement, forming a white cone of the finest powder against the inside, and had also come down the chimney, so that it lay sole-deep upon the floor, on which her shoes left tracks when she moved about. Without, the storm drove so fast as to create a snow-mist in the kitchen; but as yet it was too dark out-of-doors to see anything. Tess knew that it was impossible to go on with the swedes; and by the time she had finished breakfast beside the solitary little lamp, Marian arrived to tell her that they were to join the rest of the women at reed-drawing in the barn till the weather changed. As soon, therefore, as the uniform cloak of darkness without began to turn to a disordered medley of grays, they blew out the lamp, wrapped themselves up in their thickest pinners, tied their woollen cravats round their necks and across their chests, and started for the barn. The snow had followed the birds from the polar basin as a white pillar of a cloud, and individual flakes could not be seen. The blast smelt of icebergs, arctic seas, whales, and white bears, carrying the snow so that it licked the land but did not deepen on it. They trudged onwards with slanted bodies through the flossy fields, keeping as well as they could in the shelter of hedges, which, however, acted as strainers rather than screens. The air, afflicted to pallor with the hoary multitudes that infested it, twisted and spun them eccentrically, suggesting an achromatic chaos of things. But both the young women were fairly cheerful; such weather on a dry upland is not in itself dispiriting. "Ha-ha! the cunning northern birds knew this was coming," said Marian. "Depend upon't, they keep just in front o't all the way from the North Star. Your husband, my dear, is, I make no doubt, having scorching weather all this time. Lord, if he could only see his pretty wife now! Not that this weather hurts your beauty at all--in fact, it rather does it good." "You mustn't talk about him to me, Marian," said Tess severely. "Well, but--surely you care for'n! Do you?" Instead of answering, Tess, with tears in her eyes, impulsively faced in the direction in which she imagined South America to lie, and, putting up her lips, blew out a passionate kiss upon the snowy wind. "Well, well, I know you do. But 'pon my body, it is a rum life for a married couple! There--I won't say another word! Well, as for the weather, it won't hurt us in the wheat-barn; but reed-drawing is fearful hard work--worse than swede-hacking. I can stand it because I'm stout; but you be slimmer than I. I can't think why maister should have set 'ee at it." They reached the wheat-barn and entered it. One end of the long structure was full of corn; the middle was where the reed-drawing was carried on, and there had already been placed in the reed-press the evening before as many sheaves of wheat as would be sufficient for the women to draw from during the day. "Why, here's Izz!" said Marian. Izz it was, and she came forward. She had walked all the way from her mother's home on the previous afternoon, and, not deeming the distance so great, had been belated, arriving, however, just before the snow began, and sleeping at the alehouse. The farmer had agreed with her mother at market to take her on if she came to-day, and she had been afraid to disappoint him by delay. In addition to Tess, Marian, and Izz, there were two women from a neighbouring village; two Amazonian sisters, whom Tess with a start remembered as Dark Car, the Queen of Spades, and her junior, the Queen of Diamonds--those who had tried to fight with her in the midnight quarrel at Trantridge. They showed no recognition of her, and possibly had none, for they had been under the influence of liquor on that occasion, and were only temporary sojourners there as here. They did all kinds of men's work by preference, including well-sinking, hedging, ditching, and excavating, without any sense of fatigue. Noted reed-drawers were they too, and looked round upon the other three with some superciliousness. Putting on their gloves, all set to work in a row in front of the press, an erection formed of two posts connected by a cross-beam, under which the sheaves to be drawn from were laid ears outward, the beam being pegged down by pins in the uprights, and lowered as the sheaves diminished. The day hardened in colour, the light coming in at the barndoors upwards from the snow instead of downwards from the sky. The girls pulled handful after handful from the press; but by reason of the presence of the strange women, who were recounting scandals, Marian and Izz could not at first talk of old times as they wished to do. Presently they heard the muffled tread of a horse, and the farmer rode up to the barndoor. When he had dismounted he came close to Tess, and remained looking musingly at the side of her face. She had not turned at first, but his fixed attitude led her to look round, when she perceived that her employer was the native of Trantridge from whom she had taken flight on the high-road because of his allusion to her history. He waited till she had carried the drawn bundles to the pile outside, when he said, "So you be the young woman who took my civility in such ill part? Be drowned if I didn't think you might be as soon as I heard of your being hired! Well, you thought you had got the better of me the first time at the inn with your fancy-man, and the second time on the road, when you bolted; but now I think I've got the better you." He concluded with a hard laugh. Tess, between the Amazons and the farmer, like a bird caught in a clap-net, returned no answer, continuing to pull the straw. She could read character sufficiently well to know by this time that she had nothing to fear from her employer's gallantry; it was rather the tyranny induced by his mortification at Clare's treatment of him. Upon the whole she preferred that sentiment in man and felt brave enough to endure it. "You thought I was in love with 'ee I suppose? Some women are such fools, to take every look as serious earnest. But there's nothing like a winter afield for taking that nonsense out o' young wenches' heads; and you've signed and agreed till Lady-Day. Now, are you going to beg my pardon?" "I think you ought to beg mine." "Very well--as you like. But we'll see which is master here. Be they all the sheaves you've done to-day?" "Yes, sir." "'Tis a very poor show. Just see what they've done over there" (pointing to the two stalwart women). "The rest, too, have done better than you." "They've all practised it before, and I have not. And I thought it made no difference to you as it is task work, and we are only paid for what we do." "Oh, but it does. I want the barn cleared." "I am going to work all the afternoon instead of leaving at two as the others will do." He looked sullenly at her and went away. Tess felt that she could not have come to a much worse place; but anything was better than gallantry. When two o'clock arrived the professional reed-drawers tossed off the last half-pint in their flagon, put down their hooks, tied their last sheaves, and went away. Marian and Izz would have done likewise, but on hearing that Tess meant to stay, to make up by longer hours for her lack of skill, they would not leave her. Looking out at the snow, which still fell, Marian exclaimed, "Now, we've got it all to ourselves." And so at last the conversation turned to their old experiences at the dairy; and, of course, the incidents of their affection for Angel Clare. "Izz and Marian," said Mrs Angel Clare, with a dignity which was extremely touching, seeing how very little of a wife she was: "I can't join in talk with you now, as I used to do, about Mr Clare; you will see that I cannot; because, although he is gone away from me for the present, he is my husband." Izz was by nature the sauciest and most caustic of all the four girls who had loved Clare. "He was a very splendid lover, no doubt," she said; "but I don't think he is a too fond husband to go away from you so soon." "He had to go--he was obliged to go, to see about the land over there!" pleaded Tess. "He might have tided 'ee over the winter." "Ah--that's owing to an accident--a misunderstanding; and we won't argue it," Tess answered, with tearfulness in her words. "Perhaps there's a good deal to be said for him! He did not go away, like some husbands, without telling me; and I can always find out where he is." After this they continued for some long time in a reverie, as they went on seizing the ears of corn, drawing out the straw, gathering it under their arms, and cutting off the ears with their bill-hooks, nothing sounding in the barn but the swish of the straw and the crunch of the hook. Then Tess suddenly flagged, and sank down upon the heap of wheat-ears at her feet. "I knew you wouldn't be able to stand it!" cried Marian. "It wants harder flesh than yours for this work." Just then the farmer entered. "Oh, that's how you get on when I am away," he said to her. "But it is my own loss," she pleaded. "Not yours." "I want it finished," he said doggedly, as he crossed the barn and went out at the other door. "Don't 'ee mind him, there's a dear," said Marian. "I've worked here before. Now you go and lie down there, and Izz and I will make up your number." "I don't like to let you do that. I'm taller than you, too." However, she was so overcome that she consented to lie down awhile, and reclined on a heap of pull-tails--the refuse after the straight straw had been drawn--thrown up at the further side of the barn. Her succumbing had been as largely owning to agitation at the re-opening the subject of her separation from her husband as to the hard work. She lay in a state of percipience without volition, and the rustle of the straw and the cutting of the ears by the others had the weight of bodily touches. She could hear from her corner, in addition to these noises, the murmur of their voices. She felt certain that they were continuing the subject already broached, but their voices were so low that she could not catch the words. At last Tess grew more and more anxious to know what they were saying, and, persuading herself that she felt better, she got up and resumed work. Then Izz Huett broke down. She had walked more than a dozen miles the previous evening, had gone to bed at midnight, and had risen again at five o'clock. Marian alone, thanks to her bottle of liquor and her stoutness of build, stood the strain upon back and arms without suffering. Tess urged Izz to leave off, agreeing, as she felt better, to finish the day without her, and make equal division of the number of sheaves. Izz accepted the offer gratefully, and disappeared through the great door into the snowy track to her lodging. Marian, as was the case every afternoon at this time on account of the bottle, began to feel in a romantic vein. "I should not have thought it of him--never!" she said in a dreamy tone. "And I loved him so! I didn't mind his having YOU. But this about Izz is too bad!" Tess, in her start at the words, narrowly missed cutting off a finger with the bill-hook. "Is it about my husband?" she stammered. "Well, yes. Izz said, 'Don't 'ee tell her'; but I am sure I can't help it! It was what he wanted Izz to do. He wanted her to go off to Brazil with him." Tess's face faded as white as the scene without, and its curves straightened. "And did Izz refuse to go?" she asked. "I don't know. Anyhow he changed his mind." "Pooh--then he didn't mean it! 'Twas just a man's jest!" "Yes he did; for he drove her a good-ways towards the station." "He didn't take her!" They pulled on in silence till Tess, without any premonitory symptoms, burst out crying. "There!" said Marian. "Now I wish I hadn't told 'ee!" "No. It is a very good thing that you have done! I have been living on in a thirtover, lackaday way, and have not seen what it may lead to! I ought to have sent him a letter oftener. He said I could not go to him, but he didn't say I was not to write as often as I liked. I won't dally like this any longer! I have been very wrong and neglectful in leaving everything to be done by him!" The dim light in the barn grew dimmer, and they could see to work no longer. When Tess had reached home that evening, and had entered into the privacy of her little white-washed chamber, she began impetuously writing a letter to Clare. But falling into doubt, she could not finish it. Afterwards she took the ring from the ribbon on which she wore it next her heart, and retained it on her finger all night, as if to fortify herself in the sensation that she was really the wife of this elusive lover of hers, who could propose that Izz should go with him abroad, so shortly after he had left her. Knowing that, how could she write entreaties to him, or show that she cared for him any more? By the disclosure in the barn her thoughts were led anew in the direction which they had taken more than once of late--to the distant Emminster Vicarage. It was through her husband's parents that she had been charged to send a letter to Clare if she desired; and to write to them direct if in difficulty. But that sense of her having morally no claim upon him had always led Tess to suspend her impulse to send these notes; and to the family at the Vicarage, therefore, as to her own parents since her marriage, she was virtually non-existent. This self-effacement in both directions had been quite in consonance with her independent character of desiring nothing by way of favour or pity to which she was not entitled on a fair consideration of her deserts. She had set herself to stand or fall by her qualities, and to waive such merely technical claims upon a strange family as had been established for her by the flimsy fact of a member of that family, in a season of impulse, writing his name in a church-book beside hers. But now that she was stung to a fever by Izz's tale, there was a limit to her powers of renunciation. Why had her husband not written to her? He had distinctly implied that he would at least let her know of the locality to which he had journeyed; but he had not sent a line to notify his address. Was he really indifferent? But was he ill? Was it for her to make some advance? Surely she might summon the courage of solicitude, call at the Vicarage for intelligence, and express her grief at his silence. If Angel's father were the good man she had heard him represented to be, he would be able to enter into her heart-starved situation. Her social hardships she could conceal. To leave the farm on a week-day was not in her power; Sunday was the only possible opportunity. Flintcomb-Ash being in the middle of the cretaceous tableland over which no railway had climbed as yet, it would be necessary to walk. And the distance being fifteen miles each way she would have to allow herself a long day for the undertaking by rising early. A fortnight later, when the snow had gone, and had been followed by a hard black frost, she took advantage of the state of the roads to try the experiment. At four o'clock that Sunday morning she came downstairs and stepped out into the starlight. The weather was still favourable, the ground ringing under her feet like an anvil. Marian and Izz were much interested in her excursion, knowing that the journey concerned her husband. Their lodgings were in a cottage a little further along the lane, but they came and assisted Tess in her departure, and argued that she should dress up in her very prettiest guise to captivate the hearts of her parents-in-law; though she, knowing of the austere and Calvinistic tenets of old Mr Clare, was indifferent, and even doubtful. A year had now elapsed since her sad marriage, but she had preserved sufficient draperies from the wreck of her then full wardrobe to clothe her very charmingly as a simple country girl with no pretensions to recent fashion; a soft gray woollen gown, with white crape quilling against the pink skin of her face and neck, and a black velvet jacket and hat. "'Tis a thousand pities your husband can't see 'ee now--you do look a real beauty!" said Izz Huett, regarding Tess as she stood on the threshold between the steely starlight without and the yellow candlelight within. Izz spoke with a magnanimous abandonment of herself to the situation; she could not be--no woman with a heart bigger than a hazel-nut could be--antagonistic to Tess in her presence, the influence which she exercised over those of her own sex being of a warmth and strength quite unusual, curiously overpowering the less worthy feminine feelings of spite and rivalry. With a final tug and touch here, and a slight brush there, they let her go; and she was absorbed into the pearly air of the fore-dawn. They heard her footsteps tap along the hard road as she stepped out to her full pace. Even Izz hoped she would win, and, though without any particular respect for her own virtue, felt glad that she had been prevented wronging her friend when momentarily tempted by Clare. It was a year ago, all but a day, that Clare had married Tess, and only a few days less than a year that he had been absent from her. Still, to start on a brisk walk, and on such an errand as hers, on a dry clear wintry morning, through the rarefied air of these chalky hogs'-backs, was not depressing; and there is no doubt that her dream at starting was to win the heart of her mother-in-law, tell her whole history to that lady, enlist her on her side, and so gain back the truant. In time she reached the edge of the vast escarpment below which stretched the loamy Vale of Blackmoor, now lying misty and still in the dawn. Instead of the colourless air of the uplands, the atmosphere down there was a deep blue. Instead of the great enclosures of a hundred acres in which she was now accustomed to toil, there were little fields below her of less than half-a-dozen acres, so numerous that they looked from this height like the meshes of a net. Here the landscape was whitey-brown; down there, as in Froom Valley, it was always green. Yet it was in that vale that her sorrow had taken shape, and she did not love it as formerly. Beauty to her, as to all who have felt, lay not in the thing, but in what the thing symbolized. Keeping the Vale on her right, she steered steadily westward; passing above the Hintocks, crossing at right-angles the high-road from Sherton-Abbas to Casterbridge, and skirting Dogbury Hill and High-Stoy, with the dell between them called "The Devil's Kitchen". Still following the elevated way she reached Cross-in-Hand, where the stone pillar stands desolate and silent, to mark the site of a miracle, or murder, or both. Three miles further she cut across the straight and deserted Roman road called Long-Ash Lane; leaving which as soon as she reached it she dipped down a hill by a transverse lane into the small town or village of Evershead, being now about halfway over the distance. She made a halt here, and breakfasted a second time, heartily enough--not at the Sow-and-Acorn, for she avoided inns, but at a cottage by the church. The second half of her journey was through a more gentle country, by way of Benvill Lane. But as the mileage lessened between her and the spot of her pilgrimage, so did Tess's confidence decrease, and her enterprise loom out more formidably. She saw her purpose in such staring lines, and the landscape so faintly, that she was sometimes in danger of losing her way. However, about noon she paused by a gate on the edge of the basin in which Emminster and its Vicarage lay. The square tower, beneath which she knew that at that moment the Vicar and his congregation were gathered, had a severe look in her eyes. She wished that she had somehow contrived to come on a week-day. Such a good man might be prejudiced against a woman who had chosen Sunday, never realizing the necessities of her case. But it was incumbent upon her to go on now. She took off the thick boots in which she had walked thus far, put on her pretty thin ones of patent leather, and, stuffing the former into the hedge by the gatepost where she might readily find them again, descended the hill; the freshness of colour she had derived from the keen air thinning away in spite of her as she drew near the parsonage. Tess hoped for some accident that might favour her, but nothing favoured her. The shrubs on the Vicarage lawn rustled uncomfortably in the frosty breeze; she could not feel by any stretch of imagination, dressed to her highest as she was, that the house was the residence of near relations; and yet nothing essential, in nature or emotion, divided her from them: in pains, pleasures, thoughts, birth, death, and after-death, they were the same. She nerved herself by an effort, entered the swing-gate, and rang the door-bell. The thing was done; there could be no retreat. No; the thing was not done. Nobody answered to her ringing. The effort had to be risen to and made again. She rang a second time, and the agitation of the act, coupled with her weariness after the fifteen miles' walk, led her to support herself while she waited by resting her hand on her hip and her elbow against the wall of the porch. The wind was so nipping that the ivy-leaves had become wizened and gray, each tapping incessantly upon its neighbour with a disquieting stir of her nerves. A piece of blood-stained paper, caught up from some meat-buyer's dust-heap, beat up and down the road without the gate; too flimsy to rest, too heavy to fly away; and a few straws kept it company. The second peal had been louder, and still nobody came. Then she walked out of the porch, opened the gate, and passed through. And though she looked dubiously at the house-front as if inclined to return, it was with a breath of relied that she closed the gate. A feeling haunted her that she might have been recognized (though how she could not tell), and orders been given not to admit her. Tess went as far as the corner. She had done all she could do; but determined not to escape present trepidation at the expense of future distress, she walked back again quite past the house, looking up at all the windows. Ah--the explanation was that they were all at church, every one. She remembered her husband saying that his father always insisted upon the household, servants included, going to morning-service, and, as a consequence, eating cold food when they came home. It was, therefore, only necessary to wait till the service was over. She would not make herself conspicuous by waiting on the spot, and she started to get past the church into the lane. But as she reached the churchyard-gate the people began pouring out, and Tess found herself in the midst of them. The Emminster congregation looked at her as only a congregation of small country-townsfolk walking home at its leisure can look at a woman out of the common whom it perceives to be a stranger. She quickened her pace, and ascended the road by which she had come, to find a retreat between its hedges till the Vicar's family should have lunched, and it might be convenient for them to receive her. She soon distanced the churchgoers, except two youngish men, who, linked arm-in-arm, were beating up behind her at a quick step. As they drew nearer she could hear their voices engaged in earnest discourse, and, with the natural quickness of a woman in her situation, did not fail to recognize in those noises the quality of her husband's tones. The pedestrians were his two brothers. Forgetting all her plans, Tess's one dread was lest they should overtake her now, in her disorganized condition, before she was prepared to confront them; for though she felt that they could not identify her, she instinctively dreaded their scrutiny. The more briskly they walked, the more briskly walked she. They were plainly bent upon taking a short quick stroll before going indoors to lunch or dinner, to restore warmth to limbs chilled with sitting through a long service. Only one person had preceded Tess up the hill--a ladylike young woman, somewhat interesting, though, perhaps, a trifle _guindee_ and prudish. Tess had nearly overtaken her when the speed of her brothers-in-law brought them so nearly behind her back that she could hear every word of their conversation. They said nothing, however, which particularly interested her till, observing the young lady still further in front, one of them remarked, "There is Mercy Chant. Let us overtake her." Tess knew the name. It was the woman who had been destined for Angel's life-companion by his and her parents, and whom he probably would have married but for her intrusive self. She would have known as much without previous information if she had waited a moment, for one of the brothers proceeded to say: "Ah! poor Angel, poor Angel! I never see that nice girl without more and more regretting his precipitancy in throwing himself away upon a dairymaid, or whatever she may be. It is a queer business, apparently. Whether she has joined him yet or not I don't know; but she had not done so some months ago when I heard from him." "I can't say. He never tells me anything nowadays. His ill-considered marriage seems to have completed that estrangement from me which was begun by his extraordinary opinions." Tess beat up the long hill still faster; but she could not outwalk them without exciting notice. At last they outsped her altogether, and passed her by. The young lady still further ahead heard their footsteps and turned. Then there was a greeting and a shaking of hands, and the three went on together. They soon reached the summit of the hill, and, evidently intending this point to be the limit of their promenade, slackened pace and turned all three aside to the gate whereat Tess had paused an hour before that time to reconnoitre the town before descending into it. During their discourse one of the clerical brothers probed the hedge carefully with his umbrella, and dragged something to light. "Here's a pair of old boots," he said. "Thrown away, I suppose, by some tramp or other." "Some imposter who wished to come into the town barefoot, perhaps, and so excite our sympathies," said Miss Chant. "Yes, it must have been, for they are excellent walking-boots--by no means worn out. What a wicked thing to do! I'll carry them home for some poor person." Cuthbert Clare, who had been the one to find them, picked them up for her with the crook of his stick; and Tess's boots were appropriated. She, who had heard this, walked past under the screen of her woollen veil till, presently looking back, she perceived that the church party had left the gate with her boots and retreated down the hill. Thereupon our heroine resumed her walk. Tears, blinding tears, were running down her face. She knew that it was all sentiment, all baseless impressibility, which had caused her to read the scene as her own condemnation; nevertheless she could not get over it; she could not contravene in her own defenceless person all those untoward omens. It was impossible to think of returning to the Vicarage. Angel's wife felt almost as if she had been hounded up that hill like a scorned thing by those--to her--superfine clerics. Innocently as the slight had been inflicted, it was somewhat unfortunate that she had encountered the sons and not the father, who, despite his narrowness, was far less starched and ironed than they, and had to the full the gift of charity. As she again thought of her dusty boots she almost pitied those habiliments for the quizzing to which they had been subjected, and felt how hopeless life was for their owner. "Ah!" she said, still sighing in pity of herself, "THEY didn't know that I wore those over the roughest part of the road to save these pretty ones HE bought for me--no--they did not know it! And they didn't think that HE chose the colour o' my pretty frock--no--how could they? If they had known perhaps they would not have cared, for they don't care much for him, poor thing!" Then she grieved for the beloved man whose conventional standard of judgement had caused her all these latter sorrows; and she went her way without knowing that the greatest misfortune of her life was this feminine loss of courage at the last and critical moment through her estimating her father-in-law by his sons. Her present condition was precisely one which would have enlisted the sympathies of old Mr and Mrs Clare. Their hearts went out of them at a bound towards extreme cases, when the subtle mental troubles of the less desperate among mankind failed to win their interest or regard. In jumping at Publicans and Sinners they would forget that a word might be said for the worries of Scribes and Pharisees; and this defect or limitation might have recommended their own daughter-in-law to them at this moment as a fairly choice sort of lost person for their love. Thereupon she began to plod back along the road by which she had come not altogether full of hope, but full of a conviction that a crisis in her life was approaching. No crisis, apparently, had supervened; and there was nothing left for her to do but to continue upon that starve-acre farm till she could again summon courage to face the Vicarage. She did, indeed, take sufficient interest in herself to throw up her veil on this return journey, as if to let the world see that she could at least exhibit a face such as Mercy Chant could not show. But it was done with a sorry shake of the head. "It is nothing--it is nothing!" she said. "Nobody loves it; nobody sees it. Who cares about the looks of a castaway like me!" Her journey back was rather a meander than a march. It had no sprightliness, no purpose; only a tendency. Along the tedious length of Benvill Lane she began to grow tired, and she leant upon gates and paused by milestones. She did not enter any house till, at the seventh or eighth mile, she descended the steep long hill below which lay the village or townlet of Evershead, where in the morning she had breakfasted with such contrasting expectations. The cottage by the church, in which she again sat down, was almost the first at that end of the village, and while the woman fetched her some milk from the pantry, Tess, looking down the street, perceived that the place seemed quite deserted. "The people are gone to afternoon service, I suppose?" she said. "No, my dear," said the old woman. "'Tis too soon for that; the bells hain't strook out yet. They be all gone to hear the preaching in yonder barn. A ranter preaches there between the services--an excellent, fiery, Christian man, they say. But, Lord, I don't go to hear'n! What comes in the regular way over the pulpit is hot enough for I." Tess soon went onward into the village, her footsteps echoing against the houses as though it were a place of the dead. Nearing the central part, her echoes were intruded on by other sounds; and seeing the barn not far off the road, she guessed these to be the utterances of the preacher. His voice became so distinct in the still clear air that she could soon catch his sentences, though she was on the closed side of the barn. The sermon, as might be expected, was of the extremest antinomian type; on justification by faith, as expounded in the theology of St Paul. This fixed idea of the rhapsodist was delivered with animated enthusiasm, in a manner entirely declamatory, for he had plainly no skill as a dialectician. Although Tess had not heard the beginning of the address, she learnt what the text had been from its constant iteration-- "O foolish galatians, who hath bewitched you, that ye should not obey the truth, before whose eyes Jesus Christ hath been evidently set forth, crucified among you?" Tess was all the more interested, as she stood listening behind, in finding that the preacher's doctrine was a vehement form of the view of Angel's father, and her interest intensified when the speaker began to detail his own spiritual experiences of how he had come by those views. He had, he said, been the greatest of sinners. He had scoffed; he had wantonly associated with the reckless and the lewd. But a day of awakening had come, and, in a human sense, it had been brought about mainly by the influence of a certain clergyman, whom he had at first grossly insulted; but whose parting words had sunk into his heart, and had remained there, till by the grace of Heaven they had worked this change in him, and made him what they saw him. But more startling to Tess than the doctrine had been the voice, which, impossible as it seemed, was precisely that of Alec d'Urberville. Her face fixed in painful suspense, she came round to the front of the barn, and passed before it. The low winter sun beamed directly upon the great double-doored entrance on this side; one of the doors being open, so that the rays stretched far in over the threshing-floor to the preacher and his audience, all snugly sheltered from the northern breeze. The listeners were entirely villagers, among them being the man whom she had seen carrying the red paint-pot on a former memorable occasion. But her attention was given to the central figure, who stood upon some sacks of corn, facing the people and the door. The three o'clock sun shone full upon him, and the strange enervating conviction that her seducer confronted her, which had been gaining ground in Tess ever since she had heard his words distinctly, was at last established as a fact indeed. END OF PHASE THE FIFTH Phase the Sixth: The Convert

Chapters 42-44

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151046/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary-and-analysis/phase-the-fifth-the-woman-pays-chapters-4244

To ward off the men who might find her attractive, Tess puts on a handkerchief as though she has a toothache and clips her eyebrows. She arrives at Flintcomb-Ash to find Marian already at work. Marian calls the farm a "starve-acre place," not like the lush dairy at Talbothays. The work is digging rutabagas, harvesting corn, and making the thatch for roofs. It is indeed difficult work for men and women alike. Tess agrees to work until April 6, also know as "Old Lady-Day." The two friends work in the rain and snow at the farm. Marian writes to Izz Huett, who later comes to Flintcomb-Ash for work as well. One day, when it is too cold to dig swedes, the ladies are sent by the farmer to make roof thatching in a nearby farm. Also working there are Dark Car and the Queen of Diamonds, both former employees of the d'Urbervilles at The Slopes. These "two Amazionian sisters" do not remember Tess from their previous encounter. Tess meets her employer, the farmer, the same man who had insulted her in town in Chapter 33 and who appears again in a second chance encounter in Chapter 41. He is mean and vengeful toward Tess, telling her, "But we'll see which is master here." He urges the girls to work harder, and Tess stays behind to finish her work with Izz and Marian. Tess is overcome by exhaustion and faints. As she recovers on a haystack, she overhears Izz tell the story of Angel asking her to accompany him to Brazil. Tess decides to contact Angel's parents to ask about Angel. The next Sunday, Tess sets out for Emminster, a 30-mile roundtrip walk for her. A year has passed since her marriage to Angel, and she is determined to make her plight known to her in-laws and to see if they have heard from Angel. She removes her walking boots, stashes them in a nearby bush and puts on her dress boots to impress her in-laws. Angel's brothers discover Tess' boots, not knowing she is nearby, and takes them back to the Clare's vicarage. Tess loses her nerve to see the Clares and returns to Flintcomb-Ash dejected and depressed. On the way back to the farm, Tess encounters Alec d'Urberville, now an evangelical "fire and brimstone" street preacher.

The contrast between Flintcomb-Ash and Talbothays is clear. Flintcomb-Ash is described as "sublime in its dreariness." Conversely, Talbothays is portrayed as ideal and beautiful, "the verdant plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom." Flintcomb has Farmer Groby, a mean-spirited man who demands that his workers work even harder. Mr. Crick gets results from his workers with humor and aplomb, even regaling them with his humorous tales, as evidenced by the William Dewy tale from Chapter 17 and the Jack Dollop tales from Chapters 21 and 29. The indifference that Angel's brothers show towards Tess is not altogether surprising based on what we already know of them. However, it is Tess' first encounter with her brothers-in-law, and she hears for herself their contempt for her marriage to Angel and for Angel himself -- "His ill-considered marriage seems to have completed that estrangement from me which was begun by his extraordinary opinions." The brothers, both ministers themselves, have little regard for those in desperate situations, reserving their charity to those they deem worthy to receive it. Mercy Chant, whose name implies sympathy and kindness, adds her own insensitive opinion when Tess' boots are discovered in some bushes, viewing them as belonging to "ome impostor who wished to come into town barefoot, perhaps, and so excite our sympathies." Thus, all three -- Mercy, Cuthbert, and Felix -- display a lack of compassion that Tess could use at that moment. Hardy further emphasizes the uncharitable nature of these three in his descriptions: Hardy describes the brothers as "starched and ironed"; he describes Mercy as "a trifle guindee and prudish." The word guindee in French means "stiff" or "formal." This episode recalls earlier episodes in which action or inaction rest on a single turn of fate. By encountering her brothers-in-law first, Tess is exposed to unkind and uncharitable notions about herself and her marriage to Angel. Hardy says "it was somewhat unfortunate that she had encountered the sons and not the father, who, despite his narrowness, was far less starched and ironed than they, and had to the full the gift of charity." If Tess had met her father and mother-in-law first, the outcome might have been different. In these chapters, Tess also is reunited with Alec d'Urberville, who is in the guise of a street corner minister. Alec claims to have repented of his former sins, recanting his past excesses, taking up the teachings of Reverend Clare and the lessons of St. Paul. Nevertheless, as is made clear in the following chapters, Alec is a hollow cleric. Even though he himself condemns the faithless in his sermons, he will leave his ministry to pursue Tess. Glossary mommet a term of abuse or contempt. "dust and ashes" Job 42:6. Cybele the Many-breasted Phrygian fertility goddess who, in the form of a mother with many breasts, symbolizes nature. "clipsed or colled" embraced. swede-hacking a swede is a Swedish turnip, or rutabaga. Old Lady Day April 6, date used to set the beginning or ending of employment. copy-holders people who hold land by copyhold. wroppers wrappers. "early Italian conception of the two Marys"` because of their weepings and pensive looks, they resemble painted representations from the Renaissance of Mary, the mother of Christ, and Mary Magdalen after the death of Jesus. "like the moves of a chess player" death is sometimes represented as a chess player. reed-drawing preparing straw to be used as thatching material. "white pillar of a cloud" from Exodus 13:21. percipience a perceiving, esp. keenly or readily. premonitory giving previous warning or notice. thirtover thwart-over, meaning perverse. guindee stiff, stilted, formal . prudish like or characteristic of a prude; too modest or proper. impressibility the state of being impressed or impressionable. contravene to go against; oppose; conflict with; violate; to disagree with in argument; contradict. habiliments clothing; dress; attire. supervened came or happened as something extraneous or unexpected; to take place; ensued. "Publicans and Sinners . . . Scribes and Pharisees" they were biased in favor of those who had fallen. publican in Britain, any owner or proprietor of a pub. Antinomian a believer in the Christian doctrine that faith alone, not obedience to the moral law, is necessary for salvation. "O foolish Galatians . . . " from Galatians 3:1.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/62.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_11_part_9.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 9.chapter 9

book 9, chapter 9

{"name": "book 9, Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section12/", "summary": "Mitya Is Taken Away Grushenka is called in to testify. Dmitri swears to her that he did not kill his father, and she believes him. But the officers nevertheless decide to keep him in prison to await a trial. Dmitri says good-bye to Grushenka, asking her to forgive him for everything he has done. Grushenka delivers an impassioned promise to love and remain loyal to Dmitri forever.", "analysis": "Book IX: The Preliminary Investigation, Chapters 1-9 This book is devoted to a description of the circumstantial evidence that makes Dmitri appear guilty of Fyodor Pavlovich's murder. The question of whether Dmitri is guilty symbolically represents the greater question of whether human nature is fundamentally good or sinful, so the legal proceedings against Dmitri represent the trial of the human spirit. Just as Book V, especially in the Grand Inquisitor chapter, presents the novel's indictment of God, Book IX begins its indictment of humanity. This book recounts Dmitri's past in detail, and the stories of his innumerable sins are retold, as though to summarize the moral failings that lie at the heart of the case. Dmitri has lied to everyone, stolen from and cheated Katerina, turned to violence against Grigory, and been unable to control his passions for Grushenka. In short, he has committed the most common and universal sins of mankind. Dmitri's bizarre, almost gleeful reaction to this list of sins reveals the seeds of his redemption. In Zosima's anecdote of the murder in Book VI, Dostoevsky has drawn our attention to a peculiar psychological phenomenon: the desire of a guilty man to confess his guilt. The murderer in this anecdote had gotten away with his crime, but he could never find happiness because he was desperate to confess his guilt. As Zosima indicates in his argument with Ivan over ecclesiastical courts in Book II, conscience is the sternest judge of all. Even a criminal who has gotten away with his crime can be judged by his conscience. Like the murderer in Zosima's anecdote, Dmitri has a conscience that judges him harshly, and also like the murderer, Dmitri is guilty, not of the charge of killing his father, but of all the lies, acts of violence, and other sins of his past. Like the murderer, part of Dmitri longs for his crimes to be known and judged, so he can find redemption in the suffering of his punishment. Dmitri's glee throughout this passage is due in part to Grushenka's declaration of love for him. But he also experiences relief to be in the hands of the police and to hear his crimes discussed openly and critically. This review of his past sins may seem like a damning indictment of humanity, but it is actually the first step in Dmitri's transformation from a tormented and sinful man into a faithful and loving one"}

Chapter IX. They Carry Mitya Away When the protocol had been signed, Nikolay Parfenovitch turned solemnly to the prisoner and read him the "Committal," setting forth, that in such a year, on such a day, in such a place, the investigating lawyer of such- and-such a district court, having examined so-and-so (to wit, Mitya) accused of this and of that (all the charges were carefully written out) and having considered that the accused, not pleading guilty to the charges made against him, had brought forward nothing in his defense, while the witnesses, so-and-so, and so-and-so, and the circumstances such-and-such testify against him, acting in accordance with such-and-such articles of the Statute Book, and so on, has ruled, that, in order to preclude so-and- so (Mitya) from all means of evading pursuit and judgment he be detained in such-and-such a prison, which he hereby notifies to the accused and communicates a copy of this same "Committal" to the deputy prosecutor, and so on, and so on. In brief, Mitya was informed that he was, from that moment, a prisoner, and that he would be driven at once to the town, and there shut up in a very unpleasant place. Mitya listened attentively, and only shrugged his shoulders. "Well, gentlemen, I don't blame you. I'm ready.... I understand that there's nothing else for you to do." Nikolay Parfenovitch informed him gently that he would be escorted at once by the rural police officer, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, who happened to be on the spot.... "Stay," Mitya interrupted, suddenly, and impelled by uncontrollable feeling he pronounced, addressing all in the room: "Gentlemen, we're all cruel, we're all monsters, we all make men weep, and mothers, and babes at the breast, but of all, let it be settled here, now, of all I am the lowest reptile! I've sworn to amend, and every day I've done the same filthy things. I understand now that such men as I need a blow, a blow of destiny to catch them as with a noose, and bind them by a force from without. Never, never should I have risen of myself! But the thunderbolt has fallen. I accept the torture of accusation, and my public shame, I want to suffer and by suffering I shall be purified. Perhaps I shall be purified, gentlemen? But listen, for the last time, I am not guilty of my father's blood. I accept my punishment, not because I killed him, but because I meant to kill him, and perhaps I really might have killed him. Still I mean to fight it out with you. I warn you of that. I'll fight it out with you to the end, and then God will decide. Good-by, gentlemen, don't be vexed with me for having shouted at you during the examination. Oh, I was still such a fool then.... In another minute I shall be a prisoner, but now, for the last time, as a free man, Dmitri Karamazov offers you his hand. Saying good-by to you, I say it to all men." His voice quivered and he stretched out his hand, but Nikolay Parfenovitch, who happened to stand nearest to him, with a sudden, almost nervous movement, hid his hands behind his back. Mitya instantly noticed this, and started. He let his outstretched hand fall at once. "The preliminary inquiry is not yet over," Nikolay Parfenovitch faltered, somewhat embarrassed. "We will continue it in the town, and I, for my part, of course, am ready to wish you all success ... in your defense.... As a matter of fact, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, I've always been disposed to regard you as, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty. All of us here, if I may make bold to speak for all, we are all ready to recognize that you are, at bottom, a young man of honor, but, alas, one who has been carried away by certain passions to a somewhat excessive degree...." Nikolay Parfenovitch's little figure was positively majestic by the time he had finished speaking. It struck Mitya that in another minute this "boy" would take his arm, lead him to another corner, and renew their conversation about "girls." But many quite irrelevant and inappropriate thoughts sometimes occur even to a prisoner when he is being led out to execution. "Gentlemen, you are good, you are humane, may I see _her_ to say 'good-by' for the last time?" asked Mitya. "Certainly, but considering ... in fact, now it's impossible except in the presence of--" "Oh, well, if it must be so, it must!" Grushenka was brought in, but the farewell was brief, and of few words, and did not at all satisfy Nikolay Parfenovitch. Grushenka made a deep bow to Mitya. "I have told you I am yours, and I will be yours. I will follow you for ever, wherever they may send you. Farewell; you are guiltless, though you've been your own undoing." Her lips quivered, tears flowed from her eyes. "Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, for ruining you, too, with my love." Mitya would have said something more, but he broke off and went out. He was at once surrounded by men who kept a constant watch on him. At the bottom of the steps to which he had driven up with such a dash the day before with Andrey's three horses, two carts stood in readiness. Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, a sturdy, thick-set man with a wrinkled face, was annoyed about something, some sudden irregularity. He was shouting angrily. He asked Mitya to get into the cart with somewhat excessive surliness. "When I stood him drinks in the tavern, the man had quite a different face," thought Mitya, as he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of people, peasants, women and drivers. Trifon Borissovitch came down the steps too. All stared at Mitya. "Forgive me at parting, good people!" Mitya shouted suddenly from the cart. "Forgive us too!" he heard two or three voices. "Good-by to you, too, Trifon Borissovitch!" But Trifon Borissovitch did not even turn round. He was, perhaps, too busy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something. It appeared that everything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. The peasant who had been ordered to drive the second cart was pulling on his smock, stoutly maintaining that it was not his turn to go, but Akim's. But Akim was not to be seen. They ran to look for him. The peasant persisted and besought them to wait. "You see what our peasants are, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. They've no shame!" exclaimed Trifon Borissovitch. "Akim gave you twenty-five copecks the day before yesterday. You've drunk it all and now you cry out. I'm simply surprised at your good-nature, with our low peasants, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, that's all I can say." "But what do we want a second cart for?" Mitya put in. "Let's start with the one, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. I won't be unruly, I won't run away from you, old fellow. What do we want an escort for?" "I'll trouble you, sir, to learn how to speak to me if you've never been taught. I'm not 'old fellow' to you, and you can keep your advice for another time!" Mavriky Mavrikyevitch snapped out savagely, as though glad to vent his wrath. Mitya was reduced to silence. He flushed all over. A moment later he felt suddenly very cold. The rain had ceased, but the dull sky was still overcast with clouds, and a keen wind was blowing straight in his face. "I've taken a chill," thought Mitya, twitching his shoulders. At last Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, too, got into the cart, sat down heavily, and, as though without noticing it, squeezed Mitya into the corner. It is true that he was out of humor and greatly disliked the task that had been laid upon him. "Good-by, Trifon Borissovitch!" Mitya shouted again, and felt himself, that he had not called out this time from good-nature, but involuntarily, from resentment. But Trifon Borissovitch stood proudly, with both hands behind his back, and staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry face, he made no reply. "Good-by, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, good-by!" he heard all at once the voice of Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart he held out his hand to Mitya. He had no cap on. Mitya had time to seize and press his hand. "Good-by, dear fellow! I shan't forget your generosity," he cried warmly. But the cart moved and their hands parted. The bell began ringing and Mitya was driven off. Kalganov ran back, sat down in a corner, bent his head, hid his face in his hands, and burst out crying. For a long while he sat like that, crying as though he were a little boy instead of a young man of twenty. Oh, he believed almost without doubt in Mitya's guilt. "What are these people? What can men be after this?" he exclaimed incoherently, in bitter despondency, almost despair. At that moment he had no desire to live. "Is it worth it? Is it worth it?" exclaimed the boy in his grief.

book 9, Chapter 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section12/

Mitya Is Taken Away Grushenka is called in to testify. Dmitri swears to her that he did not kill his father, and she believes him. But the officers nevertheless decide to keep him in prison to await a trial. Dmitri says good-bye to Grushenka, asking her to forgive him for everything he has done. Grushenka delivers an impassioned promise to love and remain loyal to Dmitri forever.

Book IX: The Preliminary Investigation, Chapters 1-9 This book is devoted to a description of the circumstantial evidence that makes Dmitri appear guilty of Fyodor Pavlovich's murder. The question of whether Dmitri is guilty symbolically represents the greater question of whether human nature is fundamentally good or sinful, so the legal proceedings against Dmitri represent the trial of the human spirit. Just as Book V, especially in the Grand Inquisitor chapter, presents the novel's indictment of God, Book IX begins its indictment of humanity. This book recounts Dmitri's past in detail, and the stories of his innumerable sins are retold, as though to summarize the moral failings that lie at the heart of the case. Dmitri has lied to everyone, stolen from and cheated Katerina, turned to violence against Grigory, and been unable to control his passions for Grushenka. In short, he has committed the most common and universal sins of mankind. Dmitri's bizarre, almost gleeful reaction to this list of sins reveals the seeds of his redemption. In Zosima's anecdote of the murder in Book VI, Dostoevsky has drawn our attention to a peculiar psychological phenomenon: the desire of a guilty man to confess his guilt. The murderer in this anecdote had gotten away with his crime, but he could never find happiness because he was desperate to confess his guilt. As Zosima indicates in his argument with Ivan over ecclesiastical courts in Book II, conscience is the sternest judge of all. Even a criminal who has gotten away with his crime can be judged by his conscience. Like the murderer in Zosima's anecdote, Dmitri has a conscience that judges him harshly, and also like the murderer, Dmitri is guilty, not of the charge of killing his father, but of all the lies, acts of violence, and other sins of his past. Like the murderer, part of Dmitri longs for his crimes to be known and judged, so he can find redemption in the suffering of his punishment. Dmitri's glee throughout this passage is due in part to Grushenka's declaration of love for him. But he also experiences relief to be in the hands of the police and to hear his crimes discussed openly and critically. This review of his past sins may seem like a damning indictment of humanity, but it is actually the first step in Dmitri's transformation from a tormented and sinful man into a faithful and loving one

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/55.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_6_part_2.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 54

chapter 54

{"name": "Chapter 54", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-7-chapters-53-59", "summary": "Angel travels to find Tess, passing Cross-in-Hand and Flintcomb-Ash. He discovers there that nobody knew a Mrs. Clare, but they did know about Tess. Angel travels to Marlott, where he learns that John Durbeyfield is dead and his widow and children had left for Kingsbere. He sees John Durbeyfield's tomb, with its inscription \"How Are the Mighty Fallen. Eventually, Angel finds Joan Durbeyfield, who tells him that Tess has not come home. When Angel asks whether Tess would want him to look for her, Joan Durbeyfield claims no emphatically, but Angel replies that he is sure that she would because he knows Tess better. Joan admits that she has never really known her daughter, and tells Angel that Tess is at Sandbourne.", "analysis": "Angel continues to demonstrate his great will to find his wife, as when he demands of Joan Durbeyfield that he know where Tess is located. Hardy constructs this chapter as a retelling of Tess's actions during her separation from Angel, as Angel himself finds himself in Flintcomb-Ash, Marlott and Kingsbere and he learns that John Durbeyfield has died. This serves as a reminder of Tess's travails as a suffering Angel retraces these steps. This seems a trial for Angel, particularly during his confrontation with Joan Durbeyfield; she gives the location of her daughter only after Angel proves his devotion to Tess. This confrontation also demonstrates a growth for Joan Durbeyfield, who realizes her own failings and responsibility for Tess's troubles by admitting that she has never really known her daughter. Joan has viewed Tess as an instrument for her and her husband's plans, yet only now realizes that her ill treatment has caused Tess's downfall"}

In a quarter of an hour Clare was leaving the house, whence his mother watched his thin figure as it disappeared into the street. He had declined to borrow his father's old mare, well knowing of its necessity to the household. He went to the inn, where he hired a trap, and could hardly wait during the harnessing. In a very few minutes after, he was driving up the hill out of the town which, three or four months earlier in the year, Tess had descended with such hopes and ascended with such shattered purposes. Benvill Lane soon stretched before him, its hedges and trees purple with buds; but he was looking at other things, and only recalled himself to the scene sufficiently to enable him to keep the way. In something less than an hour-and-a-half he had skirted the south of the King's Hintock estates and ascended to the untoward solitude of Cross-in-Hand, the unholy stone whereon Tess had been compelled by Alec d'Urberville, in his whim of reformation, to swear the strange oath that she would never wilfully tempt him again. The pale and blasted nettle-stems of the preceding year even now lingered nakedly in the banks, young green nettles of the present spring growing from their roots. Thence he went along the verge of the upland overhanging the other Hintocks, and, turning to the right, plunged into the bracing calcareous region of Flintcomb-Ash, the address from which she had written to him in one of the letters, and which he supposed to be the place of sojourn referred to by her mother. Here, of course, he did not find her; and what added to his depression was the discovery that no "Mrs Clare" had ever been heard of by the cottagers or by the farmer himself, though Tess was remembered well enough by her Christian name. His name she had obviously never used during their separation, and her dignified sense of their total severance was shown not much less by this abstention than by the hardships she had chosen to undergo (of which he now learnt for the first time) rather than apply to his father for more funds. From this place they told him Tess Durbeyfield had gone, without due notice, to the home of her parents on the other side of Blackmoor, and it therefore became necessary to find Mrs Durbeyfield. She had told him she was not now at Marlott, but had been curiously reticent as to her actual address, and the only course was to go to Marlott and inquire for it. The farmer who had been so churlish with Tess was quite smooth-tongued to Clare, and lent him a horse and man to drive him towards Marlott, the gig he had arrived in being sent back to Emminster; for the limit of a day's journey with that horse was reached. Clare would not accept the loan of the farmer's vehicle for a further distance than to the outskirts of the Vale, and, sending it back with the man who had driven him, he put up at an inn, and next day entered on foot the region wherein was the spot of his dear Tess's birth. It was as yet too early in the year for much colour to appear in the gardens and foliage; the so-called spring was but winter overlaid with a thin coat of greenness, and it was of a parcel with his expectations. The house in which Tess had passed the years of her childhood was now inhabited by another family who had never known her. The new residents were in the garden, taking as much interest in their own doings as if the homestead had never passed its primal time in conjunction with the histories of others, beside which the histories of these were but as a tale told by an idiot. They walked about the garden paths with thoughts of their own concerns entirely uppermost, bringing their actions at every moment in jarring collision with the dim ghosts behind them, talking as though the time when Tess lived there were not one whit intenser in story than now. Even the spring birds sang over their heads as if they thought there was nobody missing in particular. On inquiry of these precious innocents, to whom even the name of their predecessors was a failing memory, Clare learned that John Durbeyfield was dead; that his widow and children had left Marlott, declaring that they were going to live at Kingsbere, but instead of doing so had gone on to another place they mentioned. By this time Clare abhorred the house for ceasing to contain Tess, and hastened away from its hated presence without once looking back. His way was by the field in which he had first beheld her at the dance. It was as bad as the house--even worse. He passed on through the churchyard, where, amongst the new headstones, he saw one of a somewhat superior design to the rest. The inscription ran thus: In memory of John Durbeyfield, rightly d'Urberville, of the once powerful family of that Name, and Direct Descendant through an illustrious Line from Sir Pagan d'Urberville, one of the Knights of the Conqueror. Died March 10th, 18-- HOW ARE THE MIGHTY FALLEN. Some man, apparently the sexton, had observed Clare standing there, and drew nigh. "Ah, sir, now that's a man who didn't want to lie here, but wished to be carried to Kingsbere, where his ancestors be." "And why didn't they respect his wish?" "Oh--no money. Bless your soul, sir, why--there, I wouldn't wish to say it everywhere, but--even this headstone, for all the flourish wrote upon en, is not paid for." "Ah, who put it up?" The man told the name of a mason in the village, and, on leaving the churchyard, Clare called at the mason's house. He found that the statement was true, and paid the bill. This done, he turned in the direction of the migrants. The distance was too long for a walk, but Clare felt such a strong desire for isolation that at first he would neither hire a conveyance nor go to a circuitous line of railway by which he might eventually reach the place. At Shaston, however, he found he must hire; but the way was such that he did not enter Joan's place till about seven o'clock in the evening, having traversed a distance of over twenty miles since leaving Marlott. The village being small he had little difficulty in finding Mrs Durbeyfield's tenement, which was a house in a walled garden, remote from the main road, where she had stowed away her clumsy old furniture as best she could. It was plain that for some reason or other she had not wished him to visit her, and he felt his call to be somewhat of an intrusion. She came to the door herself, and the light from the evening sky fell upon her face. This was the first time that Clare had ever met her, but he was too preoccupied to observe more than that she was still a handsome woman, in the garb of a respectable widow. He was obliged to explain that he was Tess's husband, and his object in coming there, and he did it awkwardly enough. "I want to see her at once," he added. "You said you would write to me again, but you have not done so." "Because she've not come home," said Joan. "Do you know if she is well?" "I don't. But you ought to, sir," said she. "I admit it. Where is she staying?" From the beginning of the interview Joan had disclosed her embarrassment by keeping her hand to the side of her cheek. "I--don't know exactly where she is staying," she answered. "She was--but--" "Where was she?" "Well, she is not there now." In her evasiveness she paused again, and the younger children had by this time crept to the door, where, pulling at his mother's skirts, the youngest murmured-- "Is this the gentleman who is going to marry Tess?" "He has married her," Joan whispered. "Go inside." Clare saw her efforts for reticence, and asked-- "Do you think Tess would wish me to try and find her? If not, of course--" "I don't think she would." "Are you sure?" "I am sure she wouldn't." He was turning away; and then he thought of Tess's tender letter. "I am sure she would!" he retorted passionately. "I know her better than you do." "That's very likely, sir; for I have never really known her." "Please tell me her address, Mrs Durbeyfield, in kindness to a lonely wretched man!" Tess's mother again restlessly swept her cheek with her vertical hand, and seeing that he suffered, she at last said, is a low voice-- "She is at Sandbourne." "Ah--where there? Sandbourne has become a large place, they say." "I don't know more particularly than I have said--Sandbourne. For myself, I was never there." It was apparent that Joan spoke the truth in this, and he pressed her no further. "Are you in want of anything?" he said gently. "No, sir," she replied. "We are fairly well provided for." Without entering the house Clare turned away. There was a station three miles ahead, and paying off his coachman, he walked thither. The last train to Sandbourne left shortly after, and it bore Clare on its wheels.

Chapter 54

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

Angel travels to find Tess, passing Cross-in-Hand and Flintcomb-Ash. He discovers there that nobody knew a Mrs. Clare, but they did know about Tess. Angel travels to Marlott, where he learns that John Durbeyfield is dead and his widow and children had left for Kingsbere. He sees John Durbeyfield's tomb, with its inscription "How Are the Mighty Fallen. Eventually, Angel finds Joan Durbeyfield, who tells him that Tess has not come home. When Angel asks whether Tess would want him to look for her, Joan Durbeyfield claims no emphatically, but Angel replies that he is sure that she would because he knows Tess better. Joan admits that she has never really known her daughter, and tells Angel that Tess is at Sandbourne.

Angel continues to demonstrate his great will to find his wife, as when he demands of Joan Durbeyfield that he know where Tess is located. Hardy constructs this chapter as a retelling of Tess's actions during her separation from Angel, as Angel himself finds himself in Flintcomb-Ash, Marlott and Kingsbere and he learns that John Durbeyfield has died. This serves as a reminder of Tess's travails as a suffering Angel retraces these steps. This seems a trial for Angel, particularly during his confrontation with Joan Durbeyfield; she gives the location of her daughter only after Angel proves his devotion to Tess. This confrontation also demonstrates a growth for Joan Durbeyfield, who realizes her own failings and responsibility for Tess's troubles by admitting that she has never really known her daughter. Joan has viewed Tess as an instrument for her and her husband's plans, yet only now realizes that her ill treatment has caused Tess's downfall

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_2_part_4.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xv

chapter xv

{"name": "Chapter XV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase2-chapter12-15", "summary": "Tess attempts to put her \"un-doing at Trantridge\" behind her and comes to realize that she must leave Marlott if she is ever to find happiness. In springtime, she accepts a job as a milkmaid at Talbothays Dairy. With this new chance in life \"she would be the dairy maid Tess, and nothing more\".", "analysis": "In the first eleven chapters, \"Phase I, The Maiden,\" Hardy structures a plotline that will ultimately lead to Tess's demise. The term maiden in the traditional sense simply means virgin. After a female has had sexual relations, she is referred to as a woman. When Tess sets off for Trantridge she is an innocent child. Indeed, she says as much to her mother after she returns home in shame at the end of chapter eleven. In \"Phase Two, Maiden No more,\" the plot unfolds in the birth of the aptly named Sorrow. Although she is a different person entirely from the young maiden, at the end of this section the woman Tess is given another chance at life. There are no more dreams of castles and dashing men; Tess is more grounded, as it were, and accepts her lot as a simple milkmaid. From the beginning it is clear that Tess's chances of success are slim. Life has dealt her a rough hand: a drunken father, a simpleton mother who doesn't even tell her teenage daughter about the facts of life before letting her go off alone with a man: \"why didn't you tell me there was danger in men-folk. Why didn't you warn me. Nor can she rely on her neighbors or the church. Hardy especially takes the Church to task. Tess is marginalized by the congregation and sits in the back of the church next to the bier, a platform upon which a coffin stands, which Hardy utilizes as a foreshadowing device to associate Tess with death. Shamed and ignored, Tess is forced to leave the church, and while the parson is kind enough to assure tell her of son's salvation, he will only allow the young mother to bury her child in the dark of night. In this regard, Hardy demonstrates a remarkable ability to evoke pathos and forces the reader to become even more emotionally engaged with Tess, who lives a life of mental torture. Despite her problems, Tess manages to bear the heavy load and falls back into life by taking a job in another locale. In other words, despite being beaten and knocked down, Tess has the tenacity and the wherewithal to get back up and fight. And, although she could have benefited monetarily by accepting Alec's offer she retains her honor. Alec d'Urberville, on the other hand, is a sham, bereft of honor, a phony without a real name. When compared to this rake, Tess becomes even more admirable. It would seem then that such a strong-spirited character should achieve the heights of success. However, Hardy, who has oftentimes been criticized for his deeply pessimistic attitude concerning the individual, will stick by his theory about fate by forcing his character to endure increasingly difficult hardships. Close attention should also be paid to Hardy's utilization of setting. He places his sad heroine in some of the loveliest settings ever created. Indeed, the novel evokes the fine bucolic, rustic settings popular in the pastoral paintings of the era. However, there is one item in the setting that seems out of order: the scarlet colored thrashing machine which helps speed up the work. In this era England was changing into an ever more industrial \"modernistic\" nation, as also witnessed by Hardy's reference to railroad tracks dividing the land. As the Industrial Revolution spread, villagers were forced to leave the land for the factories of London and other cities. Attention should also be paid to Hardy's use of the seasons. The novel begins in springtime, proceeds through summer to September and the Chase incident, Tess's return home in October, the harvest the following year, then springtime yet again and Tess's new optimism"}

"By experience," says Roger Ascham, "we find out a short way by a long wandering." Not seldom that long wandering unfits us for further travel, and of what use is our experience to us then? Tess Durbeyfield's experience was of this incapacitating kind. At last she had learned what to do; but who would now accept her doing? If before going to the d'Urbervilles' she had vigorously moved under the guidance of sundry gnomic texts and phrases known to her and to the world in general, no doubt she would never have been imposed on. But it had not been in Tess's power--nor is it in anybody's power--to feel the whole truth of golden opinions while it is possible to profit by them. She--and how many more--might have ironically said to God with Saint Augustine: "Thou hast counselled a better course than Thou hast permitted." She remained at her father's house during the winter months, plucking fowls, or cramming turkeys and geese, or making clothes for her sisters and brothers out of some finery which d'Urberville had given her, and she had put by with contempt. Apply to him she would not. But she would often clasp her hands behind her head and muse when she was supposed to be working hard. She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year; the disastrous night of her undoing at Trantridge with its dark background of The Chase; also the dates of the baby's birth and death; also her own birthday; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it? Why did she not feel the chill of each yearly encounter with such a cold relation? She had Jeremy Taylor's thought that some time in the future those who had known her would say: "It is the ----th, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died"; and there would be nothing singular to their minds in the statement. Of that day, doomed to be her terminus in time through all the ages, she did not know the place in month, week, season or year. Almost at a leap Tess thus changed from simple girl to complex woman. Symbols of reflectiveness passed into her face, and a note of tragedy at times into her voice. Her eyes grew larger and more eloquent. She became what would have been called a fine creature; her aspect was fair and arresting; her soul that of a woman whom the turbulent experiences of the last year or two had quite failed to demoralize. But for the world's opinion those experiences would have been simply a liberal education. She had held so aloof of late that her trouble, never generally known, was nearly forgotten in Marlott. But it became evident to her that she could never be really comfortable again in a place which had seen the collapse of her family's attempt to "claim kin"--and, through her, even closer union--with the rich d'Urbervilles. At least she could not be comfortable there till long years should have obliterated her keen consciousness of it. Yet even now Tess felt the pulse of hopeful life still warm within her; she might be happy in some nook which had no memories. To escape the past and all that appertained thereto was to annihilate it, and to do that she would have to get away. Was once lost always lost really true of chastity? she would ask herself. She might prove it false if she could veil bygones. The recuperative power which pervaded organic nature was surely not denied to maidenhood alone. She waited a long time without finding opportunity for a new departure. A particularly fine spring came round, and the stir of germination was almost audible in the buds; it moved her, as it moved the wild animals, and made her passionate to go. At last, one day in early May, a letter reached her from a former friend of her mother's, to whom she had addressed inquiries long before--a person whom she had never seen--that a skilful milkmaid was required at a dairy-house many miles to the southward, and that the dairyman would be glad to have her for the summer months. It was not quite so far off as could have been wished; but it was probably far enough, her radius of movement and repute having been so small. To persons of limited spheres, miles are as geographical degrees, parishes as counties, counties as provinces and kingdoms. On one point she was resolved: there should be no more d'Urberville air-castles in the dreams and deeds of her new life. She would be the dairymaid Tess, and nothing more. Her mother knew Tess's feeling on this point so well, though no words had passed between them on the subject, that she never alluded to the knightly ancestry now. Yet such is human inconsistency that one of the interests of the new place to her was the accidental virtues of its lying near her forefathers' country (for they were not Blakemore men, though her mother was Blakemore to the bone). The dairy called Talbothays, for which she was bound, stood not remotely from some of the former estates of the d'Urbervilles, near the great family vaults of her granddames and their powerful husbands. She would be able to look at them, and think not only that d'Urberville, like Babylon, had fallen, but that the individual innocence of a humble descendant could lapse as silently. All the while she wondered if any strange good thing might come of her being in her ancestral land; and some spirit within her rose automatically as the sap in the twigs. It was unexpected youth, surging up anew after its temporary check, and bringing with it hope, and the invincible instinct towards self-delight. END OF PHASE THE SECOND Phase the Third: The Rally

Chapter XV

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase2-chapter12-15

Tess attempts to put her "un-doing at Trantridge" behind her and comes to realize that she must leave Marlott if she is ever to find happiness. In springtime, she accepts a job as a milkmaid at Talbothays Dairy. With this new chance in life "she would be the dairy maid Tess, and nothing more".

In the first eleven chapters, "Phase I, The Maiden," Hardy structures a plotline that will ultimately lead to Tess's demise. The term maiden in the traditional sense simply means virgin. After a female has had sexual relations, she is referred to as a woman. When Tess sets off for Trantridge she is an innocent child. Indeed, she says as much to her mother after she returns home in shame at the end of chapter eleven. In "Phase Two, Maiden No more," the plot unfolds in the birth of the aptly named Sorrow. Although she is a different person entirely from the young maiden, at the end of this section the woman Tess is given another chance at life. There are no more dreams of castles and dashing men; Tess is more grounded, as it were, and accepts her lot as a simple milkmaid. From the beginning it is clear that Tess's chances of success are slim. Life has dealt her a rough hand: a drunken father, a simpleton mother who doesn't even tell her teenage daughter about the facts of life before letting her go off alone with a man: "why didn't you tell me there was danger in men-folk. Why didn't you warn me. Nor can she rely on her neighbors or the church. Hardy especially takes the Church to task. Tess is marginalized by the congregation and sits in the back of the church next to the bier, a platform upon which a coffin stands, which Hardy utilizes as a foreshadowing device to associate Tess with death. Shamed and ignored, Tess is forced to leave the church, and while the parson is kind enough to assure tell her of son's salvation, he will only allow the young mother to bury her child in the dark of night. In this regard, Hardy demonstrates a remarkable ability to evoke pathos and forces the reader to become even more emotionally engaged with Tess, who lives a life of mental torture. Despite her problems, Tess manages to bear the heavy load and falls back into life by taking a job in another locale. In other words, despite being beaten and knocked down, Tess has the tenacity and the wherewithal to get back up and fight. And, although she could have benefited monetarily by accepting Alec's offer she retains her honor. Alec d'Urberville, on the other hand, is a sham, bereft of honor, a phony without a real name. When compared to this rake, Tess becomes even more admirable. It would seem then that such a strong-spirited character should achieve the heights of success. However, Hardy, who has oftentimes been criticized for his deeply pessimistic attitude concerning the individual, will stick by his theory about fate by forcing his character to endure increasingly difficult hardships. Close attention should also be paid to Hardy's utilization of setting. He places his sad heroine in some of the loveliest settings ever created. Indeed, the novel evokes the fine bucolic, rustic settings popular in the pastoral paintings of the era. However, there is one item in the setting that seems out of order: the scarlet colored thrashing machine which helps speed up the work. In this era England was changing into an ever more industrial "modernistic" nation, as also witnessed by Hardy's reference to railroad tracks dividing the land. As the Industrial Revolution spread, villagers were forced to leave the land for the factories of London and other cities. Attention should also be paid to Hardy's use of the seasons. The novel begins in springtime, proceeds through summer to September and the Chase incident, Tess's return home in October, the harvest the following year, then springtime yet again and Tess's new optimism

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_5_part_3.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xxxvii

chapter xxxvii

{"name": "Chapter XXXVII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase5-chapter35-44", "summary": "The night before returning to Marlott, Tess awakens in the night to find Angel hovering over her while sleepwalking. Dead. dead. dead. he whispers, wraps her in a sheet, carries her outside over a narrow bridge to the churchyard, where he places her in a coffin. He remembers nothing. Angel gives Tess fifty pounds and tells her she can call on his father in case of emergency. She is not to come to him but to wait to hear from him after he learns to live with her past", "analysis": ""}

Midnight came and passed silently, for there was nothing to announce it in the Valley of the Froom. Not long after one o'clock there was a slight creak in the darkened farmhouse once the mansion of the d'Urbervilles. Tess, who used the upper chamber, heard it and awoke. It had come from the corner step of the staircase, which, as usual, was loosely nailed. She saw the door of her bedroom open, and the figure of her husband crossed the stream of moonlight with a curiously careful tread. He was in his shirt and trousers only, and her first flush of joy died when she perceived that his eyes were fixed in an unnatural stare on vacancy. When he reached the middle of the room he stood still and murmured in tones of indescribable sadness-- "Dead! dead! dead!" Under the influence of any strongly-disturbing force, Clare would occasionally walk in his sleep, and even perform strange feats, such as he had done on the night of their return from market just before their marriage, when he re-enacted in his bedroom his combat with the man who had insulted her. Tess saw that continued mental distress had wrought him into that somnambulistic state now. Her loyal confidence in him lay so deep down in her heart, that, awake or asleep, he inspired her with no sort of personal fear. If he had entered with a pistol in his hand he would scarcely have disturbed her trust in his protectiveness. Clare came close, and bent over her. "Dead, dead, dead!" he murmured. After fixedly regarding her for some moments with the same gaze of unmeasurable woe, he bent lower, enclosed her in his arms, and rolled her in the sheet as in a shroud. Then lifting her from the bed with as much respect as one would show to a dead body, he carried her across the room, murmuring-- "My poor, poor Tess--my dearest, darling Tess! So sweet, so good, so true!" The words of endearment, withheld so severely in his waking hours, were inexpressibly sweet to her forlorn and hungry heart. If it had been to save her weary life she would not, by moving or struggling, have put an end to the position she found herself in. Thus she lay in absolute stillness, scarcely venturing to breathe, and, wondering what he was going to do with her, suffered herself to be borne out upon the landing. "My wife--dead, dead!" he said. He paused in his labours for a moment to lean with her against the banister. Was he going to throw her down? Self-solicitude was near extinction in her, and in the knowledge that he had planned to depart on the morrow, possibly for always, she lay in his arms in this precarious position with a sense rather of luxury than of terror. If they could only fall together, and both be dashed to pieces, how fit, how desirable. However, he did not let her fall, but took advantage of the support of the handrail to imprint a kiss upon her lips--lips in the day-time scorned. Then he clasped her with a renewed firmness of hold, and descended the staircase. The creak of the loose stair did not awaken him, and they reached the ground-floor safely. Freeing one of his hands from his grasp of her for a moment, he slid back the door-bar and passed out, slightly striking his stockinged toe against the edge of the door. But this he seemed not to mind, and, having room for extension in the open air, he lifted her against his shoulder, so that he could carry her with ease, the absence of clothes taking much from his burden. Thus he bore her off the premises in the direction of the river a few yards distant. His ultimate intention, if he had any, she had not yet divined; and she found herself conjecturing on the matter as a third person might have done. So easefully had she delivered her whole being up to him that it pleased her to think he was regarding her as his absolute possession, to dispose of as he should choose. It was consoling, under the hovering terror of to-morrow's separation, to feel that he really recognized her now as his wife Tess, and did not cast her off, even if in that recognition he went so far as to arrogate to himself the right of harming her. Ah! now she knew what he was dreaming of--that Sunday morning when he had borne her along through the water with the other dairymaids, who had loved him nearly as much as she, if that were possible, which Tess could hardly admit. Clare did not cross the bridge with her, but proceeding several paces on the same side towards the adjoining mill, at length stood still on the brink of the river. Its waters, in creeping down these miles of meadowland, frequently divided, serpentining in purposeless curves, looping themselves around little islands that had no name, returning and re-embodying themselves as a broad main stream further on. Opposite the spot to which he had brought her was such a general confluence, and the river was proportionately voluminous and deep. Across it was a narrow foot-bridge; but now the autumn flood had washed the handrail away, leaving the bare plank only, which, lying a few inches above the speeding current, formed a giddy pathway for even steady heads; and Tess had noticed from the window of the house in the day-time young men walking across upon it as a feat in balancing. Her husband had possibly observed the same performance; anyhow, he now mounted the plank, and, sliding one foot forward, advanced along it. Was he going to drown her? Probably he was. The spot was lonely, the river deep and wide enough to make such a purpose easy of accomplishment. He might drown her if he would; it would be better than parting to-morrow to lead severed lives. The swift stream raced and gyrated under them, tossing, distorting, and splitting the moon's reflected face. Spots of froth travelled past, and intercepted weeds waved behind the piles. If they could both fall together into the current now, their arms would be so tightly clasped together that they could not be saved; they would go out of the world almost painlessly, and there would be no more reproach to her, or to him for marrying her. His last half-hour with her would have been a loving one, while if they lived till he awoke, his day-time aversion would return, and this hour would remain to be contemplated only as a transient dream. The impulse stirred in her, yet she dared not indulge it, to make a movement that would have precipitated them both into the gulf. How she valued her own life had been proved; but his--she had no right to tamper with it. He reached the other side with her in safety. Here they were within a plantation which formed the Abbey grounds, and taking a new hold of her he went onward a few steps till they reached the ruined choir of the Abbey-church. Against the north wall was the empty stone coffin of an abbot, in which every tourist with a turn for grim humour was accustomed to stretch himself. In this Clare carefully laid Tess. Having kissed her lips a second time he breathed deeply, as if a greatly desired end were attained. Clare then lay down on the ground alongside, when he immediately fell into the deep dead slumber of exhaustion, and remained motionless as a log. The spurt of mental excitement which had produced the effort was now over. Tess sat up in the coffin. The night, though dry and mild for the season, was more than sufficiently cold to make it dangerous for him to remain here long, in his half-clothed state. If he were left to himself he would in all probability stay there till the morning, and be chilled to certain death. She had heard of such deaths after sleep-walking. But how could she dare to awaken him, and let him know what he had been doing, when it would mortify him to discover his folly in respect of her? Tess, however, stepping out of her stone confine, shook him slightly, but was unable to arouse him without being violent. It was indispensable to do something, for she was beginning to shiver, the sheet being but a poor protection. Her excitement had in a measure kept her warm during the few minutes' adventure; but that beatific interval was over. It suddenly occurred to her to try persuasion; and accordingly she whispered in his ear, with as much firmness and decision as she could summon-- "Let us walk on, darling," at the same time taking him suggestively by the arm. To her relief, he unresistingly acquiesced; her words had apparently thrown him back into his dream, which thenceforward seemed to enter on a new phase, wherein he fancied she had risen as a spirit, and was leading him to Heaven. Thus she conducted him by the arm to the stone bridge in front of their residence, crossing which they stood at the manor-house door. Tess's feet were quite bare, and the stones hurt her, and chilled her to the bone; but Clare was in his woollen stockings, and appeared to feel no discomfort. There was no further difficulty. She induced him to lie down on his own sofa bed, and covered him up warmly, lighting a temporary fire of wood, to dry any dampness out of him. The noise of these attentions she thought might awaken him, and secretly wished that they might. But the exhaustion of his mind and body was such that he remained undisturbed. As soon as they met the next morning Tess divined that Angel knew little or nothing of how far she had been concerned in the night's excursion, though, as regarded himself, he may have been aware that he had not lain still. In truth, he had awakened that morning from a sleep deep as annihilation; and during those first few moments in which the brain, like a Samson shaking himself, is trying its strength, he had some dim notion of an unusual nocturnal proceeding. But the realities of his situation soon displaced conjecture on the other subject. He waited in expectancy to discern some mental pointing; he knew that if any intention of his, concluded over-night, did not vanish in the light of morning, it stood on a basis approximating to one of pure reason, even if initiated by impulse of feeling; that it was so far, therefore, to be trusted. He thus beheld in the pale morning light the resolve to separate from her; not as a hot and indignant instinct, but denuded of the passionateness which had made it scorch and burn; standing in its bones; nothing but a skeleton, but none the less there. Clare no longer hesitated. At breakfast, and while they were packing the few remaining articles, he showed his weariness from the night's effort so unmistakeably that Tess was on the point of revealing all that had happened; but the reflection that it would anger him, grieve him, stultify him, to know that he had instinctively manifested a fondness for her of which his common-sense did not approve, that his inclination had compromised his dignity when reason slept, again deterred her. It was too much like laughing at a man when sober for his erratic deeds during intoxication. It just crossed her mind, too, that he might have a faint recollection of his tender vagary, and was disinclined to allude to it from a conviction that she would take amatory advantage of the opportunity it gave her of appealing to him anew not to go. He had ordered by letter a vehicle from the nearest town, and soon after breakfast it arrived. She saw in it the beginning of the end--the temporary end, at least, for the revelation of his tenderness by the incident of the night raised dreams of a possible future with him. The luggage was put on the top, and the man drove them off, the miller and the old waiting-woman expressing some surprise at their precipitate departure, which Clare attributed to his discovery that the mill-work was not of the modern kind which he wished to investigate, a statement that was true so far as it went. Beyond this there was nothing in the manner of their leaving to suggest a fiasco, or that they were not going together to visit friends. Their route lay near the dairy from which they had started with such solemn joy in each other a few days back, and as Clare wished to wind up his business with Mr Crick, Tess could hardly avoid paying Mrs Crick a call at the same time, unless she would excite suspicion of their unhappy state. To make the call as unobtrusive as possible, they left the carriage by the wicket leading down from the high road to the dairy-house, and descended the track on foot, side by side. The withy-bed had been cut, and they could see over the stumps the spot to which Clare had followed her when he pressed her to be his wife; to the left the enclosure in which she had been fascinated by his harp; and far away behind the cow-stalls the mead which had been the scene of their first embrace. The gold of the summer picture was now gray, the colours mean, the rich soil mud, and the river cold. Over the barton-gate the dairyman saw them, and came forward, throwing into his face the kind of jocularity deemed appropriate in Talbothays and its vicinity on the re-appearance of the newly-married. Then Mrs Crick emerged from the house, and several others of their old acquaintance, though Marian and Retty did not seem to be there. Tess valiantly bore their sly attacks and friendly humours, which affected her far otherwise than they supposed. In the tacit agreement of husband and wife to keep their estrangement a secret they behaved as would have been ordinary. And then, although she would rather there had been no word spoken on the subject, Tess had to hear in detail the story of Marian and Retty. The later had gone home to her father's, and Marian had left to look for employment elsewhere. They feared she would come to no good. To dissipate the sadness of this recital Tess went and bade all her favourite cows goodbye, touching each of them with her hand, and as she and Clare stood side by side at leaving, as if united body and soul, there would have been something peculiarly sorry in their aspect to one who should have seen it truly; two limbs of one life, as they outwardly were, his arm touching hers, her skirts touching him, facing one way, as against all the dairy facing the other, speaking in their adieux as "we", and yet sundered like the poles. Perhaps something unusually stiff and embarrassed in their attitude, some awkwardness in acting up to their profession of unity, different from the natural shyness of young couples, may have been apparent, for when they were gone Mrs Crick said to her husband-- "How onnatural the brightness of her eyes did seem, and how they stood like waxen images and talked as if they were in a dream! Didn't it strike 'ee that 'twas so? Tess had always sommat strange in her, and she's not now quite like the proud young bride of a well-be-doing man." They re-entered the vehicle, and were driven along the roads towards Weatherbury and Stagfoot Lane, till they reached the Lane inn, where Clare dismissed the fly and man. They rested here a while, and entering the Vale were next driven onward towards her home by a stranger who did not know their relations. At a midway point, when Nuttlebury had been passed, and where there were cross-roads, Clare stopped the conveyance and said to Tess that if she meant to return to her mother's house it was here that he would leave her. As they could not talk with freedom in the driver's presence he asked her to accompany him for a few steps on foot along one of the branch roads; she assented, and directing the man to wait a few minutes they strolled away. "Now, let us understand each other," he said gently. "There is no anger between us, though there is that which I cannot endure at present. I will try to bring myself to endure it. I will let you know where I go to as soon as I know myself. And if I can bring myself to bear it--if it is desirable, possible--I will come to you. But until I come to you it will be better that you should not try to come to me." The severity of the decree seemed deadly to Tess; she saw his view of her clearly enough; he could regard her in no other light than that of one who had practised gross deceit upon him. Yet could a woman who had done even what she had done deserve all this? But she could contest the point with him no further. She simply repeated after him his own words. "Until you come to me I must not try to come to you?" "Just so." "May I write to you?" "O yes--if you are ill, or want anything at all. I hope that will not be the case; so that it may happen that I write first to you." "I agree to the conditions, Angel; because you know best what my punishment ought to be; only--only--don't make it more than I can bear!" That was all she said on the matter. If Tess had been artful, had she made a scene, fainted, wept hysterically, in that lonely lane, notwithstanding the fury of fastidiousness with which he was possessed, he would probably not have withstood her. But her mood of long-suffering made his way easy for him, and she herself was his best advocate. Pride, too, entered into her submission--which perhaps was a symptom of that reckless acquiescence in chance too apparent in the whole d'Urberville family--and the many effective chords which she could have stirred by an appeal were left untouched. The remainder of their discourse was on practical matters only. He now handed her a packet containing a fairly good sum of money, which he had obtained from his bankers for the purpose. The brilliants, the interest in which seemed to be Tess's for her life only (if he understood the wording of the will), he advised her to let him send to a bank for safety; and to this she readily agreed. These things arranged, he walked with Tess back to the carriage, and handed her in. The coachman was paid and told where to drive her. Taking next his own bag and umbrella--the sole articles he had brought with him hitherwards--he bade her goodbye; and they parted there and then. The fly moved creepingly up a hill, and Clare watched it go with an unpremeditated hope that Tess would look out of the window for one moment. But that she never thought of doing, would not have ventured to do, lying in a half-dead faint inside. Thus he beheld her recede, and in the anguish of his heart quoted a line from a poet, with peculiar emendations of his own-- God's NOT in his heaven: All's WRONG with the world! When Tess had passed over the crest of the hill he turned to go his own way, and hardly knew that he loved her still.

Chapter XXXVII

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase5-chapter35-44

The night before returning to Marlott, Tess awakens in the night to find Angel hovering over her while sleepwalking. Dead. dead. dead. he whispers, wraps her in a sheet, carries her outside over a narrow bridge to the churchyard, where he places her in a coffin. He remembers nothing. Angel gives Tess fifty pounds and tells her she can call on his father in case of emergency. She is not to come to him but to wait to hear from him after he learns to live with her past

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/59.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_57_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 58

chapter 58

{"name": "Phase VII: \"Fulfillment,\" Chapter Fifty-Eight", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-58", "summary": "The next morning, Angel wakes up early and sneaks out to buy some food at a nearby village. Tess doesn't want to leave the house, since they're so secluded there from the outside world. Angel agrees to stay another night. Unfortunately, the caretaker of the house comes by to check things out early the next morning, and sees them while they're asleep. She assumes that they're a rich couple who decided to elope, and doesn't wake them, but she does go to ask her neighbors about what to do. They wake up a few minutes later, and have a vague fear that something's wrong, so they set out again. Angel decides that they had better avoid London and try to make for Bristol, a coastal town where they can find a ship, instead. They head cross-country, and walk well into the night. The moon is behind a cloud, and they almost walk into a huge upright stone. After asking themselves where they could possibly be, they feel around and discover that they're in a huge circle of upright stones, some of which have equally huge stones lying crossways above them. It's Stonehenge, they realize. Tess stretches out on one of the horizontal stones, which is still warm from the sun, even though it's dark now. She asks Angel to look after 'Liza-Lu if anything should happen to her. Angel promises. Tess goes further, and asks if he would marry 'Liza-Lu if she should die, which she figures she probably will. Angel objects--he doesn't want Tess to die, and it would be kind of weird to marry his sister-in-law. Eventually, Tess falls asleep, and Angel stays next to her, holding her hand. Just as the sun comes up, Angel realizes that they're surrounded by men coming to arrest Tess. He looks for a weapon, but the man in front tells him it's no use. Angel then begs for them at least to allow Tess to finish her sleep, which they agree to. She's not surprised when she wakes up, and says she's ready.", "analysis": ""}

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

Phase VII: "Fulfillment," Chapter Fifty-Eight

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-58

The next morning, Angel wakes up early and sneaks out to buy some food at a nearby village. Tess doesn't want to leave the house, since they're so secluded there from the outside world. Angel agrees to stay another night. Unfortunately, the caretaker of the house comes by to check things out early the next morning, and sees them while they're asleep. She assumes that they're a rich couple who decided to elope, and doesn't wake them, but she does go to ask her neighbors about what to do. They wake up a few minutes later, and have a vague fear that something's wrong, so they set out again. Angel decides that they had better avoid London and try to make for Bristol, a coastal town where they can find a ship, instead. They head cross-country, and walk well into the night. The moon is behind a cloud, and they almost walk into a huge upright stone. After asking themselves where they could possibly be, they feel around and discover that they're in a huge circle of upright stones, some of which have equally huge stones lying crossways above them. It's Stonehenge, they realize. Tess stretches out on one of the horizontal stones, which is still warm from the sun, even though it's dark now. She asks Angel to look after 'Liza-Lu if anything should happen to her. Angel promises. Tess goes further, and asks if he would marry 'Liza-Lu if she should die, which she figures she probably will. Angel objects--he doesn't want Tess to die, and it would be kind of weird to marry his sister-in-law. Eventually, Tess falls asleep, and Angel stays next to her, holding her hand. Just as the sun comes up, Angel realizes that they're surrounded by men coming to arrest Tess. He looks for a weapon, but the man in front tells him it's no use. Angel then begs for them at least to allow Tess to finish her sleep, which they agree to. She's not surprised when she wakes up, and says she's ready.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/30.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_29_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 30

part 1, chapter 30

{"name": "Part 1, Chapter 30", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-30", "summary": "Father Pirard travels to Paris to meet with the Marquis de La Mole. He asks Pirard if he'd consider leaving the priesthood to become his personal assistant. The salary is generous, but Pirard declines. He suggests Julien Sorel as an alternative. The marquis agrees. Julien gets the letter asking him to come to Paris immediately. He travels to the bishop's house to say he's leaving. He says goodbye to his friend Fouqe too. Before leaving, he rides back to Verrieres and buys a ladder. He brings the ladder back to the de Renal house and uses it to sneak up into Madame de Renal's bedroom. She is shocked to see him, but also happy. The two of them spend the night together and he waits a long time before leaving. While they talk, he realizes that the five hundred francs from Paris was not from her. When he finally leaves, some servants hear him and start shooting, thinking he's a burglar. He escapes, though.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER XXX AN AMBITIOUS MAN There is only one nobility, the title of duke; a marquis is ridiculous; the word duke makes one turn round. _Edinburgh Review_. The Marquis de la Mole received the abbe Pirard without any of those aristocratic mannerisms whose very politeness is at the same time so impertinent to one who understands them. It would have been a waste of time, and the Marquis was sufficiently expeditious in big affairs to have no time to lose. He had been intriguing for six months to get both the king and people to accept a minister who, as a matter of gratitude, was to make him a Duke. The Marquis had been asking his Besancon advocate for years on end for a clear and precise summary of his Franche-Comte lawsuits. How could the celebrated advocate explain to him what he did not understand himself? The little square of paper which the abbe handed him explained the whole matter. "My dear abbe," said the Marquis to him, having got through in less than five minutes all polite formulae of personal questions. "My dear abbe, in the midst of my pretended prosperity I lack the time to occupy myself seriously with two little matters which are rather important, my family and my affairs. I manage the fortune of my house on a large scale. I can carry it far. I manage my pleasures, and that is the first consideration in my eyes," he added, as he saw a look of astonishment in the abbe Pirard's eyes. Although a man of common sense, the abbe was surprised to hear a man talk so frankly about his pleasures. "Work doubtless exists in Paris," continued the great lord, "but it is perched on the fifth story, and as soon as I take anyone up, he takes an apartment on the second floor, and his wife starts a day at home; the result is no more work and no more efforts except either to be, or appear to be, a society man. That is the only thing they bother about, as soon as they have got their bread and butter. "For my lawsuits, yes, for every single one of them, I have, to put it plainly, advocates who quarrel to death. One died of consumption the day before yesterday. Taking my business all round, would you believe, monsieur, that for three years I have given up all hope of finding a man who deigns, during the time he is acting as my clerk, to give a little serious thought to what he is doing. Besides, all this is only a preliminary. "I respect you and would venture to add that, although I only see you for the first time to-day, I like you. Will you be my secretary at a salary of eight hundred francs or even double. I shall still be the gainer by it, I swear to you, and I will manage to reserve that fine living for you for the day when we shall no longer be able to agree." The abbe refused, but the genuine embarrassment in which he saw the Marquis suggested an idea to him towards the end of the conversation. "I have left in the depths of my seminary a poor young man who, if I mistake not, will be harshly persecuted. If he were only a simple monk he would be already _in pace_. So far this young man only knows Latin and the Holy Scriptures, but it is not impossible that he will one day exhibit great talent, either for preaching or the guiding of souls. I do not know what he will do, but he has the sacred fire. He may go far. I thought of giving him to our Bishop, if we had ever had one who was a little of your way of considering men and things." "What is your young man's extraction?" said the Marquis. "He is said to be the son of a carpenter in our mountains. I rather believe he is the natural son of some rich man. I have seen him receive an anonymous or pseudonymous letter with a bill for five hundred francs." "Oh, it is Julien Sorel," said the Marquis. "How do you know his name?" said the abbe, in astonishment, reddening at his question. "That's what I'm not going to tell you," answered the Marquis. "Well," replied the abbe, "you might try making him your secretary. He has energy. He has a logical mind. In a word, it's worth trying." "Why not?" said the Marquis. "But would he be the kind of man to allow his palm to be greased by the Prefect of Police or any one else and then spy on me? That is only my objection." After hearing the favourable assurances of the abbe Pirard, the Marquis took a thousand franc note. "Send this journey money to Julien Sorel. Let him come to me." "One sees at once," said the abbe Pirard, "that you live in Paris. You do not know the tyranny which weighs us poor provincials down, and particularly those priests who are not friendly to the Jesuits. They will refuse to let Julien Sorel leave. They will manage to cloak themselves in the most clever excuses. They will answer me that he is ill, that his letters were lost in the post, etc., etc." "I will get a letter from the minister to the Bishop, one of these days," answered the Marquis. "I was forgetting to warn you of one thing," said the abbe. "This young man, though of low birth, has a high spirit. He will be of no use if you madden his pride. You will make him stupid." "That pleases me," said the Marquis. "I will make him my son's comrade. Will that be enough for you?" Some time afterwards, Julien received a letter in an unknown writing, and bearing the Chelon postmark. He found in it a draft on a Besancon merchant, and instructions to present himself at Paris without delay. The letter was signed in a fictitious name, but Julien had felt a thrill in opening it. A leaf of a tree had fallen down at his feet. It was the agreed signal between himself and the abbe Pirard. Within an hour's time, Julien was summoned to the Bishop's Palace, where he found himself welcomed with a quite paternal benevolence. My lord quoted Horace and at the same time complimented him very adroitly on the exalted destiny which awaited him in Paris in such a way as to elicit an explanation by way of thanks. Julien was unable to say anything, simply because he did not know anything, and my Lord showed him much consideration. One of the little priests in the bishopric wrote to the mayor, who hastened to bring in person a signed passport, where the name of the traveller had been left in blank. Before midnight of the same evening, Julien was at Fouque's. His friend's shrewd mind was more astonished than pleased with the future which seemed to await his friend. "You will finish up," said that Liberal voter, "with a place in the Government, which will compel you to take some step which will be calumniated. It will only be by your own disgrace that I shall have news of you. Remember that, even from the financial standpoint, it is better to earn a hundred louis in a good timber business, of which one is his own master, than to receive four thousand francs from a Government, even though it were that of King Solomon." Julien saw nothing in this except the pettiness of spirit of a country bourgeois. At last he was going to make an appearance in the theatre of great events. Everything was over-shadowed in his eyes by the happiness of going to Paris, which he imagined to be populated by people of intellect, full of intrigues and full of hypocrisy, but as polite as the Bishop of Besancon and the Bishop of Agde. He represented to his friend that he was deprived of any free choice in the matter by the abbe Pirard's letter.' The following day he arrived at Verrieres about noon. He felt the happiest of men for he counted on seeing Madame de Renal again. He went first to his protector the good abbe Chelan. He met with a severe welcome. "Do you think you are under any obligation to me?" said M. Chelan to him, without answering his greeting. "You will take breakfast with me. During that time I will have a horse hired for you and you will leave Verrieres without seeing anyone." "Hearing is obeying," answered Julien with a demeanour smacking of the seminary, and the only questions now discussed were theology and classical Latin. He mounted his horse, rode a league, and then perceiving a wood and not seeing any one who could notice him enter, he plunged into it. At sunset, he sent away the horse. Later, he entered the cottage of a peasant, who consented to sell him a ladder and to follow him with it to the little wood which commands the _Cours de la Fidelite_ at Verrieres. "I have been following a poor mutineer of a conscript ... or a smuggler," said the peasant as he took leave of him, "but what does it matter? My ladder has been well paid for, and I myself have done a thing or two in that line." The night was very black. Towards one o'clock in the morning, Julien, laden with his ladder, entered Verrieres. He descended as soon as he could into the bed of the stream, which is banked within two walls, and traverses M. de Renal's magnificent gardens at a depth of ten feet. Julien easily climbed up the ladder. "How will the watch dogs welcome me," he thought. "It all turns on that." The dogs barked and galloped towards him, but he whistled softly and they came and caressed him. Then climbing from terrace to terrace he easily managed, although all the grills were shut, to get as far as the window of Madame de Renal's bedroom which, on the garden side, was only eight or six feet above the ground. There was a little heart shaped opening in the shutters which Julien knew well. To his great disappointment, this little opening was not illuminated by the flare of a little night-light inside. "Good God," he said to himself. "This room is not occupied by Madame de Renal. Where can she be sleeping? The family must be at Verrieres since I have found the dogs here, but I might meet M. de Renal himself, or even a stranger in this room without a light, and then what a scandal!" The most prudent course was to retreat, but this idea horrified Julien. "If it's a stranger, I will run away for all I'm worth, and leave my ladder behind me, but if it is she, what a welcome awaits me! I can well imagine that she has fallen into a mood of penitence and the most exalted piety, but after all, she still has some remembrance of me, since she has written to me." This bit of reasoning decided him. With a beating heart, but resolved none the less to see her or perish in the attempt, he threw some little pebbles against the shutter. No answer. He leaned his long ladder beside the window, and himself knocked on the shutter, at first softly, and then more strongly. "However dark it is, they may still shoot me," thought Julien. This idea made the mad adventure simply a question of bravery. "This room is not being slept in to-night," he thought, "or whatever person might be there would have woken up by now. So far as it is concerned, therefore, no further precautions are needed. I must only try not to be heard by the persons sleeping in the other rooms." He descended, placed his ladder against one of the shutters, climbed up again, and placing his hand through the heart-shaped opening, was fortunate enough to find pretty quickly the wire which is attached to the hook which closed the shutter. He pulled this wire. It was with an ineffable joy that he felt that the shutter was no longer held back, and yielded to his effort. I must open it bit by bit and let her recognise my voice. He opened the shutter enough to pass his head through it, while he repeated in a low voice, "It's a friend." He pricked up his ears and assured himself that nothing disturbed the profound silence of the room, but there could be no doubt about it, there was no light, even half-extinguished, on the mantelpiece. It was a very bad sign. "Look out for the gun-shot," he reflected a little, then he ventured to knock against the window with his finger. No answer. He knocked harder. I must finish it one way or another, even if I have to break the window. When he was knocking very hard, he thought he could catch a glimpse through the darkness of something like a white shadow that was crossing the room. At last there was no doubt about it. He saw a shadow which appeared to advance with extreme slowness. Suddenly he saw a cheek placed against the pane to which his eye was glued. He shuddered and went away a little, but the night was so black that he could not, even at this distance, distinguish if it were Madame de Renal. He was frightened of her crying out at first in alarm. He heard the dogs prowling and growling around the foot of the ladder. "It is I," he repeated fairly loudly. "A friend." No answer. The white phantom had disappeared. "Deign to open to me. I must speak to you. I am too unhappy." And he knocked hard enough to break the pane. A crisp sound followed. The casement fastening of the window yielded. He pushed the casement and leaped lightly into the room. The white phantom flitted away from him. He took hold of its arms. It was a woman. All his ideas of courage vanished. "If it is she, what is she going to say?" What were his emotions when a little cry gave him to understand, that it was Madame de Renal? He clasped her in his arms. She trembled and scarcely had the strength to push him away. "Unhappy man. What are you doing?" Her agonised voice could scarcely articulate the words. Julien thought that her voice rang with the most genuine indignation. "I have come to see you after a cruel separation of more than fourteen months." "Go away, leave me at once. Oh, M. Chelan, why did you prevent me writing to him? I could then have foreseen this horror." She pushed him away with a truly extraordinary strength. "Heaven has deigned to enlighten me," she repeated in a broken voice. "Go away! Flee!" "After fourteen months of unhappiness I shall certainly not leave you without a word. I want to know all you have done. Yes, I have loved you enough to deserve this confidence. I want to know everything." This authoritative tone dominated Madame de Renal's heart in spite of herself. Julien, who was hugging her passionately and resisting her efforts to get loose, left off clasping her in his arms. This reassured Madame de Renal a little. "I will take away the ladder," he said, "to prevent it compromising us in case some servant should be awakened by the noise, and go on a round." "Oh leave me, leave me!" she cried with an admirable anger. "What do men matter to me! It is God who sees the awful scene you are now making. You are abusing meanly the sentiments which I had for you but have no longer. Do you hear, Monsieur Julien?" He took away the ladder very slowly so as not to make a noise. "Is your husband in town, dear," he said to her not in order to defy her but as a sheer matter of habit. "Don't talk to me like that, I beg you, or I will call my husband. I feel only too guilty in not having sent you away before. I pity you," she said to him, trying to wound his, as she well knew, irritable pride. This refusal of all endearments, this abrupt way of breaking so tender a tie which he thought still subsisted, carried the transports of Julien's love to the point of delirium. "What! is it possible you do not love me?" he said to her, with one of those accents that come straight from the heart and impose a severe strain on the cold equanimity of the listener. She did not answer. As for him, he wept bitterly. In fact he had no longer the strength to speak. "So I am completely forgotten by the one being who ever loved me, what is the good of living on henceforth?" As soon as he had no longer to fear the danger of meeting a man all his courage had left him; his heart now contained no emotion except that of love. He wept for a long time in silence. He took her hand; she tried to take it away, and after a few almost convulsive moments, surrendered it to him. It was extremely dark; they were both sitting on Madame de Renal's bed. "What a change from fourteen months ago," thought Julien, and his tears redoubled. "So absence is really bound to destroy all human sentiments." "Deign to tell me what has happened to you?" Julien said at last. "My follies," answered Madame de Renal in a hard voice whose frigid intonation contained in it a certain element of reproach, "were no doubt known in the town when you left, your conduct was so imprudent. Some time afterwards when I was in despair the venerable Chelan came to see me. He tried in vain for a long time to obtain a confession. One day he took me to that church at Dijon where I made my first communion. In that place he ventured to speak himself----" Madame de Renal was interrupted by her tears. "What a moment of shame. I confessed everything. The good man was gracious enough not to overwhelm me with the weight of his indignation. He grieved with me. During that time I used to write letters to you every day which I never ventured to send. I hid them carefully and when I was more than usually unhappy I shut myself up in my room and read over my letters." "At last M. Chelan induced me to hand them over to him, some of them written a little more discreetly were sent to you, you never answered." "I never received any letters from you, I swear!" "Great heavens! Who can have intercepted them? Imagine my grief until the day I saw you in the cathedral. I did not know if you were still alive." "God granted me the grace of understanding how much I was sinning towards Him, towards my children, towards my husband," went on Madame de Renal. "He never loved me in the way that I then thought that you had loved me." Julien rushed into her arms, as a matter of fact without any particular purpose and feeling quite beside himself. But Madame de Renal repelled him and continued fairly firmly. "My venerable friend, M. Chelan, made me understand that in marrying I had plighted all my affections, even those which I did not then know, and which I had never felt before a certain fatal attachment ... after the great sacrifice of the letters that were so dear to me, my life has flowed on, if not happily, at any rate calmly. Do not disturb it. Be a friend to me, my best friend." Julien covered her hand with kisses. She perceived he was still crying. "Do not cry, you pain me so much. Tell me, in your turn, what you have been doing," Julien was unable to speak. "I want to know the life you lead at the seminary," she repeated. "And then you will go." Without thinking about what he was saying Julien spoke of the numberless intrigues and jealousies which he had first encountered, and then of the great serenity of his life after he had been made a tutor. "It was then," he added, "that after a long silence which was no doubt intended to make me realise what I see only too clearly to-day, that you no longer loved me and that I had become a matter of indifference to you...." Madame de Renal wrung her hands. "It was then that you sent me the sum of five hundred francs." "Never," said Madame de Renal. "It was a letter stamped Paris and signed Paul Sorel so as to avert suspicion." There was a little discussion about how the letter could possibly have originated. The psychological situation was altered. Without knowing it Julien had abandoned his solemn tone; they were now once more on the footing of a tender affection. It was so dark that they did not see each other but the tone of their voices was eloquent of everything. Julien clasped his arm round his love's waist. This movement had its dangers. She tried to put Julien's arms away from her; at this juncture he cleverly diverted her attention by an interesting detail in his story. The arm was practically forgotten and remained in its present position. After many conjectures as to the origin of the five hundred francs letter, Julien took up his story. He regained a little of his self-control as he spoke of his past life, which compared with what he was now experiencing interested him so little. His attention was now concentrated on the final outcome of of his visit. "You will have to go," were the curt words he heard from time to time. "What a disgrace for me if I am dismissed. My remorse will embitter all my life," he said to himself, "she will never write to me. God knows when I shall come back to this part of the country." From this moment Julien's heart became rapidly oblivious of all the heavenly delights of his present position. Seated as he was close to a woman whom he adored and practically clasping her in his arms in this room, the scene of his former happiness, amid a deep obscurity, seeing quite clearly as he did that she had just started crying, and feeling that she was sobbing from the heaving of her chest, he was unfortunate enough to turn into a cold diplomatist, nearly as cold as in those days when in the courtyard of the seminary he found himself the butt of some malicious joke on the part of one of his comrades who was stronger than he was. Julien protracted his story by talking of his unhappy life since his departure from Verrieres. "So," said Madame de Renal to herself, "after a year's absence and deprived almost entirely of all tokens of memory while I myself was forgetting him, he only thought of the happy days that he had had in Verrieres." Her sobs redoubled. Julien saw the success of his story. He realised that he must play his last card. He abruptly mentioned a letter he had just received from Paris. "I have taken leave of my Lord Bishop." "What! you are not going back to Besancon? You are leaving us for ever?" "Yes," answered Julien resolutely, "yes, I am leaving a country where I have been forgotten even by the woman whom I loved more than anyone in my life; I am leaving it and I shall never see it again. I am going to Paris." "You are going to Paris, dear," exclaimed Madame de Renal. Her voice was almost choked by her tears and showed the extremity of her trouble. Julien had need of this encouragement. He was on the point of executing a manoeuvre which might decide everything against him; and up to the time of this exclamation he could not tell what effect he was producing as he was unable to see. He no longer hesitated. The fear of remorse gave him complete control over himself. He coldly added as he got up. "Yes, madame, I leave you for ever. May you be happy. Adieu." He moved some steps towards the window. He began to open it. Madame de Renal rushed to him and threw herself into his arms. So it was in this way that, after a dialogue lasting three hours, Julien obtained what he desired so passionately during the first two hours. Madame de Renal's return to her tender feelings and this overshadowing of her remorse would have been a divine happiness had they come a little earlier; but, as they had been obtained by artifice, they were simply a pleasure. Julien insisted on lighting the night-light in spite of his mistress's opposition. "Do you wish me then," he said to her "to have no recollection of having seen you. Is the love in those charming eyes to be lost to me for ever? Is the whiteness of that pretty hand to remain invisible? Remember that perhaps I am leaving you for a very long time." Madame de Renal could refuse him nothing. His argument made her melt into tears. But the dawn was beginning to throw into sharp relief the outlines of the pine trees on the mountain east of Verrieres. Instead of going away Julien, drunk with pleasure, asked Madame de Renal to let him pass the day in her room and leave the following night. "And why not?" she answered. "This fatal relapse robs me of all my respect and will mar all my life," and she pressed him to her heart. "My husband is no longer the same; he has suspicions, he believes I led him the way I wanted in all this business, and shows great irritation against me. If he hears the slightest noise I shall be ruined, he will hound me out like the unhappy woman that I am." "Ah here we have a phrase of M. Chelan's," said Julien "you would not have talked like that before my cruel departure to the seminary; in those days you used to love me." Julien was rewarded for the frigidity which he put into those words. He saw his love suddenly forget the danger which her husband's presence compelled her to run, in thinking of the much greater danger of seeing Julien doubt her love. The daylight grew rapidly brighter and vividly illuminated the room. Julien savoured once more all the deliciousness of pride, when he saw this charming woman in his arms and almost at his feet, the only woman whom he had ever loved, and who had been entirely absorbed only a few hours before by her fear of a terrible God and her devotion to her duties. Resolutions, fortified by a year's persuasion, had failed to hold out against his courage. They soon heard a noise in the house. A matter that Madame de Renal had not thought of began to trouble her. "That wicked Elisa will come into the room. What are we to do with this enormous ladder?" she said to her sweetheart, "where are we to hide it? I will take it to the loft," she exclaimed suddenly half playfully. "But you will have to pass through the servants' room," said Julien in astonishment. "I will leave the ladder in the corridor and will call the servant and send him on an errand." "Think of some explanation to have ready in the event of a servant passing the ladder and noticing it in the corridor." "Yes, my angel," said Madame de Renal giving him a kiss "as for you, dear, remember to hide under the bed pretty quickly if Elisa enters here during my absence." Julien was astonished by this sudden gaiety--"So" he thought, "the approach of a real danger instead of troubling her gives her back her spirits before she forgets her remorse. Truly a superior woman. Yes, that's a heart over which it is glorious to reign." Julien was transported with delight. Madame de Renal took the ladder, which was obviously too heavy for her. Julien went to her help. He was admiring that elegant figure which was so far from betokening any strength when she suddenly seized the ladder without assistance and took it up as if it had been a chair. She took it rapidly into the corridor of the third storey where she laid it alongside the wall. She called a servant, and in order to give him time to dress himself, went up into the dovecot. Five minutes later, when she came back to the corridor, she found no signs of the ladder. What had happened to it? If Julien had been out of the house she would not have minded the danger in the least. But supposing her husband were to see the ladder just now, the incident might be awful. Madame de Renal ran all over the house. Madame de Renal finally discovered the ladder under the roof where the servant had carried it and even hid it. "What does it matter what happens in twenty-four hours," she thought, "when Julien will be gone?" She had a vague idea that she ought to take leave of life but what mattered her duty? He was restored to her after a separation which she had thought eternal. She was seeing him again and the efforts he had made to reach her showed the extent of his love. "What shall I say to my husband," she said to him. "If the servant tells him he found this ladder?" She was pensive for a moment. "They will need twenty-four hours to discover the peasant who sold it to you." And she threw herself into Julien's arms and clasped him convulsively. "Oh, if I could only die like this," she cried covering him with kisses. "But you mustn't die of starvation," she said with a smile. "Come, I will first hide you in Madame Derville's room which is always locked." She went and watched at the other end of the corridor and Julien ran in. "Mind you don't try and open if any one knocks," she said as she locked him in. "Anyway it would only be a frolic of the children as they play together." "Get them to come into the garden under the window," said Julien, "so that I may have the pleasure of seeing them. Make them speak." "Yes, yes," cried Madame de Renal to him as she went away. She soon returned with oranges, biscuits and a bottle of Malaga wine. She had not been able to steal any bread. "What is your husband doing?" said Julien. "He is writing out the figures of the bargains he is going to make with the peasants." But eight o'clock had struck and they were making a lot of noise in the house. If Madame de Renal failed to put in an appearance, they would look for her all over the house. She was obliged to leave him. Soon she came back, in defiance of all prudence, bringing him a cup of coffee. She was frightened lest he should die of starvation. She managed after breakfast to bring the children under the window of Madame Derville's room. He thought they had grown a great deal, but they had begun to look common, or else his ideas had changed. Madame de Renal spoke to them about Julien. The elder answered in an affectionate tone and regretted his old tutor, but he found that the younger children had almost forgotten him. M. de Renal did not go out that morning; he was going up and downstairs incessantly engaged in bargaining with some peasants to whom he was selling potatoes. Madame de Renal did not have an instant to give to her prisoner until dinner-time. When the bell had been rung and dinner had been served, it occurred to her to steal a plate of warm soup for him. As she noiselessly approached the door of the room which he occupied, she found herself face to face with the servant who had hid the ladder in the morning. At the time he too was going noiselessly along the corridor, as though listening for something. The servant took himself off in some confusion. Madame de Renal boldly entered Julien's room. The news of this encounter made him shudder. "You are frightened," she said to him, "but I would brave all the dangers in the world without flinching. There is only one thing I fear, and that is the moment when I shall be alone after you have left," and she left him and ran downstairs. "Ah," thought Julien ecstatically, "remorse is the only danger which this sublime soul is afraid of." At last evening came. Monsieur de Renal went to the Casino. His wife had given out that she was suffering from an awful headache. She went to her room, hastened to dismiss Elisa and quickly got up in order to let Julien out. He was literally starving. Madame de Renal went to the pantry to fetch some bread. Julien heard a loud cry. Madame de Renal came back and told him that when she went to the dark pantry and got near the cupboard where they kept the bread, she had touched a woman's arm as she stretched out her hand. It was Elisa who had uttered the cry Julien had heard. "What was she doing there?" "Stealing some sweets or else spying on us," said Madame de Renal with complete indifference, "but luckily I found a pie and a big loaf of bread." "But what have you got there?" said Julien pointing to the pockets of her apron. Madame de Renal had forgotten that they had been filled with bread since dinner. Julien clasped her in his arms with the most lively passion. She had never seemed to him so beautiful. "I could not meet a woman of greater character even at Paris," he said confusedly to himself. She combined all the clumsiness of a woman who was but little accustomed to paying attentions of this kind, with all the genuine courage of a person who is only afraid of dangers of quite a different sphere and quite a different kind of awfulness. While Julien was enjoying his supper with a hearty appetite and his sweetheart was rallying him on the simplicity of the meal, the door of the room was suddenly shaken violently. It was M. de Renal. "Why have you shut yourself in?" he cried to her. Julien had only just time to slip under the sofa. On any ordinary day Madame de Renal would have been upset by this question which was put with true conjugal harshness; but she realised that M. de Renal had only to bend down a little to notice Julien, for M. de Renal had flung himself into the chair opposite the sofa which Julien had been sitting in one moment before. Her headache served as an excuse for everything. While her husband on his side went into a long-winded account of the billiards pool which he had won at Casino, "yes, to be sure a nineteen franc pool," he added. She noticed Julien's hat on a chair three paces in front of them. Her self-possession became twice as great, she began to undress, and rapidly passing one minute behind her husband threw her dress over the chair with the hat on it. At last M. de Renal left. She begged Julien to start over again his account of his life at the Seminary. "I was not listening to you yesterday all the time you were speaking, I was only thinking of prevailing on myself to send you away." She was the personification of indiscretion. They talked very loud and about two o'clock in the morning they were interrupted by a violent knock at the door. It was M. de Renal again. "Open quickly, there are thieves in the house!" he said. "Saint Jean found their ladder this morning." "This is the end of everything," cried Madame de Renal, throwing herself into Julien's arms. "He will kill both of us, he doesn't believe there are any thieves. I will die in your arms, and be more happy in my death than I ever was in my life." She made no attempt to answer her husband who was beginning to lose his temper, but started kissing Julien passionately. "Save Stanislas's mother," he said to her with an imperious look. "I will jump down into the courtyard through the lavatory window, and escape in the garden; the dogs have recognised me. Make my clothes into a parcel and throw them into the garden as soon as you can. In the meanwhile let him break the door down. But above all, no confession, I forbid you to confess, it is better that he should suspect rather than be certain." "You will kill yourself as you jump!" was her only answer and her only anxiety. She went with him to the lavatory window; she then took sufficient time to hide his clothes. She finally opened the door to her husband who was boiling with rage. He looked in the room and in the lavatory without saying a word and disappeared. Julien's clothes were thrown down to him; he seized them and ran rapidly towards the bottom of the garden in the direction of the Doubs. As he was running he heard a bullet whistle past him, and heard at the same time the report of a gun. "It is not M. de Renal," he thought, "he's far too bad a shot." The dogs ran silently at his side, the second shot apparently broke the paw of one dog, for he began to whine piteously. Julien jumped the wall of the terrace, did fifty paces under cover, and began to fly in another direction. He heard voices calling and had a distinct view of his enemy the servant firing a gun; a farmer also began to shoot away from the other side of the garden. Julien had already reached the bank of the Doubs where he dressed himself. An hour later he was a league from Verrieres on the Geneva road. "If they had suspicions," thought Julien, "they will look for me on the Paris road."

Part 1, Chapter 30

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-30

Father Pirard travels to Paris to meet with the Marquis de La Mole. He asks Pirard if he'd consider leaving the priesthood to become his personal assistant. The salary is generous, but Pirard declines. He suggests Julien Sorel as an alternative. The marquis agrees. Julien gets the letter asking him to come to Paris immediately. He travels to the bishop's house to say he's leaving. He says goodbye to his friend Fouqe too. Before leaving, he rides back to Verrieres and buys a ladder. He brings the ladder back to the de Renal house and uses it to sneak up into Madame de Renal's bedroom. She is shocked to see him, but also happy. The two of them spend the night together and he waits a long time before leaving. While they talk, he realizes that the five hundred francs from Paris was not from her. When he finally leaves, some servants hear him and start shooting, thinking he's a burglar. He escapes, though.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_5_part_2.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 15

chapter 15

{"name": "CHAPTER 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD24.asp", "summary": "Tess remains with her parents during the winter months. The loss of her baby in August has made her even more pensive and melancholy. She longs to leave Marlott and work some place where she can hide from her past. After waiting for over a year, she finally gets a job as a milkmaid at the Talbothay's farm. In springtime, she departs without hesitation, for she knows that she can never find peace in Marlott, where they judge her by her past.", "analysis": "Notes Tess slips into an almost trance-like existence without emotion or sentiment. Her indelible memories, however, continue to remind her that her future holds nothing in store for her except sorrow and grief. She accepts her fate without complaining, for unhappiness by now, has simply become a way of life for this poor country girl. Hardy seems to challenge the idea that a fallen woman cannot have a future. He sounds pragmatic when he indicates that she could recover from the sin of her lost chastity if she is successful in veiling her past. At the end of the chapter, Tess is leaving Marlott and her accusers behind. It is important to notice that it is spring when Tess departs to find a new life for herself. It is significant because spring is the time of new beginnings and hope, foreshadowing that Tess may finally be moving towards happiness"}

"By experience," says Roger Ascham, "we find out a short way by a long wandering." Not seldom that long wandering unfits us for further travel, and of what use is our experience to us then? Tess Durbeyfield's experience was of this incapacitating kind. At last she had learned what to do; but who would now accept her doing? If before going to the d'Urbervilles' she had vigorously moved under the guidance of sundry gnomic texts and phrases known to her and to the world in general, no doubt she would never have been imposed on. But it had not been in Tess's power--nor is it in anybody's power--to feel the whole truth of golden opinions while it is possible to profit by them. She--and how many more--might have ironically said to God with Saint Augustine: "Thou hast counselled a better course than Thou hast permitted." She remained at her father's house during the winter months, plucking fowls, or cramming turkeys and geese, or making clothes for her sisters and brothers out of some finery which d'Urberville had given her, and she had put by with contempt. Apply to him she would not. But she would often clasp her hands behind her head and muse when she was supposed to be working hard. She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year; the disastrous night of her undoing at Trantridge with its dark background of The Chase; also the dates of the baby's birth and death; also her own birthday; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it? Why did she not feel the chill of each yearly encounter with such a cold relation? She had Jeremy Taylor's thought that some time in the future those who had known her would say: "It is the ----th, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died"; and there would be nothing singular to their minds in the statement. Of that day, doomed to be her terminus in time through all the ages, she did not know the place in month, week, season or year. Almost at a leap Tess thus changed from simple girl to complex woman. Symbols of reflectiveness passed into her face, and a note of tragedy at times into her voice. Her eyes grew larger and more eloquent. She became what would have been called a fine creature; her aspect was fair and arresting; her soul that of a woman whom the turbulent experiences of the last year or two had quite failed to demoralize. But for the world's opinion those experiences would have been simply a liberal education. She had held so aloof of late that her trouble, never generally known, was nearly forgotten in Marlott. But it became evident to her that she could never be really comfortable again in a place which had seen the collapse of her family's attempt to "claim kin"--and, through her, even closer union--with the rich d'Urbervilles. At least she could not be comfortable there till long years should have obliterated her keen consciousness of it. Yet even now Tess felt the pulse of hopeful life still warm within her; she might be happy in some nook which had no memories. To escape the past and all that appertained thereto was to annihilate it, and to do that she would have to get away. Was once lost always lost really true of chastity? she would ask herself. She might prove it false if she could veil bygones. The recuperative power which pervaded organic nature was surely not denied to maidenhood alone. She waited a long time without finding opportunity for a new departure. A particularly fine spring came round, and the stir of germination was almost audible in the buds; it moved her, as it moved the wild animals, and made her passionate to go. At last, one day in early May, a letter reached her from a former friend of her mother's, to whom she had addressed inquiries long before--a person whom she had never seen--that a skilful milkmaid was required at a dairy-house many miles to the southward, and that the dairyman would be glad to have her for the summer months. It was not quite so far off as could have been wished; but it was probably far enough, her radius of movement and repute having been so small. To persons of limited spheres, miles are as geographical degrees, parishes as counties, counties as provinces and kingdoms. On one point she was resolved: there should be no more d'Urberville air-castles in the dreams and deeds of her new life. She would be the dairymaid Tess, and nothing more. Her mother knew Tess's feeling on this point so well, though no words had passed between them on the subject, that she never alluded to the knightly ancestry now. Yet such is human inconsistency that one of the interests of the new place to her was the accidental virtues of its lying near her forefathers' country (for they were not Blakemore men, though her mother was Blakemore to the bone). The dairy called Talbothays, for which she was bound, stood not remotely from some of the former estates of the d'Urbervilles, near the great family vaults of her granddames and their powerful husbands. She would be able to look at them, and think not only that d'Urberville, like Babylon, had fallen, but that the individual innocence of a humble descendant could lapse as silently. All the while she wondered if any strange good thing might come of her being in her ancestral land; and some spirit within her rose automatically as the sap in the twigs. It was unexpected youth, surging up anew after its temporary check, and bringing with it hope, and the invincible instinct towards self-delight. END OF PHASE THE SECOND Phase the Third: The Rally

CHAPTER 15

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD24.asp

Tess remains with her parents during the winter months. The loss of her baby in August has made her even more pensive and melancholy. She longs to leave Marlott and work some place where she can hide from her past. After waiting for over a year, she finally gets a job as a milkmaid at the Talbothay's farm. In springtime, she departs without hesitation, for she knows that she can never find peace in Marlott, where they judge her by her past.

Notes Tess slips into an almost trance-like existence without emotion or sentiment. Her indelible memories, however, continue to remind her that her future holds nothing in store for her except sorrow and grief. She accepts her fate without complaining, for unhappiness by now, has simply become a way of life for this poor country girl. Hardy seems to challenge the idea that a fallen woman cannot have a future. He sounds pragmatic when he indicates that she could recover from the sin of her lost chastity if she is successful in veiling her past. At the end of the chapter, Tess is leaving Marlott and her accusers behind. It is important to notice that it is spring when Tess departs to find a new life for herself. It is significant because spring is the time of new beginnings and hope, foreshadowing that Tess may finally be moving towards happiness

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_19_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 20

chapter 20

{"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-20", "summary": "Now we're with Bathsheba, who's sitting around and worrying about this whole thing she's started with Boldwood. She admits to herself that she likes him, but she doesn't like-like him. The day after Boldwood's proposal, Bathsheba visits Gabriel Oak at the bottom of her garden. She asks him whether the men are saying anything about her hanging out with Boldwood. He admits that people are talking about her and Boldwood marrying, and then holds her hands to show her how to hold shears to a grindstone. She tells Oak that she wants him to go around and set the record straight; she won't be marrying Boldwood. Oak says he has something to say about the way Bathsheba has led Boldwood on, but she says she doesn't want to hear it. When he persists, though, she snaps and orders him to leave her farm and never come back. So he does.", "analysis": ""}

PERPLEXITY--GRINDING THE SHEARS--A QUARREL "He is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that I can desire," Bathsheba mused. Yet Farmer Boldwood, whether by nature kind or the reverse to kind, did not exercise kindness, here. The rarest offerings of the purest loves are but a self-indulgence, and no generosity at all. Bathsheba, not being the least in love with him, was eventually able to look calmly at his offer. It was one which many women of her own station in the neighbourhood, and not a few of higher rank, would have been wild to accept and proud to publish. In every point of view, ranging from politic to passionate, it was desirable that she, a lonely girl, should marry, and marry this earnest, well-to-do, and respected man. He was close to her doors: his standing was sufficient: his qualities were even supererogatory. Had she felt, which she did not, any wish whatever for the married state in the abstract, she could not reasonably have rejected him, being a woman who frequently appealed to her understanding for deliverance from her whims. Boldwood as a means to marriage was unexceptionable: she esteemed and liked him, yet she did not want him. It appears that ordinary men take wives because possession is not possible without marriage, and that ordinary women accept husbands because marriage is not possible without possession; with totally differing aims the method is the same on both sides. But the understood incentive on the woman's part was wanting here. Besides, Bathsheba's position as absolute mistress of a farm and house was a novel one, and the novelty had not yet begun to wear off. But a disquiet filled her which was somewhat to her credit, for it would have affected few. Beyond the mentioned reasons with which she combated her objections, she had a strong feeling that, having been the one who began the game, she ought in honesty to accept the consequences. Still the reluctance remained. She said in the same breath that it would be ungenerous not to marry Boldwood, and that she couldn't do it to save her life. Bathsheba's was an impulsive nature under a deliberative aspect. An Elizabeth in brain and a Mary Stuart in spirit, she often performed actions of the greatest temerity with a manner of extreme discretion. Many of her thoughts were perfect syllogisms; unluckily they always remained thoughts. Only a few were irrational assumptions; but, unfortunately, they were the ones which most frequently grew into deeds. The next day to that of the declaration she found Gabriel Oak at the bottom of her garden, grinding his shears for the sheep-shearing. All the surrounding cottages were more or less scenes of the same operation; the scurr of whetting spread into the sky from all parts of the village as from an armoury previous to a campaign. Peace and war kiss each other at their hours of preparation--sickles, scythes, shears, and pruning-hooks, ranking with swords, bayonets, and lances, in their common necessity for point and edge. Cainy Ball turned the handle of Gabriel's grindstone, his head performing a melancholy see-saw up and down with each turn of the wheel. Oak stood somewhat as Eros is represented when in the act of sharpening his arrows: his figure slightly bent, the weight of his body thrown over on the shears, and his head balanced side-ways, with a critical compression of the lips and contraction of the eyelids to crown the attitude. His mistress came up and looked upon them in silence for a minute or two; then she said-- "Cain, go to the lower mead and catch the bay mare. I'll turn the winch of the grindstone. I want to speak to you, Gabriel." Cain departed, and Bathsheba took the handle. Gabriel had glanced up in intense surprise, quelled its expression, and looked down again. Bathsheba turned the winch, and Gabriel applied the shears. The peculiar motion involved in turning a wheel has a wonderful tendency to benumb the mind. It is a sort of attenuated variety of Ixion's punishment, and contributes a dismal chapter to the history of gaols. The brain gets muddled, the head grows heavy, and the body's centre of gravity seems to settle by degrees in a leaden lump somewhere between the eyebrows and the crown. Bathsheba felt the unpleasant symptoms after two or three dozen turns. "Will you turn, Gabriel, and let me hold the shears?" she said. "My head is in a whirl, and I can't talk." Gabriel turned. Bathsheba then began, with some awkwardness, allowing her thoughts to stray occasionally from her story to attend to the shears, which required a little nicety in sharpening. "I wanted to ask you if the men made any observations on my going behind the sedge with Mr. Boldwood yesterday?" "Yes, they did," said Gabriel. "You don't hold the shears right, miss--I knew you wouldn't know the way--hold like this." He relinquished the winch, and inclosing her two hands completely in his own (taking each as we sometimes slap a child's hand in teaching him to write), grasped the shears with her. "Incline the edge so," he said. Hands and shears were inclined to suit the words, and held thus for a peculiarly long time by the instructor as he spoke. "That will do," exclaimed Bathsheba. "Loose my hands. I won't have them held! Turn the winch." Gabriel freed her hands quietly, retired to his handle, and the grinding went on. "Did the men think it odd?" she said again. "Odd was not the idea, miss." "What did they say?" "That Farmer Boldwood's name and your own were likely to be flung over pulpit together before the year was out." "I thought so by the look of them! Why, there's nothing in it. A more foolish remark was never made, and I want you to contradict it! that's what I came for." Gabriel looked incredulous and sad, but between his moments of incredulity, relieved. "They must have heard our conversation," she continued. "Well, then, Bathsheba!" said Oak, stopping the handle, and gazing into her face with astonishment. "Miss Everdene, you mean," she said, with dignity. "I mean this, that if Mr. Boldwood really spoke of marriage, I bain't going to tell a story and say he didn't to please you. I have already tried to please you too much for my own good!" Bathsheba regarded him with round-eyed perplexity. She did not know whether to pity him for disappointed love of her, or to be angry with him for having got over it--his tone being ambiguous. "I said I wanted you just to mention that it was not true I was going to be married to him," she murmured, with a slight decline in her assurance. "I can say that to them if you wish, Miss Everdene. And I could likewise give an opinion to 'ee on what you have done." "I daresay. But I don't want your opinion." "I suppose not," said Gabriel bitterly, and going on with his turning, his words rising and falling in a regular swell and cadence as he stooped or rose with the winch, which directed them, according to his position, perpendicularly into the earth, or horizontally along the garden, his eyes being fixed on a leaf upon the ground. With Bathsheba a hastened act was a rash act; but, as does not always happen, time gained was prudence insured. It must be added, however, that time was very seldom gained. At this period the single opinion in the parish on herself and her doings that she valued as sounder than her own was Gabriel Oak's. And the outspoken honesty of his character was such that on any subject, even that of her love for, or marriage with, another man, the same disinterestedness of opinion might be calculated on, and be had for the asking. Thoroughly convinced of the impossibility of his own suit, a high resolve constrained him not to injure that of another. This is a lover's most stoical virtue, as the lack of it is a lover's most venial sin. Knowing he would reply truly she asked the question, painful as she must have known the subject would be. Such is the selfishness of some charming women. Perhaps it was some excuse for her thus torturing honesty to her own advantage, that she had absolutely no other sound judgment within easy reach. "Well, what is your opinion of my conduct," she said, quietly. "That it is unworthy of any thoughtful, and meek, and comely woman." In an instant Bathsheba's face coloured with the angry crimson of a Danby sunset. But she forbore to utter this feeling, and the reticence of her tongue only made the loquacity of her face the more noticeable. The next thing Gabriel did was to make a mistake. "Perhaps you don't like the rudeness of my reprimanding you, for I know it is rudeness; but I thought it would do good." She instantly replied sarcastically-- "On the contrary, my opinion of you is so low, that I see in your abuse the praise of discerning people!" "I am glad you don't mind it, for I said it honestly and with every serious meaning." "I see. But, unfortunately, when you try not to speak in jest you are amusing--just as when you wish to avoid seriousness you sometimes say a sensible word." It was a hard hit, but Bathsheba had unmistakably lost her temper, and on that account Gabriel had never in his life kept his own better. He said nothing. She then broke out-- "I may ask, I suppose, where in particular my unworthiness lies? In my not marrying you, perhaps!" "Not by any means," said Gabriel quietly. "I have long given up thinking of that matter." "Or wishing it, I suppose," she said; and it was apparent that she expected an unhesitating denial of this supposition. Whatever Gabriel felt, he coolly echoed her words-- "Or wishing it either." A woman may be treated with a bitterness which is sweet to her, and with a rudeness which is not offensive. Bathsheba would have submitted to an indignant chastisement for her levity had Gabriel protested that he was loving her at the same time; the impetuosity of passion unrequited is bearable, even if it stings and anathematizes--there is a triumph in the humiliation, and a tenderness in the strife. This was what she had been expecting, and what she had not got. To be lectured because the lecturer saw her in the cold morning light of open-shuttered disillusion was exasperating. He had not finished, either. He continued in a more agitated voice:-- "My opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to blame for playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merely as a pastime. Leading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy action. And even, Miss Everdene, if you seriously inclined towards him, you might have let him find it out in some way of true loving-kindness, and not by sending him a valentine's letter." Bathsheba laid down the shears. "I cannot allow any man to--to criticise my private conduct!" she exclaimed. "Nor will I for a minute. So you'll please leave the farm at the end of the week!" It may have been a peculiarity--at any rate it was a fact--that when Bathsheba was swayed by an emotion of an earthly sort her lower lip trembled: when by a refined emotion, her upper or heavenward one. Her nether lip quivered now. "Very well, so I will," said Gabriel calmly. He had been held to her by a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by breaking, rather than by a chain he could not break. "I should be even better pleased to go at once," he added. "Go at once then, in Heaven's name!" said she, her eyes flashing at his, though never meeting them. "Don't let me see your face any more." "Very well, Miss Everdene--so it shall be." And he took his shears and went away from her in placid dignity, as Moses left the presence of Pharaoh.

Chapter 20

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-20

Now we're with Bathsheba, who's sitting around and worrying about this whole thing she's started with Boldwood. She admits to herself that she likes him, but she doesn't like-like him. The day after Boldwood's proposal, Bathsheba visits Gabriel Oak at the bottom of her garden. She asks him whether the men are saying anything about her hanging out with Boldwood. He admits that people are talking about her and Boldwood marrying, and then holds her hands to show her how to hold shears to a grindstone. She tells Oak that she wants him to go around and set the record straight; she won't be marrying Boldwood. Oak says he has something to say about the way Bathsheba has led Boldwood on, but she says she doesn't want to hear it. When he persists, though, she snaps and orders him to leave her farm and never come back. So he does.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_22_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 23

chapter 23

{"name": "Chapter 23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-23", "summary": "Bathsheba decides to have a special supper to celebrate the shearing of her sheep. Everyone can tell that there's something that's gotten Bathsheba worked up, but no one knows what. Soon, though, Boldwood shows up for supper. As they all sit down, there's one man at the table that Bathsheba doesn't recognize at first. It turns out that the man is Pennyways, the old bailiff she caught stealing from her and fired. She demands that he leave, but the workmen convince her to let him stay. Besides, Pennyways is there because he has news about the runaway Fanny Robin. He says that he saw her in a nearby town of Melchester. Bathsheba wants him to continue with his story, but that's really all he has to say. There's some talk of Jan Coggan's wife having another baby, but she won't say one way or the other. When the eating is over, Jan Coggan sings a song for the table. Then Poorgrass sings one. Finally, they ask Bathsheba to sing to them, which she does with Gabriel accompanying her on his flute. Boldwood sings with her, too, shyly at first, but quickly swelling into a rich tone. Dude can sing. Later, Bathsheba wishes them all a good night and heads off, with Boldwood following her. Gabriel Oak goes off to walk alone under the trees. In the room with Bathsheba and Boldwood, we hear Bathsheba saying that she'll try to love Boldwood as best she can. However, she doesn't want to give him a promise right away. But she says there's a good chance she'll say yes soon. She just wants a few more weeks to think about it. She wishes him goodnight and he leaves.", "analysis": ""}

EVENTIDE--A SECOND DECLARATION For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head without mingling with the men. This evening Bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks and lips contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair. She seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the table was at her request left vacant until after they had begun the meal. She then asked Gabriel to take the place and the duties appertaining to that end, which he did with great readiness. At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate, and crossed the green to Bathsheba at the window. He apologized for his lateness: his arrival was evidently by arrangement. "Gabriel," said she, "will you move again, please, and let Mr. Boldwood come there?" Oak moved in silence back to his original seat. The gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a new coat and white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of grey. Inwardy, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to an exceptional degree. So also was Bathsheba now that he had come, though the uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for theft, disturbed her equanimity for a while. Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private account, without reference to listeners:-- I've lost my love, and I care not, I've lost my love, and I care not; I shall soon have another That's better than t'other; I've lost my love, and I care not. This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by those established authors who are independent of notices in the papers, was a well-known delight which required no applause. "Now, Master Poorgrass, your song!" said Coggan. "I be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me," said Joseph, diminishing himself. "Nonsense; wou'st never be so ungrateful, Joseph--never!" said Coggan, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. "And mistress is looking hard at ye, as much as to say, 'Sing at once, Joseph Poorgrass.'" "Faith, so she is; well, I must suffer it! ... Just eye my features, and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbours?" "No, yer blushes be quite reasonable," said Coggan. "I always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beauty's eyes get fixed on me," said Joseph, differently; "but if so be 'tis willed they do, they must." "Now, Joseph, your song, please," said Bathsheba, from the window. "Well, really, ma'am," he replied, in a yielding tone, "I don't know what to say. It would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure." "Hear, hear!" said the supper-party. Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. This was so successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath, after a few false starts:-- I sow'-ed th'-e ..... I sow'-ed ..... I sow'-ed th'-e seeds' of' love', I-it was' all' i'-in the'-e spring', I-in A'-pril', Ma'-ay, a'-nd sun'-ny' June', When sma'-all bi'-irds they' do' sing. "Well put out of hand," said Coggan, at the end of the verse. "'They do sing' was a very taking paragraph." "Ay; and there was a pretty place at 'seeds of love.' and 'twas well heaved out. Though 'love' is a nasty high corner when a man's voice is getting crazed. Next verse, Master Poorgrass." But during this rendering young Bob Coggan exhibited one of those anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when, after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst out through his nose. Joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of indignation instantly ceased singing. Coggan boxed Bob's ears immediately. "Go on, Joseph--go on, and never mind the young scamp," said Coggan. "'Tis a very catching ballet. Now then again--the next bar; I'll help ye to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather wheezy:-- "Oh the wi'-il-lo'-ow tree' will' twist', And the wil'-low' tre'-ee wi'-ill twine'." But the singer could not be set going again. Bob Coggan was sent home for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by Jacob Smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable as that with which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similar occasion the swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of his day. It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of light raking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round the tree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers' lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of self-sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired. The sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat, and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven. Bathsheba still remained enthroned inside the window, and occupied herself in knitting, from which she sometimes looked up to view the fading scene outside. The slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completely before the signs of moving were shown. Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from his place at the bottom of the table. How long he had been gone Oak did not know; but he had apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk. Whilst he was thinking of this, Liddy brought candles into the back part of the room overlooking the shearers, and their lively new flames shone down the table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadows behind. Bathsheba's form, still in its original position, was now again distinct between their eyes and the light, which revealed that Boldwood had gone inside the room, and was sitting near her. Next came the question of the evening. Would Miss Everdene sing to them the song she always sang so charmingly--"The Banks of Allan Water"--before they went home? After a moment's consideration Bathsheba assented, beckoning to Gabriel, who hastened up into the coveted atmosphere. "Have you brought your flute?" she whispered. "Yes, miss." "Play to my singing, then." She stood up in the window-opening, facing the men, the candles behind her, Gabriel on her right hand, immediately outside the sash-frame. Boldwood had drawn up on her left, within the room. Her singing was soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soon swelled to a steady clearness. Subsequent events caused one of the verses to be remembered for many months, and even years, by more than one of those who were gathered there:-- For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he: On the banks of Allan Water None was gay as she! In addition to the dulcet piping of Gabriel's flute, Boldwood supplied a bass in his customary profound voice, uttering his notes so softly, however, as to abstain entirely from making anything like an ordinary duet of the song; they rather formed a rich unexplored shadow, which threw her tones into relief. The shearers reclined against each other as at suppers in the early ages of the world, and so silent and absorbed were they that her breathing could almost be heard between the bars; and at the end of the ballad, when the last tone loitered on to an inexpressible close, there arose that buzz of pleasure which is the attar of applause. It is scarcely necessary to state that Gabriel could not avoid noting the farmer's bearing to-night towards their entertainer. Yet there was nothing exceptional in his actions beyond what appertained to his time of performing them. It was when the rest were all looking away that Boldwood observed her; when they regarded her he turned aside; when they thanked or praised he was silent; when they were inattentive he murmured his thanks. The meaning lay in the difference between actions, none of which had any meaning of itself; and the necessity of being jealous, which lovers are troubled with, did not lead Oak to underestimate these signs. Bathsheba then wished them good-night, withdrew from the window, and retired to the back part of the room, Boldwood thereupon closing the sash and the shutters, and remaining inside with her. Oak wandered away under the quiet and scented trees. Recovering from the softer impressions produced by Bathsheba's voice, the shearers rose to leave, Coggan turning to Pennyways as he pushed back the bench to pass out:-- "I like to give praise where praise is due, and the man deserves it--that 'a do so," he remarked, looking at the worthy thief, as if he were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist. "I'm sure I should never have believed it if we hadn't proved it, so to allude," hiccupped Joseph Poorgrass, "that every cup, every one of the best knives and forks, and every empty bottle be in their place as perfect now as at the beginning, and not one stole at all." "I'm sure I don't deserve half the praise you give me," said the virtuous thief, grimly. "Well, I'll say this for Pennyways," added Coggan, "that whenever he do really make up his mind to do a noble thing in the shape of a good action, as I could see by his face he did to-night afore sitting down, he's generally able to carry it out. Yes, I'm proud to say, neighbours, that he's stole nothing at all." "Well, 'tis an honest deed, and we thank ye for it, Pennyways," said Joseph; to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribed unanimously. At this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of the inside of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light between the shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment there. Miss Everdene and Boldwood were alone. Her cheeks had lost a great deal of their healthful fire from the very seriousness of her position; but her eye was bright with the excitement of a triumph--though it was a triumph which had rather been contemplated than desired. She was standing behind a low arm-chair, from which she had just risen, and he was kneeling in it--inclining himself over its back towards her, and holding her hand in both his own. His body moved restlessly, and it was with what Keats daintily calls a too happy happiness. This unwonted abstraction by love of all dignity from a man of whom it had ever seemed the chief component, was, in its distressing incongruity, a pain to her which quenched much of the pleasure she derived from the proof that she was idolized. "I will try to love you," she was saying, in a trembling voice quite unlike her usual self-confidence. "And if I can believe in any way that I shall make you a good wife I shall indeed be willing to marry you. But, Mr. Boldwood, hesitation on so high a matter is honourable in any woman, and I don't want to give a solemn promise to-night. I would rather ask you to wait a few weeks till I can see my situation better. "But you have every reason to believe that THEN--" "I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks, between this time and harvest, that you say you are going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife," she said, firmly. "But remember this distinctly, I don't promise yet." "It is enough; I don't ask more. I can wait on those dear words. And now, Miss Everdene, good-night!" "Good-night," she said, graciously--almost tenderly; and Boldwood withdrew with a serene smile. Bathsheba knew more of him now; he had entirely bared his heart before her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the sorry look of a grand bird without the feathers that make it grand. She had been awe-struck at her past temerity, and was struggling to make amends without thinking whether the sin quite deserved the penalty she was schooling herself to pay. To have brought all this about her ears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a little triumph, is marvellous.

Chapter 23

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-23

Bathsheba decides to have a special supper to celebrate the shearing of her sheep. Everyone can tell that there's something that's gotten Bathsheba worked up, but no one knows what. Soon, though, Boldwood shows up for supper. As they all sit down, there's one man at the table that Bathsheba doesn't recognize at first. It turns out that the man is Pennyways, the old bailiff she caught stealing from her and fired. She demands that he leave, but the workmen convince her to let him stay. Besides, Pennyways is there because he has news about the runaway Fanny Robin. He says that he saw her in a nearby town of Melchester. Bathsheba wants him to continue with his story, but that's really all he has to say. There's some talk of Jan Coggan's wife having another baby, but she won't say one way or the other. When the eating is over, Jan Coggan sings a song for the table. Then Poorgrass sings one. Finally, they ask Bathsheba to sing to them, which she does with Gabriel accompanying her on his flute. Boldwood sings with her, too, shyly at first, but quickly swelling into a rich tone. Dude can sing. Later, Bathsheba wishes them all a good night and heads off, with Boldwood following her. Gabriel Oak goes off to walk alone under the trees. In the room with Bathsheba and Boldwood, we hear Bathsheba saying that she'll try to love Boldwood as best she can. However, she doesn't want to give him a promise right away. But she says there's a good chance she'll say yes soon. She just wants a few more weeks to think about it. She wishes him goodnight and he leaves.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The White Devil/section_10_part_0.txt

The White Devil.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-5-scene-1", "summary": "After Vittoria and the Duke are married, Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello, Hortensio,Vittoria, Cornelia, Zanche, and others pass over the stage in a procession. Only Flamineo and Hortensio remain behind. Flamineo says this marriage has made him the happiest he's been in a long time, and they talk about the Moor who is visiting the court. Flamineo says that the Moor seems like a great soldier. They also mention the Moor's companions, two Hungarian noblemen and former warriors who have become monks, now retiring to join the Capuchin order. Flamineo and Hortensio keep talking about the Moor: he is a Christian, and, according to Flamineo, he has an admirably low tolerance for courtly nonsense. He seems to understand that nobles are just as flawed as everyone else. Brachiano, the Moor , the Capuchin monks , and Antonelli all enter. Brachiano praises Mulinassar, and asks him to stay to see some fights at some barriers they'll build tonight, along with ambassadors who are there for the wedding. Mulinassar agrees, and Brachiano, Hortensio, and Flamineo exit. The remaining people on stage--Francisco, Lodovico, Gasparo, and Antonelli--all re-state their vows for revenge, embracing. Lodovico wishes they could poison Brachiano's tennis racket or saddle or do something cool like that. Francisco is open to sneaky stuff, but he kind of wishes he could've killed Brachiano on an open and fair field of fight. Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo all exit, and Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche re-enter. Marcello says that Flamineo is having an affair with Zanche, and Flamineo acts mildly dismissive, saying women tend to stick where their affection throws them. Zanche says she'll talk to the Moor--since she's a moor, as well--soon, when she gets the chance. She exits. Flamineo and Marcello chat with Mulinassar. Flamineo asks Mulinassar to tell them his exploits, but he's reluctant to toot his own horn. He also won't flatter the duke, since he believes all men are equal made of the same clay. Flamineo says he would probably boast about his war service if he had to beg in churches. Marcello says he's a soldier too, but hasn't made much money. Flamineo says good soldiers aren't recognized in peacetime. He'd personally rather be a cardinal's minion and get away with villainy. Flamineo talks about people he's heard of who went to fight the Turks and discovered they only earned enough money to buy themselves wooden legs and bandages. Francisco exits. Hortensio, a young Lord, and Zanche enter. The young Lord says they're getting ready to fight , and Flamineo disparages this young Lord to Hortensio. Flamineo tells Hortensio that he loves Zanche, but nervously and with caution, since she knows about his villainy. He's promised to marry her, but he acts like it wasn't a serious thing. Zanche comes over, and accuses Flamineo of being cool towards her. He says that's a good thing, and disputes with her when she asks if he remembers the promises he made her: yeah, he remembers them, but they were the like the prayers sailors make in a storm before things calm down and they go back to drinking. Cornelia enters and hits Zanche, telling her to go back to the kitchen. Cornelia exits. Zanche complains about Cornelia, and then Marcello calls her a strumpet and kicks her. Flamineo defends Zanche and argues with Marcello. As the argument heats up, Marcello threatens to cut Zanche's throat. Flamineo says he thinks Marcello might be the product of adultery, and Marcello says that they might end up killing one another. All exit, except for Zanche. Francisco, as Mulinassar, enters. Zanche confesses her love for him, and says that she'll give him a decent dowry if he marries her. Mulinassar says he'll consider the idea. She also says that she can tell him blood-curdling secrets, and Francisco thinks he might be able to get some good intel out of her. They both exit.", "analysis": ""}

ACT V SCENE I A passage over the stage of Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello, Hortensio, Corombona, Cornelia, Zanche, and others: Flamineo and Hortensio remain. Flam. In all the weary minutes of my life, Day ne'er broke up till now. This marriage Confirms me happy. Hort. 'Tis a good assurance. Saw you not yet the Moor that 's come to court? Flam. Yes, and conferr'd with him i' th' duke's closet. I have not seen a goodlier personage, Nor ever talk'd with man better experience'd In State affairs, or rudiments of war. He hath, by report, serv'd the Venetian In Candy these twice seven years, and been chief In many a bold design. Hort. What are those two That bear him company? Flam. Two noblemen of Hungary, that, living in the emperor's service as commanders, eight years since, contrary to the strict Order of Capuchins; but, being not well settled in their undertaking, they left their Order, and returned to court; for which, being after troubled in conscience, they vowed their service against the enemies of Christ, went to Malta, were there knighted, and in their return back, at this great solemnity, they are resolved for ever to forsake the world, and settle themselves here in a house of Capuchins in Padua. Hort. 'Tis strange. Flam. One thing makes it so: they have vowed for ever to wear, next their bare bodies, those coats of mail they served in. Hort. Hard penance! Is the Moor a Christian? Flam. He is. Hort. Why proffers he his service to our duke? Flam. Because he understands there 's like to grow Some wars between us and the Duke of Florence, In which he hopes employment. I never saw one in a stern bold look Wear more command, nor in a lofty phrase Express more knowing, or more deep contempt As if he travell'd all the princes' courts Of Christendom: in all things strives t' express, That all, that should dispute with him, may know, Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. The duke. Enter Brachiano, Francisco disguised like Mulinassar, Lodovico and Gasparo, bearing their swords, their helmets down, Antonelli, Farnese. Brach. You are nobly welcome. We have heard at full Your honourable service 'gainst the Turk. To you, brave Mulinassar, we assign A competent pension: and are inly sorry, The vows of those two worthy gentlemen Make them incapable of our proffer'd bounty. Your wish is, you may leave your warlike swords For monuments in our chapel: I accept it, As a great honour done me, and must crave Your leave to furnish out our duchess' revels. Only one thing, as the last vanity You e'er shall view, deny me not to stay To see a barriers prepar'd to-night: You shall have private standings. It hath pleas'd The great ambassadors of several princes, In their return from Rome to their own countries, To grace our marriage, and to honour me With such a kind of sport. Fran. I shall persuade them to stay, my lord. Brach. Set on there to the presence. [Exeunt Brachiano, Flamineo, and Hortensio. Lodo. Noble my lord, most fortunately welcome; [The conspirators her embrace. You have our vows, seal'd with the sacrament, To second your attempts. Gas. And all things ready; He could not have invented his own ruin (Had he despair'd) with more propriety. Lodo. You would not take my way. Fran. 'Tis better order'd. Lodo. T' have poison'd his prayer-book, or a pair of beads, The pummel of his saddle, his looking-glass, Or th' handle of his racket,--O, that, that! That while he had been bandying at tennis, He might have sworn himself to hell, and strook His soul into the hazard! Oh, my lord, I would have our plot be ingenious, And have it hereafter recorded for example, Rather than borrow example. Fran. There 's now way More speeding that this thought on. Lodo. On, then. Fran. And yet methinks that this revenge is poor, Because it steals upon him like a thief: To have ta'en him by the casque in a pitch'd field, Led him to Florence---- Lodo. It had been rare: and there Have crown'd him with a wreath of stinking garlic, T' have shown the sharpness of his government, And rankness of his lust. Flamineo comes. [Exeunt Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo. Enter Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche Marc. Why doth this devil haunt you, say? Flam. I know not: For by this light, I do not conjure for her. 'Tis not so great a cunning as men think, To raise the devil; for here 's one up already; The greatest cunning were to lay him down. Marc. She is your shame. Flam. I pray thee pardon her. In faith, you see, women are like to burs, Where their affection throws them, there they 'll stick. Zan. That is my countryman, a goodly person; When he 's at leisure, I 'll discourse with him In our own language. Flam. I beseech you do. [Exit Zanche. How is 't, brave soldier? Oh, that I had seen Some of your iron days! I pray relate Some of your service to us. Fran. 'Tis a ridiculous thing for a man to be his own chronicle: I did never wash my mouth with mine own praise, for fear of getting a stinking breath. Marc. You 're too stoical. The duke will expect other discourse from you. Fran. I shall never flatter him: I have studied man too much to do that. What difference is between the duke and I? no more than between two bricks, all made of one clay: only 't may be one is placed in top of a turret, the other in the bottom of a well, by mere chance. If I were placed as high as the duke, I should stick as fast, make as fair a show, and bear out weather equally. Flam. If this soldier had a patent to beg in churches, then he would tell them stories. Marc. I have been a soldier too. Fran. How have you thrived? Marc. Faith, poorly. Fran. That 's the misery of peace: only outsides are then respected. As ships seem very great upon the river, which show very little upon the seas, so some men i' th' court seem Colossuses in a chamber, who, if they came into the field, would appear pitiful pigmies. Flam. Give me a fair room yet hung with arras, and some great cardinal to lug me by th' ears, as his endeared minion. Fran. And thou mayest do the devil knows what villainy. Flam. And safely. Fran. Right: you shall see in the country, in harvest-time, pigeons, though they destroy never so much corn, the farmer dare not present the fowling-piece to them: why? because they belong to the lord of the manor; whilst your poor sparrows, that belong to the Lord of Heaven, they go to the pot for 't. Flam. I will now give you some politic instruction. The duke says he will give you pension; that 's but bare promise; get it under his hand. For I have known men that have come from serving against the Turk, for three or four months they have had pension to buy them new wooden legs, and fresh plasters; but after, 'twas not to be had. And this miserable courtesy shows as if a tormentor should give hot cordial drinks to one three-quarters dead o' th' rack, only to fetch the miserable soul again to endure more dog-days. [Exit Francisco. Enter Hortensio, a young Lord, Zanche, and two more. How now, gallants? what, are they ready for the barriers? Young Lord. Yes: the lords are putting on their armour. Hort. What 's he? Flam. A new upstart; one that swears like a falconer, and will lie in the duke's ear day by day, like a maker of almanacs: and yet I knew him, since he came to th' court, smell worse of sweat than an under tennis-court keeper. Hort. Look you, yonder 's your sweet mistress. Flam. Thou art my sworn brother: I 'll tell thee, I do love that Moor, that witch, very constrainedly. She knows some of my villainy. I do love her just as a man holds a wolf by the ears; but for fear of her turning upon me, and pulling out my throat, I would let her go to the devil. Hort. I hear she claims marriage of thee. Flam. 'Faith, I made to her some such dark promise; and, in seeking to fly from 't, I run on, like a frighted dog with a bottle at 's tail, that fain would bite it off, and yet dares not look behind him. Now, my precious gipsy. Zan. Ay, your love to me rather cools than heats. Flam. Marry, I am the sounder lover; we have many wenches about the town heat too fast. Hort. What do you think of these perfumed gallants, then? Flam. Their satin cannot save them: I am confident They have a certain spice of the disease; For they that sleep with dogs shall rise with fleas. Zan. Believe it, a little painting and gay clothes make you loathe me. Flam. How, love a lady for painting or gay apparel? I 'll unkennel one example more for thee. AEsop had a foolish dog that let go the flesh to catch the shadow; I would have courtiers be better diners. Zan. You remember your oaths? Flam. Lovers' oaths are like mariners' prayers, uttered in extremity; but when the tempest is o'er, and that the vessel leaves tumbling, they fall from protesting to drinking. And yet, amongst gentlemen, protesting and drinking go together, and agree as well as shoemakers and Westphalia bacon: they are both drawers on; for drink draws on protestation, and protestation draws on more drink. Is not this discourse better now than the morality of your sunburnt gentleman? Enter Cornelia Corn. Is this your perch, you haggard? fly to th' stews. [Strikes Zanche. Flam. You should be clapped by th' heels now: strike i' th' court! [Exit Cornelia. Zan. She 's good for nothing, but to make her maids Catch cold a-nights: they dare not use a bedstaff, For fear of her light fingers. Marc. You 're a strumpet, An impudent one. [Kicks Zanche. Flam. Why do you kick her, say? Do you think that she 's like a walnut tree? Must she be cudgell'd ere she bear good fruit? Marc. She brags that you shall marry her. Flam. What then? Marc. I had rather she were pitch'd upon a stake, In some new-seeded garden, to affright Her fellow crows thence. Flam. You 're a boy, a fool, Be guardian to your hound; I am of age. Marc. If I take her near you, I 'll cut her throat. Flam. With a fan of feather? Marc. And, for you, I 'll whip This folly from you. Flam. Are you choleric? I 'll purge it with rhubarb. Hort. Oh, your brother! Flam. Hang him, He wrongs me most, that ought t' offend me least: I do suspect my mother play'd foul play, When she conceiv'd thee. Marc. Now, by all my hopes, Like the two slaughter'd sons of OEdipus, The very flames of our affection Shall turn two ways. Those words I 'll make thee answer With thy heart-blood. Flam. Do, like the geese in the progress; You know where you shall find me. Marc. Very good. [Exit Flamineo. And thou be'st a noble friend, bear him my sword, And bid him fit the length on 't. Young Lord. Sir, I shall. [Exeunt all but Zanche. Zan. He comes. Hence petty thought of my disgrace! [Enter Francisco. I ne'er lov'd my complexion till now, 'Cause I may boldly say, without a blush, I love you. Fran. Your love is untimely sown; there 's a spring at Michaelmas, but 'tis but a faint one: I am sunk in years, and I have vowed never to marry. Zan. Alas! poor maids get more lovers than husbands: yet you may mistake my wealth. For, as when ambassadors are sent to congratulate princes, there 's commonly sent along with them a rich present, so that, though the prince like not the ambassador's person, nor words, yet he likes well of the presentment; so I may come to you in the same manner, and be better loved for my dowry than my virtue. Fran. I 'll think on the motion. Zan. Do; I 'll now detain you no longer. At your better leisure, I 'll tell you things shall startle your blood: Nor blame me that this passion I reveal; Lovers die inward that their flames conceal. Fran. Of all intelligence this may prove the best: Sure I shall draw strange fowl from this foul nest. [Exeunt.

Act 5, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-5-scene-1

After Vittoria and the Duke are married, Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello, Hortensio,Vittoria, Cornelia, Zanche, and others pass over the stage in a procession. Only Flamineo and Hortensio remain behind. Flamineo says this marriage has made him the happiest he's been in a long time, and they talk about the Moor who is visiting the court. Flamineo says that the Moor seems like a great soldier. They also mention the Moor's companions, two Hungarian noblemen and former warriors who have become monks, now retiring to join the Capuchin order. Flamineo and Hortensio keep talking about the Moor: he is a Christian, and, according to Flamineo, he has an admirably low tolerance for courtly nonsense. He seems to understand that nobles are just as flawed as everyone else. Brachiano, the Moor , the Capuchin monks , and Antonelli all enter. Brachiano praises Mulinassar, and asks him to stay to see some fights at some barriers they'll build tonight, along with ambassadors who are there for the wedding. Mulinassar agrees, and Brachiano, Hortensio, and Flamineo exit. The remaining people on stage--Francisco, Lodovico, Gasparo, and Antonelli--all re-state their vows for revenge, embracing. Lodovico wishes they could poison Brachiano's tennis racket or saddle or do something cool like that. Francisco is open to sneaky stuff, but he kind of wishes he could've killed Brachiano on an open and fair field of fight. Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo all exit, and Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche re-enter. Marcello says that Flamineo is having an affair with Zanche, and Flamineo acts mildly dismissive, saying women tend to stick where their affection throws them. Zanche says she'll talk to the Moor--since she's a moor, as well--soon, when she gets the chance. She exits. Flamineo and Marcello chat with Mulinassar. Flamineo asks Mulinassar to tell them his exploits, but he's reluctant to toot his own horn. He also won't flatter the duke, since he believes all men are equal made of the same clay. Flamineo says he would probably boast about his war service if he had to beg in churches. Marcello says he's a soldier too, but hasn't made much money. Flamineo says good soldiers aren't recognized in peacetime. He'd personally rather be a cardinal's minion and get away with villainy. Flamineo talks about people he's heard of who went to fight the Turks and discovered they only earned enough money to buy themselves wooden legs and bandages. Francisco exits. Hortensio, a young Lord, and Zanche enter. The young Lord says they're getting ready to fight , and Flamineo disparages this young Lord to Hortensio. Flamineo tells Hortensio that he loves Zanche, but nervously and with caution, since she knows about his villainy. He's promised to marry her, but he acts like it wasn't a serious thing. Zanche comes over, and accuses Flamineo of being cool towards her. He says that's a good thing, and disputes with her when she asks if he remembers the promises he made her: yeah, he remembers them, but they were the like the prayers sailors make in a storm before things calm down and they go back to drinking. Cornelia enters and hits Zanche, telling her to go back to the kitchen. Cornelia exits. Zanche complains about Cornelia, and then Marcello calls her a strumpet and kicks her. Flamineo defends Zanche and argues with Marcello. As the argument heats up, Marcello threatens to cut Zanche's throat. Flamineo says he thinks Marcello might be the product of adultery, and Marcello says that they might end up killing one another. All exit, except for Zanche. Francisco, as Mulinassar, enters. Zanche confesses her love for him, and says that she'll give him a decent dowry if he marries her. Mulinassar says he'll consider the idea. She also says that she can tell him blood-curdling secrets, and Francisco thinks he might be able to get some good intel out of her. They both exit.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1929-chapters/act_i.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The School for Scandal/section_0_part_0.txt

The School for Scandal.act i.scene i-scene ii

act i

{"name": "Act I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073536/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-school-for-scandal/study-guide/summary-act-i", "summary": "The play starts with two prologues that set up the themes of scandal, rumors, and public appearance. Act I begins by presenting Lady Sneerwell, a wealthy widow, and her servant, Snake, gossiping as they usually do. Lady Sneerwell gossips because, in her past, someone destroyed her reputation. Lady Sneerwell reveals to Snake why she is so involved in matters concerning Sir Peter Teazle, his ward Maria, and the young brothers Charles and Joseph Surface: Joseph loves Maria, but Maria loves Charles, whom Lady Sneerwell also loves. Lady Sneerwell and Joseph have been plotting to make Maria and Charles drift apart by putting out a rumor that Charles and Sir Peter's wife, Teazle, are having an affair. Lady Sneerwell will be sending Snake to execute this plot. After Lady Sneerwell finishes explaining, Joseph enters. Snake leaves, and Joseph then tells Lady Sneerwell that he suspects Snake of not being entirely faithful to them and their secret plan, because Snake has been in conversation with Rowley, who was his father's steward. Maria now enters, having tried to escape Sir Benjamin Backbite, another man vying for her love, and his uncle Crabtree. She complains that she did not want to stay with Backbite and his uncle because they were talking badly about others. Maria is followed by Mrs. Candour, and then by Sir Benjamin Backbite and his uncle Crabtree, who start gossiping that the Surface brothers' rich uncle will soon return to England from the East Indies. Crabtree also lauds Sir Benjamin's poetic sensibilities. They then start gossiping about Charles' financial situation, so Maria chooses to leave. Mrs. Candour follows her to try to help, and then Crabtree and Benjamin follow as well. Scene II begins with a soliloquy by Sir Peter about his wife's spending habits. Rowley arrives and the two talk about Maria, discussing how she rejected Joseph and seems to like Charles. Rowley defends Charles and then tells Sir Peter that Sir Oliver arrived from the East Indies. Sir Peter fears that Sir Oliver will make fun of him for getting married, but he is excited to see a friend whom he last saw sixteen years ago.", "analysis": "Beginning with a prologue was fairly commonplace at the time of Sheridan's writing. These prologues are used to directly address the audience and set up some of the themes or issues of the play. Sometimes, these prologues were not even written by the playwright, much like the forward of a book. In this play, the audience first sees a \"portrait\" written by the playwright, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, followed by a prologue written by a man named Mr. Garric. From the beginning of the play proper, characters' names are important for understanding characters' personalities and Sheridan's sense of humor and irony. In the first scene, Lady Sneerwell talks to Snake openly about their plot to spread a nasty, false rumor about Charles Surface and Lady Sneerwell's personal reasons for enjoying creating scandal. Lady Sneerwell's name combines her social status with her major character trait of judging others . Snake's name is slightly more metaphorical, evoking ideas of sneakiness. This sneakiness is why Lady Sneerwell chooses him to do her bidding; ironically, it is also the character trait that allows Snake to reveal Lady Sneerwell's plot in the end. Lady Sneerwell's forwardness and honesty with Snake might be surprising in a Comedy of Manners. For example, she says directly, \"Wounded myself, in the early part of my life, by the envenomed tongue of slander, I confess I have since known no pleasure equal to the reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation\" . However, this honesty and self-awareness in the first scene allows the audience to contrast her manner in private with her behavior in the public sphere, where she constantly throws attention on others rather than drawing it to her own situation. Act I Scene I introduces many of the important characters and relationships of the play. When Maria is introduced, there is immediate contrast between her own manner and beliefs and those of the rest of the characters. In Maria's second line of the play, she explains why she fled from conversation with Benjamin Backbite, saying, \"his conversation is a perpetual libel on all his acquaintance\" , meaning that he, like Lady Sneerwell, is a gossip. Throughout the play, Maria is used as a symbol of innocence and purity. The love Joseph, Charles, and Benjamin all have for her could suggest either that society still sought morality in the midst of all the scandal and gossip that most people partook in, or that women specifically were expected to be seen as moral and pure. One of the major issue raised in Act I is the relation between mean gossip and wit. Maria suggests that she loses respect for wit when wit is used to hurt or spread gossip about another; in her words, when she \"see it in company with malice\" . However, Lady Sneerwell responds that the two concepts are inextricably linked. Sheridan is perhaps challenging his audience, and especially viewers who are highly educated or writers themselves, to contemplate whether all wit must have a \"barb that makes it stick\" . If nothing else, as a writer of satire, Sheridan certainly had to confront the relation between wit and meanness personally."}

PROLOGUE WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK A school for Scandal! tell me, I beseech you, Needs there a school this modish art to teach you? No need of lessons now, the knowing think; We might as well be taught to eat and drink. Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours Distress our fair ones--let them read the papers; Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit; Crave what you will--there's quantum sufficit. "Lord!" cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle, And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle), Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing Strong tea and scandal--"Bless me, how refreshing! Give me the papers, Lisp--how bold and free! [Sips.] LAST NIGHT LORD L. [Sips] WAS CAUGHT WITH LADY D. For aching heads what charming sal volatile! [Sips.] IF MRS. B. WILL STILL CONTINUE FLIRTING, WE HOPE SHE'LL draw, OR WE'LL undraw THE CURTAIN. Fine satire, poz--in public all abuse it, But, by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can't refuse it. Now, Lisp, read you--there, at that dash and star:" "Yes, ma'am--A CERTAIN LORD HAD BEST BEWARE, WHO LIVES NOT TWENTY MILES FROM GROSVENOR SQUARE; FOR, SHOULD HE LADY W. FIND WILLING, WORMWOOD IS BITTER"----"Oh! that's me! the villain! Throw it behind the fire, and never more Let that vile paper come within my door." Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart; To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart. Is our young bard so young, to think that he Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny? Knows he the world so little, and its trade? Alas! the devil's sooner raised than laid. So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging: Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is wagging. Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestow'd, Again our young Don Quixote takes the road; To show his gratitude he draws his pen, And seeks his hydra, Scandal, in his den. For your applause all perils he would through-- He'll fight--that's write--a cavalliero true, Till every drop of blood--that's ink--is spilt for you. ACT I SCENE I. --LADY SNEERWELL'S House LADY SNEERWELL at her dressing table with LAPPET; MISS VERJUICE drinking chocolate LADY SNEERWELL. The Paragraphs you say were all inserted: VERJUICE. They were Madam--and as I copied them myself in a feigned Hand there can be no suspicion whence they came. LADY SNEERWELL. Did you circulate the Report of Lady Brittle's Intrigue with Captain Boastall? VERJUICE. Madam by this Time Lady Brittle is the Talk of half the Town--and I doubt not in a week the Men will toast her as a Demirep. LADY SNEERWELL. What have you done as to the insinuation as to a certain Baronet's Lady and a certain Cook. VERJUICE. That is in as fine a Train as your Ladyship could wish. I told the story yesterday to my own maid with directions to communicate it directly to my Hairdresser. He I am informed has a Brother who courts a Milliners' Prentice in Pallmall whose mistress has a first cousin whose sister is Feme [Femme] de Chambre to Mrs. Clackit--so that in the common course of Things it must reach Mrs. Clackit's Ears within four-and-twenty hours and then you know the Business is as good as done. LADY SNEERWELL. Why truly Mrs. Clackit has a very pretty Talent--a great deal of industry--yet--yes--been tolerably successful in her way--To my knowledge she has been the cause of breaking off six matches[,] of three sons being disinherited and four Daughters being turned out of Doors. Of three several Elopements, as many close confinements--nine separate maintenances and two Divorces.--nay I have more than once traced her causing a Tete-a-Tete in the Town and Country Magazine--when the Parties perhaps had never seen each other's Faces before in the course of their Lives. VERJUICE. She certainly has Talents. LADY SNEERWELL. But her manner is gross. VERJUICE. 'Tis very true. She generally designs well[,] has a free tongue and a bold invention--but her colouring is too dark and her outline often extravagant--She wants that delicacy of Tint--and mellowness of sneer--which distinguish your Ladyship's Scandal. LADY SNEERWELL. Ah you are Partial Verjuice. VERJUICE. Not in the least--everybody allows that Lady Sneerwell can do more with a word or a Look than many can with the most laboured Detail even when they happen to have a little truth on their side to support it. LADY SNEERWELL. Yes my dear Verjuice. I am no Hypocrite to deny the satisfaction I reap from the Success of my Efforts. Wounded myself, in the early part of my Life by the envenomed Tongue of Slander I confess I have since known no Pleasure equal to the reducing others to the Level of my own injured Reputation. VERJUICE. Nothing can be more natural--But my dear Lady Sneerwell There is one affair in which you have lately employed me, wherein, I confess I am at a Loss to guess your motives. LADY SNEERWELL. I conceive you mean with respect to my neighbour, Sir Peter Teazle, and his Family--Lappet.--And has my conduct in this matter really appeared to you so mysterious? [Exit MAID.] VERJUICE. Entirely so. LADY SNEERWELL. [VERJUICE.?] An old Batchelor as Sir Peter was[,] having taken a young wife from out of the Country--as Lady Teazle is--are certainly fair subjects for a little mischievous raillery--but here are two young men--to whom Sir Peter has acted as a kind of Guardian since their Father's death, the eldest possessing the most amiable Character and universally well spoken of[,] the youngest the most dissipated and extravagant young Fellow in the Kingdom, without Friends or caracter--the former one an avowed admirer of yours and apparently your Favourite[,] the latter attached to Maria Sir Peter's ward--and confessedly beloved by her. Now on the face of these circumstances it is utterly unaccountable to me why you a young Widow with no great jointure--should not close with the passion of a man of such character and expectations as Mr. Surface--and more so why you should be so uncommonly earnest to destroy the mutual Attachment subsisting between his Brother Charles and Maria. LADY SNEERWELL. Then at once to unravel this mistery--I must inform you that Love has no share whatever in the intercourse between Mr. Surface and me. VERJUICE. No! LADY SNEERWELL. His real attachment is to Maria or her Fortune--but finding in his Brother a favoured Rival, He has been obliged to mask his Pretensions--and profit by my Assistance. VERJUICE. Yet still I am more puzzled why you should interest yourself in his success. LADY SNEERWELL. Heavens! how dull you are! cannot you surmise the weakness which I hitherto, thro' shame have concealed even from you--must I confess that Charles--that Libertine, that extravagant, that Bankrupt in Fortune and Reputation--that He it is for whom I am thus anxious and malicious and to gain whom I would sacrifice--everything---- VERJUICE. Now indeed--your conduct appears consistent and I no longer wonder at your enmity to Maria, but how came you and Surface so confidential? LADY SNEERWELL. For our mutual interest--but I have found out him a long time since[,] altho' He has contrived to deceive everybody beside--I know him to be artful selfish and malicious--while with Sir Peter, and indeed with all his acquaintance, He passes for a youthful Miracle of Prudence--good sense and Benevolence. VERJUICE. Yes yes--I know Sir Peter vows He has not his equal in England; and, above all, He praises him as a MAN OF SENTIMENT. LADY SNEERWELL. True and with the assistance of his sentiments and hypocrisy he has brought Sir Peter entirely in his interests with respect to Maria and is now I believe attempting to flatter Lady Teazle into the same good opinion towards him--while poor Charles has no Friend in the House--though I fear he has a powerful one in Maria's Heart, against whom we must direct our schemes. SERVANT. Mr. Surface. LADY SNEERWELL. Shew him up. He generally calls about this Time. I don't wonder at People's giving him to me for a Lover. Enter SURFACE SURFACE. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do you do to-day--your most obedient. LADY SNEERWELL. Miss Verjuice has just been arraigning me on our mutual attachment now; but I have informed her of our real views and the Purposes for which our Geniuses at present co-operate. You know how useful she has been to us--and believe me the confidence is not ill-placed. SURFACE. Madam, it is impossible for me to suspect that a Lady of Miss Verjuice's sensibility and discernment---- LADY SNEERWELL. Well--well--no compliments now--but tell me when you saw your mistress or what is more material to me your Brother. SURFACE. I have not seen either since I saw you--but I can inform you that they are at present at Variance--some of your stories have taken good effect on Maria. LADY SNEERWELL. Ah! my dear Verjuice the merit of this belongs to you. But do your Brother's Distresses encrease? SURFACE. Every hour. I am told He had another execution in his house yesterday--in short his Dissipation and extravagance exceed anything I have ever heard of. LADY SNEERWELL. Poor Charles! SURFACE. True Madam--notwithstanding his Vices one can't help feeling for him--ah poor Charles! I'm sure I wish it was in my Power to be of any essential Service to him--for the man who does not share in the Distresses of a Brother--even though merited by his own misconduct--deserves---- LADY SNEERWELL. O Lud you are going to be moral, and forget that you are among Friends. SURFACE. Egad, that's true--I'll keep that sentiment till I see Sir Peter. However it is certainly a charity to rescue Maria from such a Libertine who--if He is to be reclaim'd, can be so only by a Person of your Ladyship's superior accomplishments and understanding. VERJUICE. 'Twould be a Hazardous experiment. SURFACE. But--Madam--let me caution you to place no more confidence in our Friend Snake the Libeller--I have lately detected him in frequent conference with old Rowland [Rowley] who was formerly my Father's Steward and has never been a friend of mine. LADY SNEERWELL. I'm not disappointed in Snake, I never suspected the fellow to have virtue enough to be faithful even to his own Villany. Enter MARIA Maria my dear--how do you do--what's the matter? MARIA. O here is that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite, has just call'd at my guardian's with his odious Uncle Crabtree--so I slipt out and ran hither to avoid them. LADY SNEERWELL. Is that all? VERJUICE. Lady Sneerwell--I'll go and write the Letter I mention'd to you. SURFACE. If my Brother Charles had been of the Party, madam, perhaps you would not have been so much alarmed. LADY SNEERWELL. Nay now--you are severe for I dare swear the Truth of the matter is Maria heard YOU were here--but my dear--what has Sir Benjamin done that you should avoid him so---- MARIA. Oh He has done nothing--but his conversation is a perpetual Libel on all his Acquaintance. SURFACE. Aye and the worst of it is there is no advantage in not knowing Them, for He'll abuse a stranger just as soon as his best Friend--and Crabtree is as bad. LADY SNEERWELL. Nay but we should make allowance[--]Sir Benjamin is a wit and a poet. MARIA. For my Part--I own madam--wit loses its respect with me, when I see it in company with malice.--What do you think, Mr. Surface? SURFACE. Certainly, Madam, to smile at the jest which plants a Thorn on another's Breast is to become a principal in the mischief. LADY SNEERWELL. Pshaw--there's no possibility of being witty without a little [ill] nature--the malice of a good thing is the Barb that makes it stick.--What's your opinion, Mr. Surface? SURFACE. Certainly madam--that conversation where the Spirit of Raillery is suppressed will ever appear tedious and insipid-- MARIA. Well I'll not debate how far Scandal may be allowable--but in a man I am sure it is always contemtable.--We have Pride, envy, Rivalship, and a Thousand motives to depreciate each other--but the male-slanderer must have the cowardice of a woman before He can traduce one. LADY SNEERWELL. I wish my Cousin Verjuice hadn't left us--she should embrace you. SURFACE. Ah! she's an old maid and is privileged of course. Enter SERVANT Madam Mrs. Candour is below and if your Ladyship's at leisure will leave her carriage. LADY SNEERWELL. Beg her to walk in. Now, Maria[,] however here is a Character to your Taste, for tho' Mrs. Candour is a little talkative everybody allows her to be the best-natured and best sort of woman. MARIA. Yes with a very gross affectation of good Nature and Benevolence--she does more mischief than the Direct malice of old Crabtree. SURFACE. Efaith 'tis very true Lady Sneerwell--Whenever I hear the current running again the characters of my Friends, I never think them in such Danger as when Candour undertakes their Defence. LADY SNEERWELL. Hush here she is---- Enter MRS. CANDOUR MRS. CANDOUR. My dear Lady Sneerwell how have you been this Century. I have never seen you tho' I have heard of you very often.--Mr. Surface--the World says scandalous things of you--but indeed it is no matter what the world says, for I think one hears nothing else but scandal. SURFACE. Just so, indeed, Ma'am. MRS. CANDOUR. Ah Maria Child--what[!] is the whole affair off between you and Charles? His extravagance; I presume--The Town talks of nothing else---- MARIA. I am very sorry, Ma'am, the Town has so little to do. MRS. CANDOUR. True, true, Child; but there's no stopping people's Tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it--as I indeed was to learn from the same quarter that your guardian, Sir Peter[,] and Lady Teazle have not agreed lately so well as could be wish'd. MARIA. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so. MRS. CANDOUR. Very true, Child; but what's to be done? People will talk--there's no preventing it.--why it was but yesterday I was told that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filagree Flirt. But, Lord! there is no minding what one hears; tho' to be sure I had this from very good authority. MARIA. Such reports are highly scandalous. MRS. CANDOUR. So they are Child--shameful! shameful! but the world is so censorious no character escapes. Lord, now! who would have suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion Yet such is the ill-nature of people, that they say her unkle stopped her last week just as she was stepping into a Postchaise with her Dancing-master. MARIA. I'll answer for't there are no grounds for the Report. MRS. CANDOUR. Oh, no foundation in the world I dare swear[;] no more probably than for the story circulated last month, of Mrs. Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino--tho' to be sure that matter was never rightly clear'd up. SURFACE. The license of invention some people take is monstrous indeed. MARIA. 'Tis so but in my opinion, those who report such things are equally culpable. MRS. CANDOUR. To be sure they are[;] Tale Bearers are as bad as the Tale makers--'tis an old observation and a very true one--but what's to be done as I said before--how will you prevent People from talking--to-day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife--like [the rest of their] acquaintance--she likewise hinted that a certain widow in the next street had got rid of her Dropsy and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner--at the same [time] Miss Tattle, who was by affirm'd, that Lord Boffalo had discover'd his Lady at a house of no extraordinary Fame--and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a similar Provocation. But--Lord! do you think I would report these Things--No, no[!] Tale Bearers as I said before are just as bad as the talemakers. SURFACE. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your Forbearance and good nature-- MRS. CANDOUR. I confess Mr. Surface I cannot bear to hear People traduced behind their Backs[;] and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintances I own I always love to think the best--by the bye I hope 'tis not true that your Brother is absolutely ruin'd-- SURFACE. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, Ma'am-- MRS. CANDOUR. Ah! I heard so--but you must tell him to keep up his Spirits--everybody almost is in the same way--Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit--all up, I hear, within this week; so, if Charles is undone, He'll find half his Acquaintance ruin'd too, and that, you know, is a consolation-- SURFACE. Doubtless, Ma'am--a very great one. Enter SERVANT SERVANT. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. LADY SNEERWELL. Soh! Maria, you see your lover pursues you--Positively you shan't escape. Enter CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE CRABTREE. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour I don't believe you are acquainted with my Nephew Sir Benjamin Backbite--Egad, Ma'am, He has a pretty wit--and is a pretty Poet too isn't He Lady Sneerwell? SIR BENJAMIN. O fie, Uncle! CRABTREE. Nay egad it's true--I back him at a Rebus or a Charade against the best Rhymer in the Kingdom--has your Ladyship heard the Epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's Feather catching Fire--Do Benjamin repeat it--or the Charade you made last Night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione--Come now your first is the Name of a Fish, your second a great naval commander--and SIR BENJAMIN. Dear Uncle--now--prithee---- CRABTREE. Efaith, Ma'am--'twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at all these Things. LADY SNEERWELL. I wonder Sir Benjamin you never publish anything. SIR BENJAMIN. To say truth, Ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to Print and as my little Productions are mostly Satires and Lampoons I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the Friends of the Parties--however I have some love-Elegies, which, when favoured with this lady's smile I mean to give to the Public. [Pointing to MARIA.] CRABTREE. 'Fore Heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize you--you'll be handed down to Posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa. SIR BENJAMIN. Yes Madam I think you will like them--when you shall see in a beautiful Quarto Page how a neat rivulet of Text shall meander thro' a meadow of margin--'fore Gad, they will be the most elegant Things of their kind-- CRABTREE. But Ladies, have you heard the news? MRS. CANDOUR. What, Sir, do you mean the Report of---- CRABTREE. No ma'am that's not it.--Miss Nicely is going to be married to her own Footman. MRS. CANDOUR. Impossible! CRABTREE. Ask Sir Benjamin. SIR BENJAMIN. 'Tis very true, Ma'am--everything is fixed and the wedding Livery bespoke. CRABTREE. Yes and they say there were pressing reasons for't. MRS. CANDOUR. It cannot be--and I wonder any one should believe such a story of so prudent a Lady as Miss Nicely. SIR BENJAMIN. O Lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas believed at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that everybody was sure there was some reason for it at bottom. LADY SNEERWELL. Yes a Tale of Scandal is as fatal to the Reputation of a prudent Lady of her stamp as a Fever is generally to those of the strongest Constitutions, but there is a sort of puny sickly Reputation, that is always ailing yet will outlive the robuster characters of a hundred Prudes. SIR BENJAMIN. True Madam there are Valetudinarians in Reputation as well as constitution--who being conscious of their weak Part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of Stamina by care and circumspection-- MRS. CANDOUR. Well but this may be all mistake--You know, Sir Benjamin very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most injurious Tales. CRABTREE. That they do I'll be sworn Ma'am--did you ever hear how Miss Shepherd came to lose her Lover and her Character last summer at Tunbridge--Sir Benjamin you remember it-- SIR BENJAMIN. O to be sure the most whimsical circumstance-- LADY SNEERWELL. How was it Pray-- CRABTREE. Why one evening at Mrs. Ponto's Assembly--the conversation happened to turn on the difficulty of breeding Nova-Scotia Sheep in this country--says a young Lady in company[, "]I have known instances of it[--]for Miss Letitia Shepherd, a first cousin of mine, had a Nova-Scotia Sheep that produced her Twins.["--"]What!["] cries the old Dowager Lady Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a Post), ["]has Miss Letitia Shepherd had twins["]--This Mistake--as you may imagine, threw the whole company into a fit of Laughing--However 'twas the next morning everywhere reported and in a few Days believed by the whole Town, that Miss Letitia Shepherd had actually been brought to Bed of a fine Boy and Girl--and in less than a week there were People who could name the Father, and the Farm House where the Babies were put out to Nurse. LADY SNEERWELL. Strange indeed! CRABTREE. Matter of Fact, I assure you--O Lud! Mr. Surface pray is it true that your uncle Sir Oliver is coming home-- SURFACE. Not that I know of indeed Sir. CRABTREE. He has been in the East Indies a long time--you can scarcely remember him--I believe--sad comfort on his arrival to hear how your Brother has gone on! SURFACE. Charles has been imprudent Sir to be sure[;] but I hope no Busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him--He may reform-- SIR BENJAMIN. To be sure He may--for my Part I never believed him to be so utterly void of Principle as People say--and tho' he has lost all his Friends I am told nobody is better spoken of--by the Jews. CRABTREE. That's true egad nephew--if the Old Jewry was a Ward I believe Charles would be an alderman--no man more popular there, 'fore Gad I hear He pays as many annuities as the Irish Tontine and that whenever He's sick they have Prayers for the recovery of his Health in the synagogue-- SIR BENJAMIN. Yet no man lives in greater Splendour:--they tell me when He entertains his Friends--He can sit down to dinner with a dozen of his own Securities, have a score Tradesmen waiting in the Anti-Chamber, and an officer behind every guest's Chair. SURFACE. This may be entertainment to you Gentlemen but you pay very little regard to the Feelings of a Brother. MARIA. Their malice is intolerable--Lady Sneerwell I must wish you a good morning--I'm not very well. [Exit MARIA.] MRS. CANDOUR. O dear she chang'd colour very much! LADY SNEERWELL. Do Mrs. Candour follow her--she may want assistance. MRS. CANDOUR. That I will with all my soul ma'am.--Poor dear Girl--who knows--what her situation may be! [Exit MRS. CANDOUR.] LADY SNEERWELL. 'Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear Charles reflected on notwithstanding their difference. SIR BENJAMIN. The young Lady's Penchant is obvious. CRABTREE. But Benjamin--you mustn't give up the Pursuit for that--follow her and put her into good humour--repeat her some of your verses--come, I'll assist you-- SIR BENJAMIN. Mr. Surface I did not mean to hurt you--but depend on't your Brother is utterly undone-- [Going.] CRABTREE. O Lud! aye--undone--as ever man was--can't raise a guinea. SIR BENJAMIN. And everything sold--I'm told--that was movable-- [Going.] CRABTREE. I was at his house--not a thing left but some empty Bottles that were overlooked and the Family Pictures, which I believe are framed in the Wainscot. [Going.] SIR BENJAMIN. And I'm very sorry to hear also some bad stories against him. [Going.] CRABTREE. O He has done many mean things--that's certain! SIR BENJAMIN. But however as He is your Brother---- [Going.] CRABTREE. We'll tell you all another opportunity. [Exeunt.] LADY SNEERWELL. Ha! ha! ha! 'tis very hard for them to leave a subject they have not quite run down. SURFACE. And I believe the Abuse was no more acceptable to your Ladyship than Maria. LADY SNEERWELL. I doubt her Affections are farther engaged than we imagin'd but the Family are to be here this Evening so you may as well dine where you are and we shall have an opportunity of observing farther--in the meantime, I'll go and plot Mischief and you shall study Sentiments. [Exeunt.] SCENE II. --SIR PETER'S House Enter SIR PETER SIR PETER. When an old Bachelor takes a young Wife--what is He to expect--'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiest of men--and I have been the most miserable Dog ever since that ever committed wedlock. We tift a little going to church--and came to a Quarrel before the Bells had done ringing--I was more than once nearly chok'd with gall during the Honeymoon--and had lost all comfort in Life before my Friends had done wishing me Joy--yet I chose with caution--a girl bred wholly in the country--who never knew luxury beyond one silk gown--nor dissipation above the annual Gala of a Race-Ball--Yet she now plays her Part in all the extravagant Fopperies of the Fashion and the Town, with as ready a Grace as if she had never seen a Bush nor a grass Plot out of Grosvenor-Square! I am sneered at by my old acquaintance--paragraphed--in the news Papers--She dissipates my Fortune, and contradicts all my Humours--yet the worst of it is I doubt I love her or I should never bear all this. However I'll never be weak enough to own it. Enter ROWLEY ROWLEY. Sir Peter, your servant:--how is 't with you Sir-- SIR PETER. Very bad--Master Rowley--very bad[.] I meet with nothing but crosses and vexations-- ROWLEY. What can have happened to trouble you since yesterday? SIR PETER. A good--question to a married man-- ROWLEY. Nay I'm sure your Lady Sir Peter can't be the cause of your uneasiness. SIR PETER. Why has anybody told you she was dead[?] ROWLEY. Come, come, Sir Peter, you love her, notwithstanding your tempers do not exactly agree. SIR PETER. But the Fault is entirely hers, Master Rowley--I am myself, the sweetest temper'd man alive, and hate a teasing temper; and so I tell her a hundred Times a day-- ROWLEY. Indeed! SIR PETER. Aye and what is very extraordinary in all our disputes she is always in the wrong! But Lady Sneerwell, and the Set she meets at her House, encourage the perverseness of her Disposition--then to complete my vexations--Maria--my Ward--whom I ought to have the Power of a Father over, is determined to turn Rebel too and absolutely refuses the man whom I have long resolved on for her husband--meaning I suppose, to bestow herself on his profligate Brother. ROWLEY. You know Sir Peter I have always taken the Liberty to differ with you on the subject of these two young Gentlemen--I only wish you may not be deceived in your opinion of the elder. For Charles, my life on't! He will retrieve his errors yet--their worthy Father, once my honour'd master, was at his years nearly as wild a spark. SIR PETER. You are wrong, Master Rowley--on their Father's Death you know I acted as a kind of Guardian to them both--till their uncle Sir Oliver's Eastern Bounty gave them an early independence. Of course no person could have more opportunities of judging of their Hearts--and I was never mistaken in my life. Joseph is indeed a model for the young men of the Age--He is a man of Sentiment--and acts up to the Sentiments he professes--but for the other[,] take my word for't [if] he had any grain of Virtue by descent--he has dissipated it with the rest of his inheritance. Ah! my old Friend, Sir Oliver will be deeply mortified when he finds how Part of his Bounty has been misapplied. ROWLEY. I am sorry to find you so violent against the young man because this may be the most critical Period of his Fortune. I came hither with news that will surprise you. SIR PETER. What! let me hear-- ROWLEY. Sir Oliver is arrived and at this moment in Town. SIR PETER. How!--you astonish me--I thought you did not expect him this month!-- ROWLEY. I did not--but his Passage has been remarkably quick. SIR PETER. Egad I shall rejoice to see my old Friend--'Tis sixteen years since we met--We have had many a Day together--but does he still enjoin us not to inform his Nephews of his Arrival? ROWLEY. Most strictly--He means, before He makes it known to make some trial of their Dispositions and we have already planned something for the purpose. SIR PETER. Ah there needs no art to discover their merits--however he shall have his way--but pray does he know I am married! ROWLEY. Yes and will soon wish you joy. SIR PETER. You may tell him 'tis too late--ah Oliver will laugh at me--we used to rail at matrimony together--but He has been steady to his Text--well He must be at my house tho'--I'll instantly give orders for his Reception--but Master Rowley--don't drop a word that Lady Teazle and I ever disagree. ROWLEY. By no means. SIR PETER. For I should never be able to stand Noll's jokes; so I'd have him think that we are a very happy couple. ROWLEY. I understand you--but then you must be very careful not to differ while He's in the House with you. SIR PETER. Egad--and so we must--that's impossible. Ah! Master Rowley when an old Batchelor marries a young wife--He deserves--no the crime carries the Punishment along with it. [Exeunt.] END OF THE FIRST ACT

Act I

https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073536/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-school-for-scandal/study-guide/summary-act-i

The play starts with two prologues that set up the themes of scandal, rumors, and public appearance. Act I begins by presenting Lady Sneerwell, a wealthy widow, and her servant, Snake, gossiping as they usually do. Lady Sneerwell gossips because, in her past, someone destroyed her reputation. Lady Sneerwell reveals to Snake why she is so involved in matters concerning Sir Peter Teazle, his ward Maria, and the young brothers Charles and Joseph Surface: Joseph loves Maria, but Maria loves Charles, whom Lady Sneerwell also loves. Lady Sneerwell and Joseph have been plotting to make Maria and Charles drift apart by putting out a rumor that Charles and Sir Peter's wife, Teazle, are having an affair. Lady Sneerwell will be sending Snake to execute this plot. After Lady Sneerwell finishes explaining, Joseph enters. Snake leaves, and Joseph then tells Lady Sneerwell that he suspects Snake of not being entirely faithful to them and their secret plan, because Snake has been in conversation with Rowley, who was his father's steward. Maria now enters, having tried to escape Sir Benjamin Backbite, another man vying for her love, and his uncle Crabtree. She complains that she did not want to stay with Backbite and his uncle because they were talking badly about others. Maria is followed by Mrs. Candour, and then by Sir Benjamin Backbite and his uncle Crabtree, who start gossiping that the Surface brothers' rich uncle will soon return to England from the East Indies. Crabtree also lauds Sir Benjamin's poetic sensibilities. They then start gossiping about Charles' financial situation, so Maria chooses to leave. Mrs. Candour follows her to try to help, and then Crabtree and Benjamin follow as well. Scene II begins with a soliloquy by Sir Peter about his wife's spending habits. Rowley arrives and the two talk about Maria, discussing how she rejected Joseph and seems to like Charles. Rowley defends Charles and then tells Sir Peter that Sir Oliver arrived from the East Indies. Sir Peter fears that Sir Oliver will make fun of him for getting married, but he is excited to see a friend whom he last saw sixteen years ago.

Beginning with a prologue was fairly commonplace at the time of Sheridan's writing. These prologues are used to directly address the audience and set up some of the themes or issues of the play. Sometimes, these prologues were not even written by the playwright, much like the forward of a book. In this play, the audience first sees a "portrait" written by the playwright, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, followed by a prologue written by a man named Mr. Garric. From the beginning of the play proper, characters' names are important for understanding characters' personalities and Sheridan's sense of humor and irony. In the first scene, Lady Sneerwell talks to Snake openly about their plot to spread a nasty, false rumor about Charles Surface and Lady Sneerwell's personal reasons for enjoying creating scandal. Lady Sneerwell's name combines her social status with her major character trait of judging others . Snake's name is slightly more metaphorical, evoking ideas of sneakiness. This sneakiness is why Lady Sneerwell chooses him to do her bidding; ironically, it is also the character trait that allows Snake to reveal Lady Sneerwell's plot in the end. Lady Sneerwell's forwardness and honesty with Snake might be surprising in a Comedy of Manners. For example, she says directly, "Wounded myself, in the early part of my life, by the envenomed tongue of slander, I confess I have since known no pleasure equal to the reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation" . However, this honesty and self-awareness in the first scene allows the audience to contrast her manner in private with her behavior in the public sphere, where she constantly throws attention on others rather than drawing it to her own situation. Act I Scene I introduces many of the important characters and relationships of the play. When Maria is introduced, there is immediate contrast between her own manner and beliefs and those of the rest of the characters. In Maria's second line of the play, she explains why she fled from conversation with Benjamin Backbite, saying, "his conversation is a perpetual libel on all his acquaintance" , meaning that he, like Lady Sneerwell, is a gossip. Throughout the play, Maria is used as a symbol of innocence and purity. The love Joseph, Charles, and Benjamin all have for her could suggest either that society still sought morality in the midst of all the scandal and gossip that most people partook in, or that women specifically were expected to be seen as moral and pure. One of the major issue raised in Act I is the relation between mean gossip and wit. Maria suggests that she loses respect for wit when wit is used to hurt or spread gossip about another; in her words, when she "see it in company with malice" . However, Lady Sneerwell responds that the two concepts are inextricably linked. Sheridan is perhaps challenging his audience, and especially viewers who are highly educated or writers themselves, to contemplate whether all wit must have a "barb that makes it stick" . If nothing else, as a writer of satire, Sheridan certainly had to confront the relation between wit and meanness personally.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_25_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 26

chapter 26

{"name": "Chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-26", "summary": "When he meets up with Bathsheba in the hay field, Troy continues assaulting her with compliment after compliment. She tries to fend him off with sarcasm and discouraging remarks, but he can't be stopped. Eventually, he makes her absolutely speechless with his compliments. He totally wears her down and she starts speaking kindly to him. Once she's speaking kindly to him, he says that he'll soon be leaving town with his regiment. He flat out tells her that he has loved her ever since he first saw her. Yikes, the guy is coming on a little strong, don't you think? Then Sergeant Troy outdoes himself by giving her a gold watch as a present. She says she can't possibly accept it, but he backs away before she can give it back. When Troy returns to working on the hay, Bathsheba can't even bring herself to look at her workmen. Her heart is pounding now, and it's clear that she's smitten with Troy.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE ON THE VERGE OF THE HAY-MEAD "Ah, Miss Everdene!" said the sergeant, touching his diminutive cap. "Little did I think it was you I was speaking to the other night. And yet, if I had reflected, the 'Queen of the Corn-market' (truth is truth at any hour of the day or night, and I heard you so named in Casterbridge yesterday), the 'Queen of the Corn-market.' I say, could be no other woman. I step across now to beg your forgiveness a thousand times for having been led by my feelings to express myself too strongly for a stranger. To be sure I am no stranger to the place--I am Sergeant Troy, as I told you, and I have assisted your uncle in these fields no end of times when I was a lad. I have been doing the same for you to-day." "I suppose I must thank you for that, Sergeant Troy," said the Queen of the Corn-market, in an indifferently grateful tone. The sergeant looked hurt and sad. "Indeed you must not, Miss Everdene," he said. "Why could you think such a thing necessary?" "I am glad it is not." "Why? if I may ask without offence." "Because I don't much want to thank you for anything." "I am afraid I have made a hole with my tongue that my heart will never mend. O these intolerable times: that ill-luck should follow a man for honestly telling a woman she is beautiful! 'Twas the most I said--you must own that; and the least I could say--that I own myself." "There is some talk I could do without more easily than money." "Indeed. That remark is a sort of digression." "No. It means that I would rather have your room than your company." "And I would rather have curses from you than kisses from any other woman; so I'll stay here." Bathsheba was absolutely speechless. And yet she could not help feeling that the assistance he was rendering forbade a harsh repulse. "Well," continued Troy, "I suppose there is a praise which is rudeness, and that may be mine. At the same time there is a treatment which is injustice, and that may be yours. Because a plain blunt man, who has never been taught concealment, speaks out his mind without exactly intending it, he's to be snapped off like the son of a sinner." "Indeed there's no such case between us," she said, turning away. "I don't allow strangers to be bold and impudent--even in praise of me." "Ah--it is not the fact but the method which offends you," he said, carelessly. "But I have the sad satisfaction of knowing that my words, whether pleasing or offensive, are unmistakably true. Would you have had me look at you, and tell my acquaintance that you are quite a common-place woman, to save you the embarrassment of being stared at if they come near you? Not I. I couldn't tell any such ridiculous lie about a beauty to encourage a single woman in England in too excessive a modesty." "It is all pretence--what you are saying!" exclaimed Bathsheba, laughing in spite of herself at the sly method. "You have a rare invention, Sergeant Troy. Why couldn't you have passed by me that night, and said nothing?--that was all I meant to reproach you for." "Because I wasn't going to. Half the pleasure of a feeling lies in being able to express it on the spur of the moment, and I let out mine. It would have been just the same if you had been the reverse person--ugly and old--I should have exclaimed about it in the same way." "How long is it since you have been so afflicted with strong feeling, then?" "Oh, ever since I was big enough to know loveliness from deformity." "'Tis to be hoped your sense of the difference you speak of doesn't stop at faces, but extends to morals as well." "I won't speak of morals or religion--my own or anybody else's. Though perhaps I should have been a very good Christian if you pretty women hadn't made me an idolater." Bathsheba moved on to hide the irrepressible dimplings of merriment. Troy followed, whirling his crop. "But--Miss Everdene--you do forgive me?" "Hardly." "Why?" "You say such things." "I said you were beautiful, and I'll say so still; for, by G---- so you are! The most beautiful ever I saw, or may I fall dead this instant! Why, upon my ----" "Don't--don't! I won't listen to you--you are so profane!" she said, in a restless state between distress at hearing him and a _penchant_ to hear more. "I again say you are a most fascinating woman. There's nothing remarkable in my saying so, is there? I'm sure the fact is evident enough. Miss Everdene, my opinion may be too forcibly let out to please you, and, for the matter of that, too insignificant to convince you, but surely it is honest, and why can't it be excused?" "Because it--it isn't a correct one," she femininely murmured. "Oh, fie--fie! Am I any worse for breaking the third of that Terrible Ten than you for breaking the ninth?" "Well, it doesn't seem QUITE true to me that I am fascinating," she replied evasively. "Not so to you: then I say with all respect that, if so, it is owing to your modesty, Miss Everdene. But surely you must have been told by everybody of what everybody notices? And you should take their words for it." "They don't say so exactly." "Oh yes, they must!" "Well, I mean to my face, as you do," she went on, allowing herself to be further lured into a conversation that intention had rigorously forbidden. "But you know they think so?" "No--that is--I certainly have heard Liddy say they do, but--" She paused. Capitulation--that was the purport of the simple reply, guarded as it was--capitulation, unknown to herself. Never did a fragile tailless sentence convey a more perfect meaning. The careless sergeant smiled within himself, and probably too the devil smiled from a loop-hole in Tophet, for the moment was the turning-point of a career. Her tone and mien signified beyond mistake that the seed which was to lift the foundation had taken root in the chink: the remainder was a mere question of time and natural changes. "There the truth comes out!" said the soldier, in reply. "Never tell me that a young lady can live in a buzz of admiration without knowing something about it. Ah, well, Miss Everdene, you are--pardon my blunt way--you are rather an injury to our race than otherwise." "How--indeed?" she said, opening her eyes. "Oh, it is true enough. I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb (an old country saying, not of much account, but it will do for a rough soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of your pleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon. Why, Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do more harm than good in the world." The sergeant looked down the mead in critical abstraction. "Probably some one man on an average falls in love with each ordinary woman. She can marry him: he is content, and leads a useful life. Such women as you a hundred men always covet--your eyes will bewitch scores on scores into an unavailing fancy for you--you can only marry one of that many. Out of these say twenty will endeavour to drown the bitterness of despised love in drink; twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish or attempt to make a mark in he world, because they have no ambition apart from their attachment to you; twenty more--the susceptible person myself possibly among them--will be always draggling after you, getting where they may just see you, doing desperate things. Men are such constant fools! The rest may try to get over their passion with more or less success. But all these men will be saddened. And not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine women they might have married are saddened with them. There's my tale. That's why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, Miss Everdene, is hardly a blessing to her race." The handsome sergeant's features were during this speech as rigid and stern as John Knox's in addressing his gay young queen. Seeing she made no reply, he said, "Do you read French?" "No; I began, but when I got to the verbs, father died," she said simply. "I do--when I have an opportunity, which latterly has not been often (my mother was a Parisienne)--and there's a proverb they have, _Qui aime bien, chatie bien_--'He chastens who loves well.' Do you understand me?" "Ah!" she replied, and there was even a little tremulousness in the usually cool girl's voice; "if you can only fight half as winningly as you can talk, you are able to make a pleasure of a bayonet wound!" And then poor Bathsheba instantly perceived her slip in making this admission: in hastily trying to retrieve it, she went from bad to worse. "Don't, however, suppose that _I_ derive any pleasure from what you tell me." "I know you do not--I know it perfectly," said Troy, with much hearty conviction on the exterior of his face: and altering the expression to moodiness; "when a dozen men are ready to speak tenderly to you, and give the admiration you deserve without adding the warning you need, it stands to reason that my poor rough-and-ready mixture of praise and blame cannot convey much pleasure. Fool as I may be, I am not so conceited as to suppose that!" "I think you--are conceited, nevertheless," said Bathsheba, looking askance at a reed she was fitfully pulling with one hand, having lately grown feverish under the soldier's system of procedure--not because the nature of his cajolery was entirely unperceived, but because its vigour was overwhelming. "I would not own it to anybody else--nor do I exactly to you. Still, there might have been some self-conceit in my foolish supposition the other night. I knew that what I said in admiration might be an opinion too often forced upon you to give any pleasure, but I certainly did think that the kindness of your nature might prevent you judging an uncontrolled tongue harshly--which you have done--and thinking badly of me and wounding me this morning, when I am working hard to save your hay." "Well, you need not think more of that: perhaps you did not mean to be rude to me by speaking out your mind: indeed, I believe you did not," said the shrewd woman, in painfully innocent earnest. "And I thank you for giving help here. But--but mind you don't speak to me again in that way, or in any other, unless I speak to you." "Oh, Miss Bathsheba! That is too hard!" "No, it isn't. Why is it?" "You will never speak to me; for I shall not be here long. I am soon going back again to the miserable monotony of drill--and perhaps our regiment will be ordered out soon. And yet you take away the one little ewe-lamb of pleasure that I have in this dull life of mine. Well, perhaps generosity is not a woman's most marked characteristic." "When are you going from here?" she asked, with some interest. "In a month." "But how can it give you pleasure to speak to me?" "Can you ask Miss Everdene--knowing as you do--what my offence is based on?" "If you do care so much for a silly trifle of that kind, then, I don't mind doing it," she uncertainly and doubtingly answered. "But you can't really care for a word from me? you only say so--I think you only say so." "That's unjust--but I won't repeat the remark. I am too gratified to get such a mark of your friendship at any price to cavil at the tone. I DO, Miss Everdene, care for it. You may think a man foolish to want a mere word--just a good morning. Perhaps he is--I don't know. But you have never been a man looking upon a woman, and that woman yourself." "Well." "Then you know nothing of what such an experience is like--and Heaven forbid that you ever should!" "Nonsense, flatterer! What is it like? I am interested in knowing." "Put shortly, it is not being able to think, hear, or look in any direction except one without wretchedness, nor there without torture." "Ah, sergeant, it won't do--you are pretending!" she said, shaking her head. "Your words are too dashing to be true." "I am not, upon the honour of a soldier." "But WHY is it so?--Of course I ask for mere pastime." "Because you are so distracting--and I am so distracted." "You look like it." "I am indeed." "Why, you only saw me the other night!" "That makes no difference. The lightning works instantaneously. I loved you then, at once--as I do now." Bathsheba surveyed him curiously, from the feet upward, as high as she liked to venture her glance, which was not quite so high as his eyes. "You cannot and you don't," she said demurely. "There is no such sudden feeling in people. I won't listen to you any longer. Hear me, I wish I knew what o'clock it is--I am going--I have wasted too much time here already!" The sergeant looked at his watch and told her. "What, haven't you a watch, miss?" he inquired. "I have not just at present--I am about to get a new one." "No. You shall be given one. Yes--you shall. A gift, Miss Everdene--a gift." And before she knew what the young man was intending, a heavy gold watch was in her hand. "It is an unusually good one for a man like me to possess," he quietly said. "That watch has a history. Press the spring and open the back." She did so. "What do you see?" "A crest and a motto." "A coronet with five points, and beneath, _Cedit amor rebus_--'Love yields to circumstance.' It's the motto of the Earls of Severn. That watch belonged to the last lord, and was given to my mother's husband, a medical man, for his use till I came of age, when it was to be given to me. It was all the fortune that ever I inherited. That watch has regulated imperial interests in its time--the stately ceremonial, the courtly assignation, pompous travels, and lordly sleeps. Now it is yours." "But, Sergeant Troy, I cannot take this--I cannot!" she exclaimed, with round-eyed wonder. "A gold watch! What are you doing? Don't be such a dissembler!" The sergeant retreated to avoid receiving back his gift, which she held out persistently towards him. Bathsheba followed as he retired. "Keep it--do, Miss Everdene--keep it!" said the erratic child of impulse. "The fact of your possessing it makes it worth ten times as much to me. A more plebeian one will answer my purpose just as well, and the pleasure of knowing whose heart my old one beats against--well, I won't speak of that. It is in far worthier hands than ever it has been in before." "But indeed I can't have it!" she said, in a perfect simmer of distress. "Oh, how can you do such a thing; that is if you really mean it! Give me your dead father's watch, and such a valuable one! You should not be so reckless, indeed, Sergeant Troy!" "I loved my father: good; but better, I love you more. That's how I can do it," said the sergeant, with an intonation of such exquisite fidelity to nature that it was evidently not all acted now. Her beauty, which, whilst it had been quiescent, he had praised in jest, had in its animated phases moved him to earnest; and though his seriousness was less than she imagined, it was probably more than he imagined himself. Bathsheba was brimming with agitated bewilderment, and she said, in half-suspicious accents of feeling, "Can it be! Oh, how can it be, that you care for me, and so suddenly! You have seen so little of me: I may not be really so--so nice-looking as I seem to you. Please, do take it; Oh, do! I cannot and will not have it. Believe me, your generosity is too great. I have never done you a single kindness, and why should you be so kind to me?" A factitious reply had been again upon his lips, but it was again suspended, and he looked at her with an arrested eye. The truth was, that as she now stood--excited, wild, and honest as the day--her alluring beauty bore out so fully the epithets he had bestowed upon it that he was quite startled at his temerity in advancing them as false. He said mechanically, "Ah, why?" and continued to look at her. "And my workfolk see me following you about the field, and are wondering. Oh, this is dreadful!" she went on, unconscious of the transmutation she was effecting. "I did not quite mean you to accept it at first, for it was my one poor patent of nobility," he broke out, bluntly; "but, upon my soul, I wish you would now. Without any shamming, come! Don't deny me the happiness of wearing it for my sake? But you are too lovely even to care to be kind as others are." "No, no; don't say so! I have reasons for reserve which I cannot explain." "Let it be, then, let it be," he said, receiving back the watch at last; "I must be leaving you now. And will you speak to me for these few weeks of my stay?" "Indeed I will. Yet, I don't know if I will! Oh, why did you come and disturb me so!" "Perhaps in setting a gin, I have caught myself. Such things have happened. Well, will you let me work in your fields?" he coaxed. "Yes, I suppose so; if it is any pleasure to you." "Miss Everdene, I thank you." "No, no." "Good-bye!" The sergeant brought his hand to the cap on the slope of his head, saluted, and returned to the distant group of haymakers. Bathsheba could not face the haymakers now. Her heart erratically flitting hither and thither from perplexed excitement, hot, and almost tearful, she retreated homeward, murmuring, "Oh, what have I done! What does it mean! I wish I knew how much of it was true!"

Chapter 26

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-26

When he meets up with Bathsheba in the hay field, Troy continues assaulting her with compliment after compliment. She tries to fend him off with sarcasm and discouraging remarks, but he can't be stopped. Eventually, he makes her absolutely speechless with his compliments. He totally wears her down and she starts speaking kindly to him. Once she's speaking kindly to him, he says that he'll soon be leaving town with his regiment. He flat out tells her that he has loved her ever since he first saw her. Yikes, the guy is coming on a little strong, don't you think? Then Sergeant Troy outdoes himself by giving her a gold watch as a present. She says she can't possibly accept it, but he backs away before she can give it back. When Troy returns to working on the hay, Bathsheba can't even bring herself to look at her workmen. Her heart is pounding now, and it's clear that she's smitten with Troy.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/chapters_33_to_36.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_7_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapters 33-36

chapters 33-36

{"name": "Chapters 33-36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section8/", "summary": "Elinor and Marianne go on an errand to Gray's, the jeweler in town. They are annoyed by the presence of an impertinent coxcomb who stands before them in line and orders an elaborate toothpick case. As Elinor at last conducts her business, her brother enters the shop. John Dashwood confesses that he has been in town for two days but has not had time to visit his sisters. The next day, John pays a visit to his sisters at Mrs. Jennings's home. He takes a long walk with Elinor, during which he informs her that he would be very glad if she married Colonel Brandon. Elinor assures him that she has no intentions of doing so, but John insists on the desirability of the match. He also comments that Mrs. Ferrars expects her son, Edward, to marry the wealthy daughter of Miss Morton. Finally, Edward notes that Marianne's appearance has declined considerably in her time of misery, and thus she will no longer be able to find quite so wealthy a husband. Fanny Dashwood is initially reluctant to visit the Dashwoods because she is unsure if Mrs. Jennings is sophisticated enough for her, but she consents upon hearing her husband's favorable report. Fanny enjoys the company of Mrs. Jennings, and especially enjoys the company of Lady Middleton. She decides to host a dinner party at her home on Harley Street. She invites the Dashwood sisters, Mrs. Jennings, the Middletons, Colonel Brandon, and Mrs. Ferrars. Elinor is very worried about meeting Edward at the dinner party, and is relieved to learn that he is unable to attend. She strongly dislikes Mrs. Ferrars, a sour and sallow woman who seems to care only about seeing her son Edward marry rich. After dinner, the ladies withdraw into the drawing room. Much to Elinor's dismay, the subject of conversation is Harry Dashwood and Lady Middleton's second son, William, and whether one is taller than the other. When the gentlemen guests enter the room, John Dashwood shows off to Colonel Brandon a pair of screens that Elinor painted as a gift for her brother's family. Mrs. Ferrars insults Elinor's artwork and Marianne, furious at Mrs. Ferrars's rudeness, rushes to her sister's public defense. Colonel Brandon admires the \"affectionate heart\" of this girl, who cannot bear to witness her sister slighted. Mrs. Jennings is called away urgently by her daughter Mrs. Charlotte Palmer, who is expecting the birth of a child. Meanwhile, Lucy Steele visits the Dashwoods to tell Elinor how pleasantly surprised she was by Mrs. Ferrars's favorable behavior toward her at the party. In the middle of their conversation, the servant suddenly announces the arrival of Mr. Ferrars, and Edward walks into the room. He looks immediately uncomfortable upon realizing that both Lucy and Elinor are in attendance. Marianne, who does not know anything about Lucy's claims of an attachment to Edward, expresses her tremendous joy at his arrival. Marianne is surprised when Edward leaves so soon after, and remarks to Elinor that she cannot understand why Lucy calls so frequently . Elinor, bound by her pledge of secrecy to Lucy, cannot offer a single word of explanation. Mrs. Palmer gives birth to a son and heir, to the great pride and joy of Mrs. Jennings. Mr. Palmer, however, seems unaffected by the birth of his son and insists that the baby looks like all the other babies he has ever seen. Fanny's friend, Mrs. Dennison, invites her and John to a musical party and extends the invitation to the Dashwood girls, under the mistaken assumption that the girls are living with their half-brother's family. There, Elinor is introduced to Mr. Robert Ferrars and discovers that he is the very same coxcomb who stood before her in line at the jewelers. At the party, it occurs to John to invite his sisters to stay at his house in London, but Fanny objects on the grounds that she had just been planning to invite Anne and Lucy Steele to visit. Elinor worries that perhaps this invitation is a sign that Fanny has decided to support Lucy's engagement to her brother, Edward.", "analysis": "Commentary Austen's biting wit is quite evident here: as the omniscient narrator, she makes direct comments about her characters, and, within the story, she has some of her characters commment on other, less favorable figures. The first, more direct display of her wit is exemplified by her comments about the dinner party, hosted by Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood: John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this, for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable: want of sense, either natural or improved; want of elegance, want of spirits, or want of temper. She passes judgment on her characters by pretending to cast their most negative attributes in a positive light: John Dashwood has nothing to say for himself, but there is \"no particular disgrace\" in this because his company is just as insipid as he. Usually, these acerbic observations are presented through Elinor's eyes, but here Austen, at her cruelest, satirizes her characters directly. The more indirect display of Austen's wit is exemplified by the personality and behavior of Mr. Palmer. Just after the lengthy and elaborate debate between doting mothers about the relative heights of their children, Austen informs her readers that Mr. Palmer, the father of a newborn son, did not find his child to be different from any other newborn infant, \"nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world.\" Rather than informing her readers directly that Fanny Dashwood and Lady Middleton are irrational in their motherly affections, she accomplishes this through the character of Mr. Palmer, whose objectivity and indifference enable her to indirectly mock the mothers' excessive sentimentality. From Fanny's dinner party to Mrs. Dennison's musical party, these chapters underscore the extent to which a seemingly endless series of invitations governs the lives of the women in Austen's novel. The Dashwood women travel to Barton at the invitation of Sir John; Elinor and Marianne travel to London at the invitation of Mrs. Jennings; Marianne visits Willoughby's estate at Allenham at his invitation. Indeed, formal invitations to others' homes structure the social lives of all of Austen's heroines, and thus, although they travel frequently and widely, the wills of others circumscribe their mobility. In contrast, the men of the novel have agency in addition to mobility. They can come and go as they wish regardless of the invitations and expectations of others: Willoughby proclaims unexpectedly that he must go to Devonshire on business; Colonel Brandon suddenly interrupts the outing to Whitwell because he has urgent business in London; Edward comes and goes in no particular pattern. While the plot of the entire novel is structured around the physical movement of characters, only the male characters fully control their travels."}

After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother. When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for them. On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion. Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom. At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference. Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother. Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive. Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days. "I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. THIS morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to THEM. As my mother-in-law's relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand." "Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express." "I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you." Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door. Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave. His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where." Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to THEM, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to HIM. After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began. "Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?" "Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire." "I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "Me, brother! what do you mean?" "He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?" "I believe about two thousand a year." "Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were TWICE as much, for your sake." "Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying ME." "You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that"--lowering his voice to an important whisper--"will be exceedingly welcome to ALL PARTIES." Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean to say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day." Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer. "It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely." "Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be married?" "It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you another instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here." He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say, "Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable; but your income is a large one." "Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it HAS cost me a vast deal of money." "More than you think it really and intrinsically worth." "Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's hands, I must have sold out to very great loss." Elinor could only smile. "Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is." "Certainly," said Elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, I hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances." "Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden marked out." "Where is the green-house to be?" "Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow." Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation. Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings. "She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advantageous.--Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be forgotten.-- She must have a great deal to leave." "Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her jointure, which will descend to her children." "But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few people of common prudence will do THAT; and whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of." "And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her daughters, than to us?" "Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises." "But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far." "Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is the matter with Marianne?-- she looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?" "She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several weeks." "I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness destroys the bloom for ever! Hers has been a very short one! She was as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to attract the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to please them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of YOU, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question whether Marianne NOW, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if YOU do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors." Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect. They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood went away delighted with both. "I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he walked back with his sister. "Lady Middleton is really a most elegant woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs. Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting HER, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both." Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment, that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most charming women in the world! Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding. The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings, and to HER she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence. Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask, whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The intelligence however, which SHE would not give, soon flowed from another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write. Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him. The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing HER, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet Edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever. The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it. So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party took place. Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card. On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly knew how she could bear it! These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together. The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law. "Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs together--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same time--"There is nobody here but you, that can feel for me.--I declare I can hardly stand. Good gracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness depends on--that is to be my mother!"-- Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor. Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination of disliking her at all events. Elinor could not NOW be made unhappy by this behaviour.-- A few months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars' power to distress her by it now;--and the difference of her manners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person-- for Lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others, had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four. Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy. The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to infer from it;--no poverty of any kind, except of conversation, appeared--but there, the deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want of elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper. When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen HAD supplied the discourse with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land, and breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were nearly of the same age. Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked. The parties stood thus: The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other. The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant. Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each. Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when called on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had never thought about it. Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his admiration. "These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well." The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by Miss Dashwood. "Hum"--said Mrs. Ferrars--"very pretty,"--and without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter. Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said, "They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?" But then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added, "Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of painting, Ma'am?--She DOES paint most delightfully!--How beautifully her last landscape is done!" "Beautifully indeed! But SHE does every thing well." Marianne could not bear this.--She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth, "This is admiration of a very particular kind!--what is Miss Morton to us?--who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom WE think and speak." And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired. Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "Miss Morton is Lord Morton's daughter." Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point. Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice, "Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make YOU unhappy." She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body's attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.--Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.--Mrs. Jennings, with a very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately gave her her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair. In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening. "Poor Marianne!" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention,-- "She has not such good health as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not Elinor's constitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who HAS BEEN a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne WAS remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.-- Now you see it is all gone." Elinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied.-- She had found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between the families undesirable.-- She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise free;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her OWN sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she OUGHT to have rejoiced. She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of Mrs. Ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she was NOT ELINOR, appear a compliment to herself--or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was. The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away. "My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was!--You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;--but the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so?-- You saw it all; and was not you quite struck with it?" "She was certainly very civil to you." "Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?-- I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and affability!" Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go on.-- "Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was not the case"-- "I guessed you would say so,"--replied Lucy quickly--"but there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women, indeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was!" To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any. "Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you an't well." "I never was in better health." "I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I should be sorry to have YOU ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship."-- Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied, "Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have.--Poor Edward!--But now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;--and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me.-- They are such charming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot speak too high." But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she SHOULD tell her sister. Lucy continued. "I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I mean--if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she DOES dislike, I know it is most violent." Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward's immediately walking in. It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.--They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only LOOK her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more. But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her. Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's. Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that WAS said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did. Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and THAT in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. "Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!--This would almost make amends for every thing!" Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her. "Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of MY health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both." This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression. "Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject. "Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!" She paused--no one spoke. "I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge." Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else. "We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now." And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private. "But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come?" "I was engaged elsewhere." "Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?" "Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great." Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied, "Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he HAS the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation." The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away. "Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be." And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away. "What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teazing to Edward!" "Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves." Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted." She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had every reason to expect. Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before. This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought. They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on THEIR ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but THAT did not signify. It was censure in common use, and easily given. Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself. All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One thing DID disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world. I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them. Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her. To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped HER minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many conquests." With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman. The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in England. As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars. He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they WERE different, Robert exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme GAUCHERIE which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man. "Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,' I always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error." Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction. "You reside in Devonshire, I think,"--was his next observation, "in a cottage near Dawlish." Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house. "For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide on the best of them. 'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it. "Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend Elliott's, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. 'But how can it be done?' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.' Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling." Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition. As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home. The expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny was startled at the proposal. "I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews. But they are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?" Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection. "They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations." Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said, "My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!" Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as THEIR visitor. Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days' time. When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater. The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them. [At this point in the first and second editions, Volume II ended.]

Chapters 33-36

https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section8/

Elinor and Marianne go on an errand to Gray's, the jeweler in town. They are annoyed by the presence of an impertinent coxcomb who stands before them in line and orders an elaborate toothpick case. As Elinor at last conducts her business, her brother enters the shop. John Dashwood confesses that he has been in town for two days but has not had time to visit his sisters. The next day, John pays a visit to his sisters at Mrs. Jennings's home. He takes a long walk with Elinor, during which he informs her that he would be very glad if she married Colonel Brandon. Elinor assures him that she has no intentions of doing so, but John insists on the desirability of the match. He also comments that Mrs. Ferrars expects her son, Edward, to marry the wealthy daughter of Miss Morton. Finally, Edward notes that Marianne's appearance has declined considerably in her time of misery, and thus she will no longer be able to find quite so wealthy a husband. Fanny Dashwood is initially reluctant to visit the Dashwoods because she is unsure if Mrs. Jennings is sophisticated enough for her, but she consents upon hearing her husband's favorable report. Fanny enjoys the company of Mrs. Jennings, and especially enjoys the company of Lady Middleton. She decides to host a dinner party at her home on Harley Street. She invites the Dashwood sisters, Mrs. Jennings, the Middletons, Colonel Brandon, and Mrs. Ferrars. Elinor is very worried about meeting Edward at the dinner party, and is relieved to learn that he is unable to attend. She strongly dislikes Mrs. Ferrars, a sour and sallow woman who seems to care only about seeing her son Edward marry rich. After dinner, the ladies withdraw into the drawing room. Much to Elinor's dismay, the subject of conversation is Harry Dashwood and Lady Middleton's second son, William, and whether one is taller than the other. When the gentlemen guests enter the room, John Dashwood shows off to Colonel Brandon a pair of screens that Elinor painted as a gift for her brother's family. Mrs. Ferrars insults Elinor's artwork and Marianne, furious at Mrs. Ferrars's rudeness, rushes to her sister's public defense. Colonel Brandon admires the "affectionate heart" of this girl, who cannot bear to witness her sister slighted. Mrs. Jennings is called away urgently by her daughter Mrs. Charlotte Palmer, who is expecting the birth of a child. Meanwhile, Lucy Steele visits the Dashwoods to tell Elinor how pleasantly surprised she was by Mrs. Ferrars's favorable behavior toward her at the party. In the middle of their conversation, the servant suddenly announces the arrival of Mr. Ferrars, and Edward walks into the room. He looks immediately uncomfortable upon realizing that both Lucy and Elinor are in attendance. Marianne, who does not know anything about Lucy's claims of an attachment to Edward, expresses her tremendous joy at his arrival. Marianne is surprised when Edward leaves so soon after, and remarks to Elinor that she cannot understand why Lucy calls so frequently . Elinor, bound by her pledge of secrecy to Lucy, cannot offer a single word of explanation. Mrs. Palmer gives birth to a son and heir, to the great pride and joy of Mrs. Jennings. Mr. Palmer, however, seems unaffected by the birth of his son and insists that the baby looks like all the other babies he has ever seen. Fanny's friend, Mrs. Dennison, invites her and John to a musical party and extends the invitation to the Dashwood girls, under the mistaken assumption that the girls are living with their half-brother's family. There, Elinor is introduced to Mr. Robert Ferrars and discovers that he is the very same coxcomb who stood before her in line at the jewelers. At the party, it occurs to John to invite his sisters to stay at his house in London, but Fanny objects on the grounds that she had just been planning to invite Anne and Lucy Steele to visit. Elinor worries that perhaps this invitation is a sign that Fanny has decided to support Lucy's engagement to her brother, Edward.

Commentary Austen's biting wit is quite evident here: as the omniscient narrator, she makes direct comments about her characters, and, within the story, she has some of her characters commment on other, less favorable figures. The first, more direct display of her wit is exemplified by her comments about the dinner party, hosted by Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood: John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this, for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable: want of sense, either natural or improved; want of elegance, want of spirits, or want of temper. She passes judgment on her characters by pretending to cast their most negative attributes in a positive light: John Dashwood has nothing to say for himself, but there is "no particular disgrace" in this because his company is just as insipid as he. Usually, these acerbic observations are presented through Elinor's eyes, but here Austen, at her cruelest, satirizes her characters directly. The more indirect display of Austen's wit is exemplified by the personality and behavior of Mr. Palmer. Just after the lengthy and elaborate debate between doting mothers about the relative heights of their children, Austen informs her readers that Mr. Palmer, the father of a newborn son, did not find his child to be different from any other newborn infant, "nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world." Rather than informing her readers directly that Fanny Dashwood and Lady Middleton are irrational in their motherly affections, she accomplishes this through the character of Mr. Palmer, whose objectivity and indifference enable her to indirectly mock the mothers' excessive sentimentality. From Fanny's dinner party to Mrs. Dennison's musical party, these chapters underscore the extent to which a seemingly endless series of invitations governs the lives of the women in Austen's novel. The Dashwood women travel to Barton at the invitation of Sir John; Elinor and Marianne travel to London at the invitation of Mrs. Jennings; Marianne visits Willoughby's estate at Allenham at his invitation. Indeed, formal invitations to others' homes structure the social lives of all of Austen's heroines, and thus, although they travel frequently and widely, the wills of others circumscribe their mobility. In contrast, the men of the novel have agency in addition to mobility. They can come and go as they wish regardless of the invitations and expectations of others: Willoughby proclaims unexpectedly that he must go to Devonshire on business; Colonel Brandon suddenly interrupts the outing to Whitwell because he has urgent business in London; Edward comes and goes in no particular pattern. While the plot of the entire novel is structured around the physical movement of characters, only the male characters fully control their travels.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/49.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_48_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 49

chapter 49

{"name": "Chapter 49", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-49", "summary": "Apparently, Edward had come to Barton to ask Elinor to marry him. He left the house so abruptly to get some fresh air, gained confidence, then returned immediately to accomplish his mission. Three hours later, everything is settled, and everyone is immensely happy. Yay! Edward is happier than they've ever seen him , and he's genuinely cheerful and open to everyone, especially Elinor. He explains what happened with his engagement to Lucy - they'd fallen in love as teenagers, but as grownups, they'd grown apart. Part of the problem was that he hadn't had a clear path to employment once he left school, and no companions or friends - really, the only person he was close to as a youth was Lucy, so he had no basis for comparison. That night, everyone is so excited that nobody can sleep. It's a good kind of excitement, though - that of pure joy and relief. Marianne can only express her joy through crying, and has no words for her feelings. Elinor was so excited that even she lost her composure for a moment, before she pulled it together and was able to tell him how much she loves him - still, she's far from the normal calm Elinor we're used to. Edward stays at the cottage for a week, and he and Elinor spend the whole time enjoying each other's company and planning for the future. Lucy's marriage to Robert is a topic of much discussion as well - how did it happen? Everyone is mystified. Edward and Elinor discuss the possibility of plotting on Lucy's part; they decide that she probably began with the best intentions of gaining Robert's good favor for her marriage to Edward, but things changed somewhere along the line. Edward tells Elinor all about his breakup with Lucy. She'd written him a rather awkward letter, after she and Robert were already married, and requested that he destroy all her letters. He was horrified by the badness of her writing, but pleased by the content - everyone agrees that all's well that ends well. Mrs. Ferrars has even got her comeuppance, since the very daughter-in-law she hoped to eliminate by disowning Edward has cropped up again with Robert. Edward hasn't been in contact with his family since this all happened, and he's not sure what is going to happen. Elinor realizes that Lucy had meant to deceive the Dashwoods and hurt Elinor in particular by leading Thomas to believe that she had married Edward, not Robert. It's clear that Lucy is not actually a nice girl, but clearly something of an evil one. He wishes he'd known about it before his mother found out about everything - he would have broken up with Lucy had he known her real nature. He can't imagine why Lucy stuck with him for so long - why would she have stayed with him, even when he was disowned? Elinor figures that Lucy probably thought that she could gain from the association anyway, and that she'd assumed that in the end his family would give in. Elinor teases him for spending so much time at Norland with her when he was otherwise engaged with Lucy, but she doesn't mean it. He earnestly defends himself, saying that he thought he was safe from falling in love with Elinor if he was engaged already. Needless to say, he was wrong. Edward is glad that Colonel Brandon is coming to visit. He's excited to get to know his benefactor better; he used to resent Colonel Brandon because he though the Colonel was engaged to Elinor and he'd assumed that that's why he was offered the job at Delaford. Now that everything's cleared up, though, he's excited to make a new friend. As for money, Elinor has a thousand pounds of her own, and Edward has two thousand - combined with the Delaford living, that doesn't give them quite enough to live on. Edward hopes that his mother might change her mind toward him, but Elinor's not so sure. It seems to her that Robert's offensive marriage will just mean that Fanny will get more of the Ferrars fortune. A few days after Edward arrives, Colonel Brandon shows up. Mrs. Dashwood is overjoyed that everyone's together, but it means that they're out of room at the cottage, and Colonel Brandon has to stay at Barton Park. However, he comes to visit every day. He's been much revived by his three weeks at home, and is even more revived by Marianne's improvement in health. Mrs. Dashwood tells him all the surprising news about Lucy and Robert, and the Colonel is especially happy that he's helped Edward and Elinor out. Edward and Colonel Brandon become great friends quickly, not only because they're quite similar in personality, but also because they're in love with two sisters. Mrs. Jennings sends a letter from town relating the whole story of Lucy and Robert, which Elinor is now able to read with humor, not anxiety. John also writes, lamenting how unfortunate Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny are. Both Robert and Lucy are in her bad book, and even if she un-disowns Robert, she'll never forgive Lucy. Mrs. Ferrars hasn't said anything about Edward yet, but John thinks that Edward should write a conciliatory note to his mother - perhaps she will forgive him . Edward isn't sure what to do and doesn't want to write, as John suggests, a letter of \"submission,\" so Elinor counsels him to write a letter asking for forgiveness, perhaps with a little humility thrown in there for good measure. Colonel Brandon and Edward leave together to visit Delaford, after which Edward will go to London.", "analysis": ""}

Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of ONE imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of THAT, than the immediate contraction of another. His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask Elinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air. How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;--and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness;--and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before. His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four. "It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the consequence of ignorance of the world--and want of employment. Had my mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think--nay, I am sure, it would never have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too--at least I thought so THEN; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly." The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the Dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both. Marianne could speak HER happiness only by tears. Comparisons would occur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language. But Elinor--how are HER feelings to be described?--From the moment of learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw him honourably released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity;--and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart. Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different. Between THEM no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over. Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and Elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,--a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle. Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward. "THAT was exactly like Robert,"--was his immediate observation.--"And THAT," he presently added, "might perhaps be in HIS head when the acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs might afterward arise." How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor's hands. "DEAR SIR, "Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another's. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain, "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister, "LUCY FERRARS. "I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls--but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." Elinor read and returned it without any comment. "I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.--"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by YOU in former days.--In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!--how I have blushed over the pages of her writing!--and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish--business--this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style." "However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause,--"they are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her." "She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.--She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner." In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking THAT fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he DID, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives. That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions--they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him. "I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living." "No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour; that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry YOU than be single." Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it. Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy. "Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because--to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy and expect WHAT, as you were THEN situated, could never be." He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement. "I was simple enough to think, that because my FAITH was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I WAS wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than these:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but myself." Elinor smiled, and shook her head. Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him the living of Delaford--"Which, at present," said he, "after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering." NOW he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject. One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain--and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs. Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year would supply them with the comforts of life. Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his mother towards him; and on THAT he rested for the residue of their income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil than his chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny. About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete before breakfast. A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of Elinor. It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment. The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.-- "I do think," she continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in the world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him." Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most unfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family.-- He thus continued: "Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shewn to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children." This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister. "A letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me beg my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to HER, and breach of honour to ME?--I can make no submission--I am grown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed.--I am grown very happy; but that would not interest.--I know of no submission that IS proper for me to make." "You may certainly ask to be forgiven," said Elinor, "because you have offended;--and I should think you might NOW venture so far as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on you your mother's anger." He agreed that he might. "And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in HER eyes as the first." He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good offices in his favour.-- "And if they really DO interest themselves," said Marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely without merit." After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days, the two gentlemen quitted Barton together.-- They were to go immediately to Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.

Chapter 49

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-49

Apparently, Edward had come to Barton to ask Elinor to marry him. He left the house so abruptly to get some fresh air, gained confidence, then returned immediately to accomplish his mission. Three hours later, everything is settled, and everyone is immensely happy. Yay! Edward is happier than they've ever seen him , and he's genuinely cheerful and open to everyone, especially Elinor. He explains what happened with his engagement to Lucy - they'd fallen in love as teenagers, but as grownups, they'd grown apart. Part of the problem was that he hadn't had a clear path to employment once he left school, and no companions or friends - really, the only person he was close to as a youth was Lucy, so he had no basis for comparison. That night, everyone is so excited that nobody can sleep. It's a good kind of excitement, though - that of pure joy and relief. Marianne can only express her joy through crying, and has no words for her feelings. Elinor was so excited that even she lost her composure for a moment, before she pulled it together and was able to tell him how much she loves him - still, she's far from the normal calm Elinor we're used to. Edward stays at the cottage for a week, and he and Elinor spend the whole time enjoying each other's company and planning for the future. Lucy's marriage to Robert is a topic of much discussion as well - how did it happen? Everyone is mystified. Edward and Elinor discuss the possibility of plotting on Lucy's part; they decide that she probably began with the best intentions of gaining Robert's good favor for her marriage to Edward, but things changed somewhere along the line. Edward tells Elinor all about his breakup with Lucy. She'd written him a rather awkward letter, after she and Robert were already married, and requested that he destroy all her letters. He was horrified by the badness of her writing, but pleased by the content - everyone agrees that all's well that ends well. Mrs. Ferrars has even got her comeuppance, since the very daughter-in-law she hoped to eliminate by disowning Edward has cropped up again with Robert. Edward hasn't been in contact with his family since this all happened, and he's not sure what is going to happen. Elinor realizes that Lucy had meant to deceive the Dashwoods and hurt Elinor in particular by leading Thomas to believe that she had married Edward, not Robert. It's clear that Lucy is not actually a nice girl, but clearly something of an evil one. He wishes he'd known about it before his mother found out about everything - he would have broken up with Lucy had he known her real nature. He can't imagine why Lucy stuck with him for so long - why would she have stayed with him, even when he was disowned? Elinor figures that Lucy probably thought that she could gain from the association anyway, and that she'd assumed that in the end his family would give in. Elinor teases him for spending so much time at Norland with her when he was otherwise engaged with Lucy, but she doesn't mean it. He earnestly defends himself, saying that he thought he was safe from falling in love with Elinor if he was engaged already. Needless to say, he was wrong. Edward is glad that Colonel Brandon is coming to visit. He's excited to get to know his benefactor better; he used to resent Colonel Brandon because he though the Colonel was engaged to Elinor and he'd assumed that that's why he was offered the job at Delaford. Now that everything's cleared up, though, he's excited to make a new friend. As for money, Elinor has a thousand pounds of her own, and Edward has two thousand - combined with the Delaford living, that doesn't give them quite enough to live on. Edward hopes that his mother might change her mind toward him, but Elinor's not so sure. It seems to her that Robert's offensive marriage will just mean that Fanny will get more of the Ferrars fortune. A few days after Edward arrives, Colonel Brandon shows up. Mrs. Dashwood is overjoyed that everyone's together, but it means that they're out of room at the cottage, and Colonel Brandon has to stay at Barton Park. However, he comes to visit every day. He's been much revived by his three weeks at home, and is even more revived by Marianne's improvement in health. Mrs. Dashwood tells him all the surprising news about Lucy and Robert, and the Colonel is especially happy that he's helped Edward and Elinor out. Edward and Colonel Brandon become great friends quickly, not only because they're quite similar in personality, but also because they're in love with two sisters. Mrs. Jennings sends a letter from town relating the whole story of Lucy and Robert, which Elinor is now able to read with humor, not anxiety. John also writes, lamenting how unfortunate Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny are. Both Robert and Lucy are in her bad book, and even if she un-disowns Robert, she'll never forgive Lucy. Mrs. Ferrars hasn't said anything about Edward yet, but John thinks that Edward should write a conciliatory note to his mother - perhaps she will forgive him . Edward isn't sure what to do and doesn't want to write, as John suggests, a letter of "submission," so Elinor counsels him to write a letter asking for forgiveness, perhaps with a little humility thrown in there for good measure. Colonel Brandon and Edward leave together to visit Delaford, after which Edward will go to London.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/31.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_30_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 31

chapter 31

{"name": "Chapter 31", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-31", "summary": "The situation gets more and more dicey until finally, one night Jewel wakes Jim up and tells him he's about to be assassinated. How does she know? Get ready for a gasp: Cornelius is in on the whole thing. Jewel leads Jim to the men who are lying in wait for him. The suspense is killing us. She shoots one of the men, and then she and Jim lead the men to the riverbank.", "analysis": ""}

'You may imagine with what interest I listened. All these details were perceived to have some significance twenty-four hours later. In the morning Cornelius made no allusion to the events of the night. "I suppose you will come back to my poor house," he muttered, surlily, slinking up just as Jim was entering the canoe to go over to Doramin's campong. Jim only nodded, without looking at him. "You find it good fun, no doubt," muttered the other in a sour tone. Jim spent the day with the old nakhoda, preaching the necessity of vigorous action to the principal men of the Bugis community, who had been summoned for a big talk. He remembered with pleasure how very eloquent and persuasive he had been. "I managed to put some backbone into them that time, and no mistake," he said. Sherif Ali's last raid had swept the outskirts of the settlement, and some women belonging to the town had been carried off to the stockade. Sherif Ali's emissaries had been seen in the market-place the day before, strutting about haughtily in white cloaks, and boasting of the Rajah's friendship for their master. One of them stood forward in the shade of a tree, and, leaning on the long barrel of a rifle, exhorted the people to prayer and repentance, advising them to kill all the strangers in their midst, some of whom, he said, were infidels and others even worse--children of Satan in the guise of Moslems. It was reported that several of the Rajah's people amongst the listeners had loudly expressed their approbation. The terror amongst the common people was intense. Jim, immensely pleased with his day's work, crossed the river again before sunset. 'As he had got the Bugis irretrievably committed to action and had made himself responsible for success on his own head, he was so elated that in the lightness of his heart he absolutely tried to be civil with Cornelius. But Cornelius became wildly jovial in response, and it was almost more than he could stand, he says, to hear his little squeaks of false laughter, to see him wriggle and blink, and suddenly catch hold of his chin and crouch low over the table with a distracted stare. The girl did not show herself, and Jim retired early. When he rose to say good-night, Cornelius jumped up, knocking his chair over, and ducked out of sight as if to pick up something he had dropped. His good-night came huskily from under the table. Jim was amazed to see him emerge with a dropping jaw, and staring, stupidly frightened eyes. He clutched the edge of the table. "What's the matter? Are you unwell?" asked Jim. "Yes, yes, yes. A great colic in my stomach," says the other; and it is Jim's opinion that it was perfectly true. If so, it was, in view of his contemplated action, an abject sign of a still imperfect callousness for which he must be given all due credit. 'Be it as it may, Jim's slumbers were disturbed by a dream of heavens like brass resounding with a great voice, which called upon him to Awake! Awake! so loud that, notwithstanding his desperate determination to sleep on, he did wake up in reality. The glare of a red spluttering conflagration going on in mid-air fell on his eyes. Coils of black thick smoke curved round the head of some apparition, some unearthly being, all in white, with a severe, drawn, anxious face. After a second or so he recognised the girl. She was holding a dammar torch at arm's-length aloft, and in a persistent, urgent monotone she was repeating, "Get up! Get up! Get up!" 'Suddenly he leaped to his feet; at once she put into his hand a revolver, his own revolver, which had been hanging on a nail, but loaded this time. He gripped it in silence, bewildered, blinking in the light. He wondered what he could do for her. 'She asked rapidly and very low, "Can you face four men with this?" He laughed while narrating this part at the recollection of his polite alacrity. It seems he made a great display of it. "Certainly--of course--certainly--command me." He was not properly awake, and had a notion of being very civil in these extraordinary circumstances, of showing his unquestioning, devoted readiness. She left the room, and he followed her; in the passage they disturbed an old hag who did the casual cooking of the household, though she was so decrepit as to be hardly able to understand human speech. She got up and hobbled behind them, mumbling toothlessly. On the verandah a hammock of sail-cloth, belonging to Cornelius, swayed lightly to the touch of Jim's elbow. It was empty. 'The Patusan establishment, like all the posts of Stein's Trading Company, had originally consisted of four buildings. Two of them were represented by two heaps of sticks, broken bamboos, rotten thatch, over which the four corner-posts of hardwood leaned sadly at different angles: the principal storeroom, however, stood yet, facing the agent's house. It was an oblong hut, built of mud and clay; it had at one end a wide door of stout planking, which so far had not come off the hinges, and in one of the side walls there was a square aperture, a sort of window, with three wooden bars. Before descending the few steps the girl turned her face over her shoulder and said quickly, "You were to be set upon while you slept." Jim tells me he experienced a sense of deception. It was the old story. He was weary of these attempts upon his life. He had had his fill of these alarms. He was sick of them. He assured me he was angry with the girl for deceiving him. He had followed her under the impression that it was she who wanted his help, and now he had half a mind to turn on his heel and go back in disgust. "Do you know," he commented profoundly, "I rather think I was not quite myself for whole weeks on end about that time." "Oh yes. You were though," I couldn't help contradicting. 'But she moved on swiftly, and he followed her into the courtyard. All its fences had fallen in a long time ago; the neighbours' buffaloes would pace in the morning across the open space, snorting profoundly, without haste; the very jungle was invading it already. Jim and the girl stopped in the rank grass. The light in which they stood made a dense blackness all round, and only above their heads there was an opulent glitter of stars. He told me it was a beautiful night--quite cool, with a little stir of breeze from the river. It seems he noticed its friendly beauty. Remember this is a love story I am telling you now. A lovely night seemed to breathe on them a soft caress. The flame of the torch streamed now and then with a fluttering noise like a flag, and for a time this was the only sound. "They are in the storeroom waiting," whispered the girl; "they are waiting for the signal." "Who's to give it?" he asked. She shook the torch, which blazed up after a shower of sparks. "Only you have been sleeping so restlessly," she continued in a murmur; "I watched your sleep, too." "You!" he exclaimed, craning his neck to look about him. "You think I watched on this night only!" she said, with a sort of despairing indignation. 'He says it was as if he had received a blow on the chest. He gasped. He thought he had been an awful brute somehow, and he felt remorseful, touched, happy, elated. This, let me remind you again, is a love story; you can see it by the imbecility, not a repulsive imbecility, the exalted imbecility of these proceedings, this station in torchlight, as if they had come there on purpose to have it out for the edification of concealed murderers. If Sherif Ali's emissaries had been possessed--as Jim remarked--of a pennyworth of spunk, this was the time to make a rush. His heart was thumping--not with fear--but he seemed to hear the grass rustle, and he stepped smartly out of the light. Something dark, imperfectly seen, flitted rapidly out of sight. He called out in a strong voice, "Cornelius! O Cornelius!" A profound silence succeeded: his voice did not seem to have carried twenty feet. Again the girl was by his side. "Fly!" she said. The old woman was coming up; her broken figure hovered in crippled little jumps on the edge of the light; they heard her mumbling, and a light, moaning sigh. "Fly!" repeated the girl excitedly. "They are frightened now--this light--the voices. They know you are awake now--they know you are big, strong, fearless . . ." "If I am all that," he began; but she interrupted him: "Yes--to-night! But what of to-morrow night? Of the next night? Of the night after--of all the many, many nights? Can I be always watching?" A sobbing catch of her breath affected him beyond the power of words. 'He told me that he had never felt so small, so powerless--and as to courage, what was the good of it? he thought. He was so helpless that even flight seemed of no use; and though she kept on whispering, "Go to Doramin, go to Doramin," with feverish insistence, he realised that for him there was no refuge from that loneliness which centupled all his dangers except--in her. "I thought," he said to me, "that if I went away from her it would be the end of everything somehow." Only as they couldn't stop there for ever in the middle of that courtyard, he made up his mind to go and look into the storehouse. He let her follow him without thinking of any protest, as if they had been indissolubly united. "I am fearless--am I?" he muttered through his teeth. She restrained his arm. "Wait till you hear my voice," she said, and, torch in hand, ran lightly round the corner. He remained alone in the darkness, his face to the door: not a sound, not a breath came from the other side. The old hag let out a dreary groan somewhere behind his back. He heard a high-pitched almost screaming call from the girl. "Now! Push!" He pushed violently; the door swung with a creak and a clatter, disclosing to his intense astonishment the low dungeon-like interior illuminated by a lurid, wavering glare. A turmoil of smoke eddied down upon an empty wooden crate in the middle of the floor, a litter of rags and straw tried to soar, but only stirred feebly in the draught. She had thrust the light through the bars of the window. He saw her bare round arm extended and rigid, holding up the torch with the steadiness of an iron bracket. A conical ragged heap of old mats cumbered a distant corner almost to the ceiling, and that was all. 'He explained to me that he was bitterly disappointed at this. His fortitude had been tried by so many warnings, he had been for weeks surrounded by so many hints of danger, that he wanted the relief of some reality, of something tangible that he could meet. "It would have cleared the air for a couple of hours at least, if you know what I mean," he said to me. "Jove! I had been living for days with a stone on my chest." Now at last he had thought he would get hold of something, and--nothing! Not a trace, not a sign of anybody. He had raised his weapon as the door flew open, but now his arm fell. "Fire! Defend yourself," the girl outside cried in an agonising voice. She, being in the dark and with her arm thrust in to the shoulder through the small hole, couldn't see what was going on, and she dared not withdraw the torch now to run round. "There's nobody here!" yelled Jim contemptuously, but his impulse to burst into a resentful exasperated laugh died without a sound: he had perceived in the very act of turning away that he was exchanging glances with a pair of eyes in the heap of mats. He saw a shifting gleam of whites. "Come out!" he cried in a fury, a little doubtful, and a dark-faced head, a head without a body, shaped itself in the rubbish, a strangely detached head, that looked at him with a steady scowl. Next moment the whole mound stirred, and with a low grunt a man emerged swiftly, and bounded towards Jim. Behind him the mats as it were jumped and flew, his right arm was raised with a crooked elbow, and the dull blade of a kriss protruded from his fist held off, a little above his head. A cloth wound tight round his loins seemed dazzlingly white on his bronze skin; his naked body glistened as if wet. 'Jim noted all this. He told me he was experiencing a feeling of unutterable relief, of vengeful elation. He held his shot, he says, deliberately. He held it for the tenth part of a second, for three strides of the man--an unconscionable time. He held it for the pleasure of saying to himself, That's a dead man! He was absolutely positive and certain. He let him come on because it did not matter. A dead man, anyhow. He noticed the dilated nostrils, the wide eyes, the intent, eager stillness of the face, and then he fired. 'The explosion in that confined space was stunning. He stepped back a pace. He saw the man jerk his head up, fling his arms forward, and drop the kriss. He ascertained afterwards that he had shot him through the mouth, a little upwards, the bullet coming out high at the back of the skull. With the impetus of his rush the man drove straight on, his face suddenly gaping disfigured, with his hands open before him gropingly, as though blinded, and landed with terrific violence on his forehead, just short of Jim's bare toes. Jim says he didn't lose the smallest detail of all this. He found himself calm, appeased, without rancour, without uneasiness, as if the death of that man had atoned for everything. The place was getting very full of sooty smoke from the torch, in which the unswaying flame burned blood-red without a flicker. He walked in resolutely, striding over the dead body, and covered with his revolver another naked figure outlined vaguely at the other end. As he was about to pull the trigger, the man threw away with force a short heavy spear, and squatted submissively on his hams, his back to the wall and his clasped hands between his legs. "You want your life?" Jim said. The other made no sound. "How many more of you?" asked Jim again. "Two more, Tuan," said the man very softly, looking with big fascinated eyes into the muzzle of the revolver. Accordingly two more crawled from under the mats, holding out ostentatiously their empty hands.'

Chapter 31

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-31

The situation gets more and more dicey until finally, one night Jewel wakes Jim up and tells him he's about to be assassinated. How does she know? Get ready for a gasp: Cornelius is in on the whole thing. Jewel leads Jim to the men who are lying in wait for him. The suspense is killing us. She shoots one of the men, and then she and Jim lead the men to the riverbank.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/chapters_17_to_18.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_11_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapters 17-18

chapters 17-18

{"name": "Chapters 17 & 18", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapters-17-and-18", "summary": "The chapter begins with Dorian and Lord Henry chatting with Gladys, the Duchess of Monmouth, during a party at a conservatory. Many guests are gathered there for an extended visit as guests of Dorian's. The guests discuss names, love, and of course the virtues of beauty. Gladys shows herself to be quite witty, holding her own in a tete-a-tete with Lord Henry. After Henry playfully mentions Dorian's old nickname, Prince Charming, she asks whether Dorian has ever truly been in love. Disturbed by the reminder of his recent confrontation, Dorian excuses himself, saying that he must pick orchids for the duchess. Dorian takes a long time to return, and as Henry wonders about his whereabouts, a disturbed cry is heard from the other room. Lord Henry rushes to the scene, and finds that Dorian has fainted. Henry insists that he stay in bed and recover, but Dorian doesn't want to be alone. All of the guests assume that he has merely collapsed from exhaustion. Dorian, however, doesn't tell them the real reason for his distress: he fainted upon seeing the face of James Vane, spying on him through the conservatory window. Dorian spends the next three days inside, \"sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself.\" He eventually convinces himself that the face was a hallucination brought on by his conscience as a result of suppressing his guilt for so long. When Dorian finally goes outdoors, he and Lord Henry accompany Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the duchess's brother, on a short hunting excursion. Geoffrey aims at a hare, and Dorian instinctively cries out, urging him not to shoot it. Two screams are heard after the shot is fired: \"the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful,\" and \"the cry of a man in agony, which is worse.\" Geoffrey assumes that the man he has shot is a \"beater,\" one of the men employed by the conservatory to drive the game into the open for the hunters. All hunting is called off for the day, so that the guests don't appear too callous, and Lord Henry informs Geoffrey that the man who has been shot is dead. Later, Henry and Dorian again chat with Gladys. We learn that Geoffrey is upset, but Henry blames the beater for everything and sees no reason for any remorse. He wishes, however, \"that he had done the thing on purpose,\" and proclaims that \"I should like to know someone who had committed a real murder.\" Dorian must excuse himself to lie down. He lies on a sofa upstairs, terrified, feeling as if the unexpected stranger's death is a sure sign that his own is imminent. He is nearly paralyzed with fear and decides to leave for a doctor, but before he can his valet sends the gamekeeper in. Knowing it must be about the dead beater, Dorian questions whether the victim had had a wife or any dependents, and offers \"any sum of money you may think necessary\" to provide for their needs. However, the gamekeeper has arrived to inform Dorian that the dead man was not an employee, and that no one has been able to identify him. Dorian frantically rides to the farm house where the body is being kept, and discovers that the dead man is James Vane. He is overjoyed, his eyes \"full of tears, for he knew he was safe.\"", "analysis": "The discussion of names and Henry's comment that \"I never quarrel with actions with words\" prompt us to consider the significance of names in the novel, and the theme of the power of words. Upon first meeting Lord Henry in chapter 2, and first hearing the man's intoxicatingly sensuous view of the world, Dorian thinks to himself: \"Words! Mere words! How terrible they were!...One could not escape from them.\" It is Henry's conversational acumen that enables him to influence Dorian so profoundly, and it is a book that Dorian considers to be primarily responsible for his own corruption. By placing such emphasis on the power of words, written or spoken, Wilde is indirectly commenting on the power of the literary art. Fittingly, Henry follows his earlier comment with the remark, \"That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature.\" This comment is not merely an expression of yet another of Henry's distinctive beliefs, but an invitation for the reader to consider the value of the fantastic elements included in The Picture of Dorian Gray. The Duchess of Monmouth is one of the few characters in the book who seems capable of holding her own in conversation against Lord Henry's sharp, unorthodox witticisms. When she says to Henry that \"You value beauty far too much,\" she unknowingly hits on the reason for Dorian's guilt. When Dorian leaves to pick flowers, we are reminded of the first chapter, when Henry picked a flower from Basil's garden and slowly pulled it apart, petal by petal. As Henry's earlier action symbolized his role as both an admirer and a destroyer of delicate beauty, Dorian's action reveals that he has now symbolically replaced his mentor in this way as well. The insensitivity of the party-goers upon hearing that a man has been shot is so extreme that it reads as a parody. Sir Geoffrey's first response upon learning that he has shot a man is annoyance; he says that the event \"spoiled my shooting for the day.\" Lord Henry handles the news with typically superficial concern, saying that hunting must cease for the day because \"It would not look well to go on.\" For all of the seeming profundity of the sayings that Henry spouts in conversation, he proves himself to be, in times of crisis, incapable of viewing the world in terms of anything but appearances. His comments in this chapter remind us of the superficial nature of his comfort to Dorian immediately after Sibyl's death , when he recommended that Dorian not sulk or involve himself with the investigation so as to preserve his reputation. Dorian himself displays some distress upon hearing of the man's death, but not for humanitarian reasons. He urges Sir Geoffrey not to shoot, but only because the intended target, a rabbit, strikes him as beautiful. Perhaps, since Dorian has felt like a hunted creature ever since his encounter with James Vane outside of the opium den, he sympathizes with the creature. The emotional pain Dorian feels after learning that a man is dead is the consequence of his own self-pity: he considers the event a \"bad omen,\" not a tragedy in its own right. Dorian displays his true insensitivity when his immediate reaction to the news is to reach for his checkbook. He is not compelled to comfort the family of what he assumes to be a dead employee, or even to express his condolences, but rather instinctively attempts to make the problem go away by throwing money at it. Discovering that the dead man is James Vane causes Dorian to rejoice for several reasons. First and foremost, he no longer has to fear for his life. However, it also means that he was not hallucinating when he saw James's face through the window. Dorian may be cripplingly paranoid, but he is not insane. Finally, since James's appearance was intended to make Dorian pay for his hand in Sibyl's death, now that James is dead, Dorian may once again convince himself that he has escaped unscathed from the sins of his past."}

A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke's description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." "But I don't want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." "My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won't hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. "Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don't like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don't remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won't stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren't, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone's garden-party? You don't, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can't bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don't go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?" "That a burnt child loves the fire." "I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would be a premature surrender." "Romantic art begins with its climax." "I must keep an opportunity for retreat." "In the Parthian manner?" "They found safety in the desert. I could not do that." "Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with a dazed expression. "What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?" He began to tremble. "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to dinner. I will take your place." "No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would rather come down. I must not be alone." He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of James Vane watching him. The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart. But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane's brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had saved him. And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep! As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere memory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came back to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible and swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in at six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break. It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But it was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity and not a little of contempt. After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp frost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of blue metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake. At the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the duchess's brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of his gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken and rough undergrowth. "Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?" he asked. "Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the open. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new ground." Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown and red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful freedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high indifference of joy. Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front of them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it forward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the animal's grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he cried out at once, "Don't shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live." "What nonsense, Dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded into the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is worse. "Good heavens! I have hit a beater!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. "What an ass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!" he called out at the top of his voice. "A man is hurt." The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand. "Where, sir? Where is he?" he shouted. At the same time, the firing ceased along the line. "Here," answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket. "Why on earth don't you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for the day." Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the lithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging a body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of the keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with faces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of voices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the boughs overhead. After a few moments--that were to him, in his perturbed state, like endless hours of pain--he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started and looked round. "Dorian," said Lord Henry, "I had better tell them that the shooting is stopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on." "I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry," he answered bitterly. "The whole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...?" He could not finish the sentence. "I am afraid so," rejoined Lord Henry. "He got the whole charge of shot in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; let us go home." They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and said, with a heavy sigh, "It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen." "What is?" asked Lord Henry. "Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear fellow, it can't be helped. It was the man's own fault. Why did he get in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter." Dorian shook his head. "It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps," he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain. The elder man laughed. "The only horrible thing in the world is _ennui_, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. But we are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep chattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the subject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have everything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would not be delighted to change places with you." "There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don't laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It is the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to wheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don't you see a man moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?" Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand was pointing. "Yes," he said, smiling, "I see the gardener waiting for you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must come and see my doctor, when we get back to town." Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. "Her Grace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured. Dorian put the letter into his pocket. "Tell her Grace that I am coming in," he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the direction of the house. "How fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed Lord Henry. "It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on." "How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I don't love her." "And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you are excellently matched." "You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for scandal." "The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette. "You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram." "The world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer. "I wish I could love," cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in his voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe." "Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what it is? You know I would help you." "I can't tell you, Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." "What nonsense!" "I hope it is, but I can't help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, Duchess." "I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered. "Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!" "Yes, it was very curious. I don't know what made me say it. Some whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject." "It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one who had committed a real murder." "How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn't it, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint." Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "It is nothing, Duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn't hear what Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won't you?" They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes. "Are you very much in love with him?" he asked. She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "I wish I knew," she said at last. He shook his head. "Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful." "One may lose one's way." "All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys." "What is that?" "Disillusion." "It was my _debut_ in life," she sighed. "It came to you crowned." "I am tired of strawberry leaves." "They become you." "Only in public." "You would miss them," said Lord Henry. "I will not part with a petal." "Monmouth has ears." "Old age is dull of hearing." "Has he never been jealous?" "I wish he had been." He glanced about as if in search of something. "What are you looking for?" she inquired. "The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it." She laughed. "I have still the mask." "It makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply. She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit. Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting. At five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another night at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood. Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to town to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see him. He frowned and bit his lip. "Send him in," he muttered, after some moments' hesitation. As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a drawer and spread it out before him. "I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this morning, Thornton?" he said, taking up a pen. "Yes, sir," answered the gamekeeper. "Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?" asked Dorian, looking bored. "If so, I should not like them to be left in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary." "We don't know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of coming to you about." "Don't know who he is?" said Dorian, listlessly. "What do you mean? Wasn't he one of your men?" "No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir." The pen dropped from Dorian Gray's hand, and he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating. "A sailor?" he cried out. "Did you say a sailor?" "Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on both arms, and that kind of thing." "Was there anything found on him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his name?" "Some money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we think." Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I must see it at once." "It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don't like to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad luck." "The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I'll go to the stables myself. It will save time." In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs. At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand upon the latch. There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the door open and entered. On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputtered beside it. Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to come to him. "Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching at the door-post for support. When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James Vane. He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.

Chapters 17 & 18

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The chapter begins with Dorian and Lord Henry chatting with Gladys, the Duchess of Monmouth, during a party at a conservatory. Many guests are gathered there for an extended visit as guests of Dorian's. The guests discuss names, love, and of course the virtues of beauty. Gladys shows herself to be quite witty, holding her own in a tete-a-tete with Lord Henry. After Henry playfully mentions Dorian's old nickname, Prince Charming, she asks whether Dorian has ever truly been in love. Disturbed by the reminder of his recent confrontation, Dorian excuses himself, saying that he must pick orchids for the duchess. Dorian takes a long time to return, and as Henry wonders about his whereabouts, a disturbed cry is heard from the other room. Lord Henry rushes to the scene, and finds that Dorian has fainted. Henry insists that he stay in bed and recover, but Dorian doesn't want to be alone. All of the guests assume that he has merely collapsed from exhaustion. Dorian, however, doesn't tell them the real reason for his distress: he fainted upon seeing the face of James Vane, spying on him through the conservatory window. Dorian spends the next three days inside, "sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself." He eventually convinces himself that the face was a hallucination brought on by his conscience as a result of suppressing his guilt for so long. When Dorian finally goes outdoors, he and Lord Henry accompany Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the duchess's brother, on a short hunting excursion. Geoffrey aims at a hare, and Dorian instinctively cries out, urging him not to shoot it. Two screams are heard after the shot is fired: "the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful," and "the cry of a man in agony, which is worse." Geoffrey assumes that the man he has shot is a "beater," one of the men employed by the conservatory to drive the game into the open for the hunters. All hunting is called off for the day, so that the guests don't appear too callous, and Lord Henry informs Geoffrey that the man who has been shot is dead. Later, Henry and Dorian again chat with Gladys. We learn that Geoffrey is upset, but Henry blames the beater for everything and sees no reason for any remorse. He wishes, however, "that he had done the thing on purpose," and proclaims that "I should like to know someone who had committed a real murder." Dorian must excuse himself to lie down. He lies on a sofa upstairs, terrified, feeling as if the unexpected stranger's death is a sure sign that his own is imminent. He is nearly paralyzed with fear and decides to leave for a doctor, but before he can his valet sends the gamekeeper in. Knowing it must be about the dead beater, Dorian questions whether the victim had had a wife or any dependents, and offers "any sum of money you may think necessary" to provide for their needs. However, the gamekeeper has arrived to inform Dorian that the dead man was not an employee, and that no one has been able to identify him. Dorian frantically rides to the farm house where the body is being kept, and discovers that the dead man is James Vane. He is overjoyed, his eyes "full of tears, for he knew he was safe."

The discussion of names and Henry's comment that "I never quarrel with actions with words" prompt us to consider the significance of names in the novel, and the theme of the power of words. Upon first meeting Lord Henry in chapter 2, and first hearing the man's intoxicatingly sensuous view of the world, Dorian thinks to himself: "Words! Mere words! How terrible they were!...One could not escape from them." It is Henry's conversational acumen that enables him to influence Dorian so profoundly, and it is a book that Dorian considers to be primarily responsible for his own corruption. By placing such emphasis on the power of words, written or spoken, Wilde is indirectly commenting on the power of the literary art. Fittingly, Henry follows his earlier comment with the remark, "That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature." This comment is not merely an expression of yet another of Henry's distinctive beliefs, but an invitation for the reader to consider the value of the fantastic elements included in The Picture of Dorian Gray. The Duchess of Monmouth is one of the few characters in the book who seems capable of holding her own in conversation against Lord Henry's sharp, unorthodox witticisms. When she says to Henry that "You value beauty far too much," she unknowingly hits on the reason for Dorian's guilt. When Dorian leaves to pick flowers, we are reminded of the first chapter, when Henry picked a flower from Basil's garden and slowly pulled it apart, petal by petal. As Henry's earlier action symbolized his role as both an admirer and a destroyer of delicate beauty, Dorian's action reveals that he has now symbolically replaced his mentor in this way as well. The insensitivity of the party-goers upon hearing that a man has been shot is so extreme that it reads as a parody. Sir Geoffrey's first response upon learning that he has shot a man is annoyance; he says that the event "spoiled my shooting for the day." Lord Henry handles the news with typically superficial concern, saying that hunting must cease for the day because "It would not look well to go on." For all of the seeming profundity of the sayings that Henry spouts in conversation, he proves himself to be, in times of crisis, incapable of viewing the world in terms of anything but appearances. His comments in this chapter remind us of the superficial nature of his comfort to Dorian immediately after Sibyl's death , when he recommended that Dorian not sulk or involve himself with the investigation so as to preserve his reputation. Dorian himself displays some distress upon hearing of the man's death, but not for humanitarian reasons. He urges Sir Geoffrey not to shoot, but only because the intended target, a rabbit, strikes him as beautiful. Perhaps, since Dorian has felt like a hunted creature ever since his encounter with James Vane outside of the opium den, he sympathizes with the creature. The emotional pain Dorian feels after learning that a man is dead is the consequence of his own self-pity: he considers the event a "bad omen," not a tragedy in its own right. Dorian displays his true insensitivity when his immediate reaction to the news is to reach for his checkbook. He is not compelled to comfort the family of what he assumes to be a dead employee, or even to express his condolences, but rather instinctively attempts to make the problem go away by throwing money at it. Discovering that the dead man is James Vane causes Dorian to rejoice for several reasons. First and foremost, he no longer has to fear for his life. However, it also means that he was not hallucinating when he saw James's face through the window. Dorian may be cripplingly paranoid, but he is not insane. Finally, since James's appearance was intended to make Dorian pay for his hand in Sibyl's death, now that James is dead, Dorian may once again convince himself that he has escaped unscathed from the sins of his past.

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The Brothers Karamazov.book 3.chapter 2

book 3, chapter 2

{"name": "Book 3, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-3-chapter-2", "summary": "Stinking Lizaveta was just 20 years old when she gave birth to her son. Her father was an unemployed drunkard who beat her whenever she came home, but generally Stinking Lizaveta wandered around town dressed only in a simple shift, despite the best efforts of the townspeople to clothe her. Simple-minded and mute, Stinking Lizaveta would often sleep outside in random gardens. One night, or so the rumors went, Fyodor and some other drunken gentlemen were headed home from the club and found Stinking Lizaveta. One of them asked whether she could ever be considered a woman, and they all laughed, except for Fyodor. The gentlemen encouraged Fyodor to have sex with her, but he refused. A few months after this incident, everyone noticed to their shock that Lizaveta was pregnant. While Fyodor denied it, everyone assumed he was the father, a rumor that only seemed confirmed with Lizaveta gave birth in his kitchen garden. Grigory and Marfa raised the child as their own, and Fyodor even took a liking to him, naming him Smerdyakov, after his mother's last name. Smerdyakov grew to be a cook in Fyodor's household.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter II. Lizaveta There was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly, and confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta was a dwarfish creature, "not five foot within a wee bit," as many of the pious old women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad, healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered about, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempen smock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb's wool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had leaves, bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard, called Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and diseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to him. But she rarely did so, for every one in the town was ready to look after her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's employers, and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople, tried to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and sheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress her up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral porch, and taking off all that had been given her--kerchief, sheepskin, skirt or boots--she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock as before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the province, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizaveta, and was wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And though he was told she was an idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about in nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties, and must not occur again. But the governor went his way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At last her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of the religious persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, every one seemed to like her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town, especially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk into strange houses, and no one drove her away. Every one was kind to her and gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and at once drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met. Sometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it to her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted anything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop, where there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on her, for they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by them, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to church. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle (there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up "at home," that is at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went there every night, and slept either in the passage or the cowhouse. People were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some of the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but that is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud? It happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years ago) five or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a very late hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the "back- way," which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles on either side. This way leads out on to the bridge over the long, stinking pool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and burdocks under the hurdle our revelers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness. It occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether any one could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so forth.... They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was impossible. But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and declared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a certain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that time he was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and entertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in reality he was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time when he had received the news of his first wife's death in Petersburg, and, with crape upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly that even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The revelers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion; and one of them even began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea even more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity, and at last they went on their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore that he had gone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no one ever knew. But five or six months later, all the town was talking, with intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta's condition, and trying to find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a terrible rumor was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than Fyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumor going? Of that drunken band five had left the town and the only one still among us was an elderly and much respected civil councilor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could hardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it. But rumor pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing at him. Of course this was no great grievance to him: he would not have troubled to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud, and did not condescend to talk except in his own circle of the officials and nobles, whom he entertained so well. At the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked quarrels and altercations in defense of him and succeeded in bringing some people round to his side. "It's the wench's own fault," he asserted, and the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict, who had escaped from prison and whose name was well known to us, as he had hidden in our town. This conjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that Karp had been in the neighborhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three people. But this affair and all the talk about it did not estrange popular sympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A well-to-do merchant's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her house at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their vigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the high, strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have been lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny. The most likely explanation is that it happened naturally--that Lizaveta, accustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow managed to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt down, injuring herself. Grigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch an old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit down, put it on her lap. "A child of God--an orphan is akin to all," he said, "and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who has come from the devil's son and a holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no more." So Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor Pavlovitch did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted vigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at his adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname for the child, calling him Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname. So this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant, and was living in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our story begins. He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smerdyakov, but I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of Smerdyakov in the course of it.

Book 3, Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-3-chapter-2

Stinking Lizaveta was just 20 years old when she gave birth to her son. Her father was an unemployed drunkard who beat her whenever she came home, but generally Stinking Lizaveta wandered around town dressed only in a simple shift, despite the best efforts of the townspeople to clothe her. Simple-minded and mute, Stinking Lizaveta would often sleep outside in random gardens. One night, or so the rumors went, Fyodor and some other drunken gentlemen were headed home from the club and found Stinking Lizaveta. One of them asked whether she could ever be considered a woman, and they all laughed, except for Fyodor. The gentlemen encouraged Fyodor to have sex with her, but he refused. A few months after this incident, everyone noticed to their shock that Lizaveta was pregnant. While Fyodor denied it, everyone assumed he was the father, a rumor that only seemed confirmed with Lizaveta gave birth in his kitchen garden. Grigory and Marfa raised the child as their own, and Fyodor even took a liking to him, naming him Smerdyakov, after his mother's last name. Smerdyakov grew to be a cook in Fyodor's household.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/48.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_5_part_3.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 47

chapter 47

{"name": "Chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52", "summary": "A man comes to see Tess, and her three companions watch. They do not recognize the man as Alec, however, for Alec does not appear as a ranting parson, as they have heard him described, but rather as a dandy. Alec has returned to his normal appearance, wearing fancy clothing once more and shaving off his beard. Alec claims that he has given up his preaching entirely. Alec tells Tess that he does not want her working at Flinctcomb-Ash. He derides Tess's husband, whose name he does not know, as a \"mythological personage. Alec tells her that she should leave her husband forever, and Tess responds by slapping him with her leather glove, drawing blood. When he springs up at her, she tells him that he can whip her or crush her, and she will not cry out because she is always his victim. Alec tells her that he was her master once and will be her master again.", "analysis": "The full rejection of religion by Alec d'Urberville that Hardy has foreshadowed arrives in this chapter, revealing the superficiality of his religious conversion. Alec rejects Christianity as easily as he would reject a style of clothing; he signals this change of belief not by any overt behavior, but rather by adopting a more stylish appearance and rejecting the austere dress of a fundamentalist preacher. In contrast, while Alec shows a weakness and adaptability in his beliefs, Tess demonstrates her core of strength and fortitude. She takes physical action against Alec and refuses to flinch at the possibility that he may hurt her in return. Her claim that she will not cry out if Alec hurts her because she will always be her victim is ironic, for by confronting Alec in such a way she makes it very clear that she is far too strong to be the victim of Alec again"}

It is the threshing of the last wheat-rick at Flintcomb-Ash farm. The dawn of the March morning is singularly inexpressive, and there is nothing to show where the eastern horizon lies. Against the twilight rises the trapezoidal top of the stack, which has stood forlornly here through the washing and bleaching of the wintry weather. When Izz Huett and Tess arrived at the scene of operations only a rustling denoted that others had preceded them; to which, as the light increased, there were presently added the silhouettes of two men on the summit. They were busily "unhaling" the rick, that is, stripping off the thatch before beginning to throw down the sheaves; and while this was in progress Izz and Tess, with the other women-workers, in their whitey-brown pinners, stood waiting and shivering, Farmer Groby having insisted upon their being on the spot thus early to get the job over if possible by the end of the day. Close under the eaves of the stack, and as yet barely visible, was the red tyrant that the women had come to serve--a timber-framed construction, with straps and wheels appertaining-- the threshing-machine which, whilst it was going, kept up a despotic demand upon the endurance of their muscles and nerves. A little way off there was another indistinct figure; this one black, with a sustained hiss that spoke of strength very much in reserve. The long chimney running up beside an ash-tree, and the warmth which radiated from the spot, explained without the necessity of much daylight that here was the engine which was to act as the _primum mobile_ of this little world. By the engine stood a dark, motionless being, a sooty and grimy embodiment of tallness, in a sort of trance, with a heap of coals by his side: it was the engine-man. The isolation of his manner and colour lent him the appearance of a creature from Tophet, who had strayed into the pellucid smokelessness of this region of yellow grain and pale soil, with which he had nothing in common, to amaze and to discompose its aborigines. What he looked he felt. He was in the agricultural world, but not of it. He served fire and smoke; these denizens of the fields served vegetation, weather, frost, and sun. He travelled with his engine from farm to farm, from county to county, for as yet the steam threshing-machine was itinerant in this part of Wessex. He spoke in a strange northern accent; his thoughts being turned inwards upon himself, his eye on his iron charge, hardly perceiving the scenes around him, and caring for them not at all: holding only strictly necessary intercourse with the natives, as if some ancient doom compelled him to wander here against his will in the service of his Plutonic master. The long strap which ran from the driving-wheel of his engine to the red thresher under the rick was the sole tie-line between agriculture and him. While they uncovered the sheaves he stood apathetic beside his portable repository of force, round whose hot blackness the morning air quivered. He had nothing to do with preparatory labour. His fire was waiting incandescent, his steam was at high pressure, in a few seconds he could make the long strap move at an invisible velocity. Beyond its extent the environment might be corn, straw, or chaos; it was all the same to him. If any of the autochthonous idlers asked him what he called himself, he replied shortly, "an engineer." The rick was unhaled by full daylight; the men then took their places, the women mounted, and the work began. Farmer Groby--or, as they called him, "he"--had arrived ere this, and by his orders Tess was placed on the platform of the machine, close to the man who fed it, her business being to untie every sheaf of corn handed on to her by Izz Huett, who stood next, but on the rick; so that the feeder could seize it and spread it over the revolving drum, which whisked out every grain in one moment. They were soon in full progress, after a preparatory hitch or two, which rejoiced the hearts of those who hated machinery. The work sped on till breakfast time, when the thresher was stopped for half an hour; and on starting again after the meal the whole supplementary strength of the farm was thrown into the labour of constructing the straw-rick, which began to grow beside the stack of corn. A hasty lunch was eaten as they stood, without leaving their positions, and then another couple of hours brought them near to dinner-time; the inexorable wheel continuing to spin, and the penetrating hum of the thresher to thrill to the very marrow all who were near the revolving wire-cage. The old men on the rising straw-rick talked of the past days when they had been accustomed to thresh with flails on the oaken barn-floor; when everything, even to winnowing, was effected by hand-labour, which, to their thinking, though slow, produced better results. Those, too, on the corn-rick talked a little; but the perspiring ones at the machine, including Tess, could not lighten their duties by the exchange of many words. It was the ceaselessness of the work which tried her so severely, and began to make her wish that she had never some to Flintcomb-Ash. The women on the corn-rick--Marian, who was one of them, in particular--could stop to drink ale or cold tea from the flagon now and then, or to exchange a few gossiping remarks while they wiped their faces or cleared the fragments of straw and husk from their clothing; but for Tess there was no respite; for, as the drum never stopped, the man who fed it could not stop, and she, who had to supply the man with untied sheaves, could not stop either, unless Marian changed places with her, which she sometimes did for half an hour in spite of Groby's objections that she was too slow-handed for a feeder. For some probably economical reason it was usually a woman who was chosen for this particular duty, and Groby gave as his motive in selecting Tess that she was one of those who best combined strength with quickness in untying, and both with staying power, and this may have been true. The hum of the thresher, which prevented speech, increased to a raving whenever the supply of corn fell short of the regular quantity. As Tess and the man who fed could never turn their heads she did not know that just before the dinner-hour a person had come silently into the field by the gate, and had been standing under a second rick watching the scene and Tess in particular. He was dressed in a tweed suit of fashionable pattern, and he twirled a gay walking-cane. "Who is that?" said Izz Huett to Marian. She had at first addressed the inquiry to Tess, but the latter could not hear it. "Somebody's fancy-man, I s'pose," said Marian laconically. "I'll lay a guinea he's after Tess." "O no. 'Tis a ranter pa'son who's been sniffing after her lately; not a dandy like this." "Well--this is the same man." "The same man as the preacher? But he's quite different!" "He hev left off his black coat and white neckercher, and hev cut off his whiskers; but he's the same man for all that." "D'ye really think so? Then I'll tell her," said Marian. "Don't. She'll see him soon enough, good-now." "Well, I don't think it at all right for him to join his preaching to courting a married woman, even though her husband mid be abroad, and she, in a sense, a widow." "Oh--he can do her no harm," said Izz drily. "Her mind can no more be heaved from that one place where it do bide than a stooded waggon from the hole he's in. Lord love 'ee, neither court-paying, nor preaching, nor the seven thunders themselves, can wean a woman when 'twould be better for her that she should be weaned." Dinner-time came, and the whirling ceased; whereupon Tess left her post, her knees trembling so wretchedly with the shaking of the machine that she could scarcely walk. "You ought to het a quart o' drink into 'ee, as I've done," said Marian. "You wouldn't look so white then. Why, souls above us, your face is as if you'd been hagrode!" It occurred to the good-natured Marian that, as Tess was so tired, her discovery of her visitor's presence might have the bad effect of taking away her appetite; and Marian was thinking of inducing Tess to descend by a ladder on the further side of the stack when the gentleman came forward and looked up. Tess uttered a short little "Oh!" And a moment after she said, quickly, "I shall eat my dinner here--right on the rick." Sometimes, when they were so far from their cottages, they all did this; but as there was rather a keen wind going to-day, Marian and the rest descended, and sat under the straw-stack. The newcomer was, indeed, Alec d'Urberville, the late Evangelist, despite his changed attire and aspect. It was obvious at a glance that the original _Weltlust_ had come back; that he had restored himself, as nearly as a man could do who had grown three or four years older, to the old jaunty, slapdash guise under which Tess had first known her admirer, and cousin so-called. Having decided to remain where she was, Tess sat down among the bundles, out of sight of the ground, and began her meal; till, by-and-by, she heard footsteps on the ladder, and immediately after Alec appeared upon the stack--now an oblong and level platform of sheaves. He strode across them, and sat down opposite of her without a word. Tess continued to eat her modest dinner, a slice of thick pancake which she had brought with her. The other workfolk were by this time all gathered under the rick, where the loose straw formed a comfortable retreat. "I am here again, as you see," said d'Urberville. "Why do you trouble me so!" she cried, reproach flashing from her very finger-ends. "I trouble YOU? I think I may ask, why do you trouble me?" "Sure, I don't trouble you any-when!" "You say you don't? But you do! You haunt me. Those very eyes that you turned upon me with such a bitter flash a moment ago, they come to me just as you showed them then, in the night and in the day! Tess, ever since you told me of that child of ours, it is just as if my feelings, which have been flowing in a strong puritanical stream, had suddenly found a way open in the direction of you, and had all at once gushed through. The religious channel is left dry forthwith; and it is you who have done it!" She gazed in silence. "What--you have given up your preaching entirely?" she asked. She had gathered from Angel sufficient of the incredulity of modern thought to despise flash enthusiasm; but, as a woman, she was somewhat appalled. In affected severity d'Urberville continued-- "Entirely. I have broken every engagement since that afternoon I was to address the drunkards at Casterbridge Fair. The deuce only knows what I am thought of by the brethren. Ah-ha! The brethren! No doubt they pray for me--weep for me; for they are kind people in their way. But what do I care? How could I go on with the thing when I had lost my faith in it?--it would have been hypocrisy of the basest kind! Among them I should have stood like Hymenaeus and Alexander, who were delivered over to Satan that they might learn not to blaspheme. What a grand revenge you have taken! I saw you innocent, and I deceived you. Four years after, you find me a Christian enthusiast; you then work upon me, perhaps to my complete perdition! But Tess, my coz, as I used to call you, this is only my way of talking, and you must not look so horribly concerned. Of course you have done nothing except retain your pretty face and shapely figure. I saw it on the rick before you saw me--that tight pinafore-thing sets it off, and that wing-bonnet--you field-girls should never wear those bonnets if you wish to keep out of danger." He regarded her silently for a few moments, and with a short cynical laugh resumed: "I believe that if the bachelor-apostle, whose deputy I thought I was, had been tempted by such a pretty face, he would have let go the plough for her sake as I do!" Tess attempted to expostulate, but at this juncture all her fluency failed her, and without heeding he added: "Well, this paradise that you supply is perhaps as good as any other, after all. But to speak seriously, Tess." D'Urberville rose and came nearer, reclining sideways amid the sheaves, and resting upon his elbow. "Since I last saw you, I have been thinking of what you said that HE said. I have come to the conclusion that there does seem rather a want of common-sense in these threadbare old propositions; how I could have been so fired by poor Parson Clare's enthusiasm, and have gone so madly to work, transcending even him, I cannot make out! As for what you said last time, on the strength of your wonderful husband's intelligence--whose name you have never told me--about having what they call an ethical system without any dogma, I don't see my way to that at all." "Why, you can have the religion of loving-kindness and purity at least, if you can't have--what do you call it--dogma." "O no! I'm a different sort of fellow from that! If there's nobody to say, 'Do this, and it will be a good thing for you after you are dead; do that, and if will be a bad thing for you,' I can't warm up. Hang it, I am not going to feel responsible for my deeds and passions if there's nobody to be responsible to; and if I were you, my dear, I wouldn't either!" She tried to argue, and tell him that he had mixed in his dull brain two matters, theology and morals, which in the primitive days of mankind had been quite distinct. But owing to Angel Clare's reticence, to her absolute want of training, and to her being a vessel of emotions rather than reasons, she could not get on. "Well, never mind," he resumed. "Here I am, my love, as in the old times!" "Not as then--never as then--'tis different!" she entreated. "And there was never warmth with me! O why didn't you keep your faith, if the loss of it has brought you to speak to me like this!" "Because you've knocked it out of me; so the evil be upon your sweet head! Your husband little thought how his teaching would recoil upon him! Ha-ha--I'm awfully glad you have made an apostate of me all the same! Tess, I am more taken with you than ever, and I pity you too. For all your closeness, I see you are in a bad way--neglected by one who ought to cherish you." She could not get her morsels of food down her throat; her lips were dry, and she was ready to choke. The voices and laughs of the workfolk eating and drinking under the rick came to her as if they were a quarter of a mile off. "It is cruelty to me!" she said. "How--how can you treat me to this talk, if you care ever so little for me?" "True, true," he said, wincing a little. "I did not come to reproach you for my deeds. I came Tess, to say that I don't like you to be working like this, and I have come on purpose for you. You say you have a husband who is not I. Well, perhaps you have; but I've never seen him, and you've not told me his name; and altogether he seems rather a mythological personage. However, even if you have one, I think I am nearer to you than he is. I, at any rate, try to help you out of trouble, but he does not, bless his invisible face! The words of the stern prophet Hosea that I used to read come back to me. Don't you know them, Tess?--'And she shall follow after her lover, but she shall not overtake him; and she shall seek him, but shall not find him; then shall she say, I will go and return to my first husband; for then was it better with me than now!' ... Tess, my trap is waiting just under the hill, and--darling mine, not his!--you know the rest." Her face had been rising to a dull crimson fire while he spoke; but she did not answer. "You have been the cause of my backsliding," he continued, stretching his arm towards her waist; "you should be willing to share it, and leave that mule you call husband for ever." One of her leather gloves, which she had taken off to eat her skimmer-cake, lay in her lap, and without the slightest warning she passionately swung the glove by the gauntlet directly in his face. It was heavy and thick as a warrior's, and it struck him flat on the mouth. Fancy might have regarded the act as the recrudescence of a trick in which her armed progenitors were not unpractised. Alec fiercely started up from his reclining position. A scarlet oozing appeared where her blow had alighted, and in a moment the blood began dropping from his mouth upon the straw. But he soon controlled himself, calmly drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his bleeding lips. She too had sprung up, but she sank down again. "Now, punish me!" she said, turning up her eyes to him with the hopeless defiance of the sparrow's gaze before its captor twists its neck. "Whip me, crush me; you need not mind those people under the rick! I shall not cry out. Once victim, always victim--that's the law!" "O no, no, Tess," he said blandly. "I can make full allowance for this. Yet you most unjustly forget one thing, that I would have married you if you had not put it out of my power to do so. Did I not ask you flatly to be my wife--hey? Answer me." "You did." "And you cannot be. But remember one thing!" His voice hardened as his temper got the better of him with the recollection of his sincerity in asking her and her present ingratitude, and he stepped across to her side and held her by the shoulders, so that she shook under his grasp. "Remember, my lady, I was your master once! I will be your master again. If you are any man's wife you are mine!" The threshers now began to stir below. "So much for our quarrel," he said, letting her go. "Now I shall leave you, and shall come again for your answer during the afternoon. You don't know me yet! But I know you." She had not spoken again, remaining as if stunned. D'Urberville retreated over the sheaves, and descended the ladder, while the workers below rose and stretched their arms, and shook down the beer they had drunk. Then the threshing-machine started afresh; and amid the renewed rustle of the straw Tess resumed her position by the buzzing drum as one in a dream, untying sheaf after sheaf in endless succession.

Chapter 47

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52

A man comes to see Tess, and her three companions watch. They do not recognize the man as Alec, however, for Alec does not appear as a ranting parson, as they have heard him described, but rather as a dandy. Alec has returned to his normal appearance, wearing fancy clothing once more and shaving off his beard. Alec claims that he has given up his preaching entirely. Alec tells Tess that he does not want her working at Flinctcomb-Ash. He derides Tess's husband, whose name he does not know, as a "mythological personage. Alec tells her that she should leave her husband forever, and Tess responds by slapping him with her leather glove, drawing blood. When he springs up at her, she tells him that he can whip her or crush her, and she will not cry out because she is always his victim. Alec tells her that he was her master once and will be her master again.

The full rejection of religion by Alec d'Urberville that Hardy has foreshadowed arrives in this chapter, revealing the superficiality of his religious conversion. Alec rejects Christianity as easily as he would reject a style of clothing; he signals this change of belief not by any overt behavior, but rather by adopting a more stylish appearance and rejecting the austere dress of a fundamentalist preacher. In contrast, while Alec shows a weakness and adaptability in his beliefs, Tess demonstrates her core of strength and fortitude. She takes physical action against Alec and refuses to flinch at the possibility that he may hurt her in return. Her claim that she will not cry out if Alec hurts her because she will always be her victim is ironic, for by confronting Alec in such a way she makes it very clear that she is far too strong to be the victim of Alec again

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/06.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_6.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter vi

chapter vi

{"name": "Chapter VI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11", "summary": "The Dashwood women arrive at Barton Cottage, and find it pleasant but small. Mrs. Dashwood has plans for extending it, though does not consider how she will afford to do so, considering that she has never saved money in her life. Sir John Middleton arrives to greet them. He warmly invites them to dine at his house, Barton Park, until they have settled in. He also sends over a basket of fruit, vegetables, and meat. The next day, Lady Middleton, Sir John's wife, visits the Dashwood women with her six-year-old son. She is elegant but lacks her husband's warmth. Lady Middleton is only interested in her children, who are her sole topic of conversation", "analysis": ""}

The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it. As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation. The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them. With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly." In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room. In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day. Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day. They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark. Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the others. An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.

Chapter VI

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11

The Dashwood women arrive at Barton Cottage, and find it pleasant but small. Mrs. Dashwood has plans for extending it, though does not consider how she will afford to do so, considering that she has never saved money in her life. Sir John Middleton arrives to greet them. He warmly invites them to dine at his house, Barton Park, until they have settled in. He also sends over a basket of fruit, vegetables, and meat. The next day, Lady Middleton, Sir John's wife, visits the Dashwood women with her six-year-old son. She is elegant but lacks her husband's warmth. Lady Middleton is only interested in her children, who are her sole topic of conversation

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1756-chapters/act_4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Uncle Vanya/section_3_part_0.txt

Uncle Vanya.act 4

act 4

{"name": "Act 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200714032621/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/uncle-vanya/summary/act-4", "summary": "In Vanya's room, Telegin and Marina sit and wind wool to make stockings. They talk about how Serebryakov and Yelena are getting ready to leave. Telegin says that he hid Vanya's gun in the cellar to keep him from killing himself. Astrov and Vanya come in arguing. Astrov claims that Vanya has stolen some morphine from him and can't leave until he gets it back. Sonya enters, and Astrov tattles to her about the morphine. She begs her uncle to give it back, and he finally does. Sonya takes her uncle away to make up with her dad, and Yelena shows up to say goodbye to Astrov. Sonya hints that she does kind of like him, even if it's something that would never work out. Serebryakov, Vanya, Mariya, Telegin, and Sonya all come back, and Serebryakov apologizes to Vanya. Vanya promises to continue to send Serebryakov money from the estate's earnings. Everyone leaves except for Astrov and Vanya, and Vanya doesn't know what to do with himself. He wants to get to work. Sonya and Mariya come back after seeing off Serebryakov and Yelena, and everyone settles in to start writing bills and knitting. Astrov leaves everyone going about their business. Vanya is sad, and Sonya tells him that they must continue living until it's time for them to die, and then they shall rest. Bummer.", "analysis": ""}

ACT IV VOITSKI'S bedroom, which is also his office. A table stands near the window; on it are ledgers, letter scales, and papers of every description. Near by stands a smaller table belonging to ASTROFF, with his paints and drawing materials. On the wall hangs a cage containing a starling. There is also a map of Africa on the wall, obviously of no use to anybody. There is a large sofa covered with buckram. A door to the left leads into an inner room; one to the right leads into the front hall, and before this door lies a mat for the peasants with their muddy boots to stand on. It is an autumn evening. The silence is profound. TELEGIN and MARINA are sitting facing one another, winding wool. TELEGIN. Be quick, Marina, or we shall be called away to say good-bye before you have finished. The carriage has already been ordered. MARINA. [Trying to wind more quickly] I am a little tired. TELEGIN. They are going to Kharkoff to live. MARINA. They do well to go. TELEGIN. They have been frightened. The professor's wife won't stay here an hour longer. "If we are going at all, let's be off," says she, "we shall go to Kharkoff and look about us, and then we can send for our things." They are travelling light. It seems, Marina, that fate has decreed for them not to live here. MARINA. And quite rightly. What a storm they have just raised! It was shameful! TELEGIN. It was indeed. The scene was worthy of the brush of Aibazofski. MARINA. I wish I'd never laid eyes on them. [A pause] Now we shall have things as they were again: tea at eight, dinner at one, and supper in the evening; everything in order as decent folks, as Christians like to have it. [Sighs] It is a long time since I have eaten noodles. TELEGIN. Yes, we haven't had noodles for ages. [A pause] Not for ages. As I was going through the village this morning, Marina, one of the shop-keepers called after me, "Hi! you hanger-on!" I felt it bitterly. MARINA. Don't pay the least attention to them, master; we are all dependents on God. You and Sonia and all of us. Every one must work, no one can sit idle. Where is Sonia? TELEGIN. In the garden with the doctor, looking for Ivan. They fear he may lay violent hands on himself. MARINA. Where is his pistol? TELEGIN. [Whispers] I hid it in the cellar. VOITSKI and ASTROFF come in. VOITSKI. Leave me alone! [To MARINA and TELEGIN] Go away! Go away and leave me to myself, if but for an hour. I won't have you watching me like this! TELEGIN. Yes, yes, Vanya. [He goes out on tiptoe.] MARINA. The gander cackles; ho! ho! ho! [She gathers up her wool and goes out.] VOITSKI. Leave me by myself! ASTROFF. I would, with the greatest pleasure. I ought to have gone long ago, but I shan't leave you until you have returned what you took from me. VOITSKI. I took nothing from you. ASTROFF. I am not jesting, don't detain me, I really must go. VOITSKI. I took nothing of yours. ASTROFF. You didn't? Very well, I shall have to wait a little longer, and then you will have to forgive me if I resort to force. We shall have to bind you and search you. I mean what I say. VOITSKI. Do as you please. [A pause] Oh, to make such a fool of myself! To shoot twice and miss him both times! I shall never forgive myself. ASTROFF. When the impulse came to shoot, it would have been as well had you put a bullet through your own head. VOITSKI. [Shrugging his shoulders] Strange! I attempted murder, and am not going to be arrested or brought to trial. That means they think me mad. [With a bitter laugh] Me! I am mad, and those who hide their worthlessness, their dullness, their crying heartlessness behind a professor's mask, are sane! Those who marry old men and then deceive them under the noses of all, are sane! I saw you kiss her; I saw you in each other's arms! ASTROFF. Yes, sir, I did kiss her; so there. [He puts his thumb to his nose.] VOITSKI. [His eyes on the door] No, it is the earth that is mad, because she still bears us on her breast. ASTROFF. That is nonsense. VOITSKI. Well? Am I not a madman, and therefore irresponsible? Haven't I the right to talk nonsense? ASTROFF. This is a farce! You are not mad; you are simply a ridiculous fool. I used to think every fool was out of his senses, but now I see that lack of sense is a man's normal state, and you are perfectly normal. VOITSKI. [Covers his face with his hands] Oh! If you knew how ashamed I am! These piercing pangs of shame are like nothing on earth. [In an agonised voice] I can't endure them! [He leans against the table] What can I do? What can I do? ASTROFF. Nothing. VOITSKI. You must tell me something! Oh, my God! I am forty-seven years old. I may live to sixty; I still have thirteen years before me; an eternity! How shall I be able to endure life for thirteen years? What shall I do? How can I fill them? Oh, don't you see? [He presses ASTROFF'S hand convulsively] Don't you see, if only I could live the rest of my life in some new way! If I could only wake some still, bright morning and feel that life had begun again; that the past was forgotten and had vanished like smoke. [He weeps] Oh, to begin life anew! Tell me, tell me how to begin. ASTROFF. [Crossly] What nonsense! What sort of a new life can you and I look forward to? We can have no hope. VOITSKI. None? ASTROFF. None. Of that I am convinced. VOITSKI. Tell me what to do. [He puts his hand to his heart] I feel such a burning pain here. ASTROFF. [Shouts angrily] Stop! [Then, more gently] It may be that posterity, which will despise us for our blind and stupid lives, will find some road to happiness; but we--you and I--have but one hope, the hope that we may be visited by visions, perhaps by pleasant ones, as we lie resting in our graves. [Sighing] Yes, brother, there were only two respectable, intelligent men in this county, you and I. Ten years or so of this life of ours, this miserable life, have sucked us under, and we have become as contemptible and petty as the rest. But don't try to talk me out of my purpose! Give me what you took from me, will you? VOITSKI. I took nothing from you. ASTROFF. You took a little bottle of morphine out of my medicine-case. [A pause] Listen! If you are positively determined to make an end to yourself, go into the woods and shoot yourself there. Give up the morphine, or there will be a lot of talk and guesswork; people will think I gave it to you. I don't fancy having to perform a post-mortem on you. Do you think I should find it interesting? SONIA comes in. VOITSKI. Leave me alone. ASTROFF. [To SONIA] Sonia, your uncle has stolen a bottle of morphine out of my medicine-case and won't give it up. Tell him that his behaviour is--well, unwise. I haven't time, I must be going. SONIA. Uncle Vanya, did you take the morphine? ASTROFF. Yes, he took it. [A pause] I am absolutely sure. SONIA. Give it up! Why do you want to frighten us? [Tenderly] Give it up, Uncle Vanya! My misfortune is perhaps even greater than yours, but I am not plunged in despair. I endure my sorrow, and shall endure it until my life comes to a natural end. You must endure yours, too. [A pause] Give it up! Dear, darling Uncle Vanya. Give it up! [She weeps] You are so good, I am sure you will have pity on us and give it up. You must endure your sorrow, Uncle Vanya; you must endure it. VOITSKI takes a bottle from the drawer of the table and hands it to ASTROFF. VOITSKI. There it is! [To SONIA] And now, we must get to work at once; we must do something, or else I shall not be able to endure it. SONIA. Yes, yes, to work! As soon as we have seen them off we shall go to work. [She nervously straightens out the papers on the table] Everything is in a muddle! ASTROFF. [Putting the bottle in his case, which he straps together] Now I can be off. HELENA comes in. HELENA. Are you here, Ivan? We are starting in a moment. Go to Alexander, he wants to speak to you. SONIA. Go, Uncle Vanya. [She takes VOITSKI 'S arm] Come, you and papa must make peace; that is absolutely necessary. SONIA and VOITSKI go out. HELENA. I am going away. [She gives ASTROFF her hand] Good-bye. ASTROFF. So soon? HELENA. The carriage is waiting. ASTROFF. Good-bye. HELENA. You promised me you would go away yourself to-day. ASTROFF. I have not forgotten. I am going at once. [A pause] Were you frightened? Was it so terrible? HELENA. Yes. ASTROFF. Couldn't you stay? Couldn't you? To-morrow--in the forest-- HELENA. No. It is all settled, and that is why I can look you so bravely in the face. Our departure is fixed. One thing I must ask of you: don't think too badly of me; I should like you to respect me. ASTROFF. Ah! [With an impatient gesture] Stay, I implore you! Confess that there is nothing for you to do in this world. You have no object in life; there is nothing to occupy your attention, and sooner or later your feelings must master you. It is inevitable. It would be better if it happened not in Kharkoff or in Kursk, but here, in nature's lap. It would then at least be poetical, even beautiful. Here you have the forests, the houses half in ruins that Turgenieff writes of. HELENA. How comical you are! I am angry with you and yet I shall always remember you with pleasure. You are interesting and original. You and I will never meet again, and so I shall tell you--why should I conceal it?--that I am just a little in love with you. Come, one more last pressure of our hands, and then let us part good friends. Let us not bear each other any ill will. ASTROFF. [Pressing her hand] Yes, go. [Thoughtfully] You seem to be sincere and good, and yet there is something strangely disquieting about all your personality. No sooner did you arrive here with your husband than every one whom you found busy and actively creating something was forced to drop his work and give himself up for the whole summer to your husband's gout and yourself. You and he have infected us with your idleness. I have been swept off my feet; I have not put my hand to a thing for weeks, during which sickness has been running its course unchecked among the people, and the peasants have been pasturing their cattle in my woods and young plantations. Go where you will, you and your husband will always carry destruction in your train. I am joking of course, and yet I am strangely sure that had you stayed here we should have been overtaken by the most immense desolation. I would have gone to my ruin, and you--you would not have prospered. So go! E finita la comedia! HELENA. [Snatching a pencil off ASTROFF'S table, and hiding it with a quick movement] I shall take this pencil for memory! ASTROFF. How strange it is. We meet, and then suddenly it seems that we must part forever. That is the way in this world. As long as we are alone, before Uncle Vanya comes in with a bouquet--allow me--to kiss you good-bye--may I? [He kisses her on the cheek] So! Splendid! HELENA. I wish you every happiness. [She glances about her] For once in my life, I shall! and scorn the consequences! [She kisses him impetuously, and they quickly part] I must go. ASTROFF. Yes, go. If the carriage is there, then start at once. [They stand listening.] ASTROFF. E finita! VOITSKI, SEREBRAKOFF, MME. VOITSKAYA with her book, TELEGIN, and SONIA come in. SEREBRAKOFF. [To VOITSKI] Shame on him who bears malice for the past. I have gone through so much in the last few hours that I feel capable of writing a whole treatise on the conduct of life for the instruction of posterity. I gladly accept your apology, and myself ask your forgiveness. [He kisses VOITSKI three times.] HELENA embraces SONIA. SEREBRAKOFF. [Kissing MME. VOITSKAYA'S hand] Mother! MME. VOITSKAYA. [Kissing him] Have your picture taken, Alexander, and send me one. You know how dear you are to me. TELEGIN. Good-bye, your Excellency. Don't forget us. SEREBRAKOFF. [Kissing his daughter] Good-bye, good-bye all. [Shaking hands with ASTROFF] Many thanks for your pleasant company. I have a deep regard for your opinions and your enthusiasm, but let me, as an old man, give one word of advice at parting: do something, my friend! Work! Do something! [They all bow] Good luck to you all. [He goes out followed by MME. VOITSKAYA and SONIA.] VOITSKI [Kissing HELENA'S hand fervently] Good-bye--forgive me. I shall never see you again! HELENA. [Touched] Good-bye, dear boy. She lightly kisses his head as he bends over her hand, and goes out. ASTROFF. Tell them to bring my carriage around too, Waffles. TELEGIN. All right, old man. ASTROFF and VOITSKI are left behind alone. ASTROFF collects his paints and drawing materials on the table and packs them away in a box. ASTROFF. Why don't you go to see them off? VOITSKI. Let them go! I--I can't go out there. I feel too sad. I must go to work on something at once. To work! To work! He rummages through his papers on the table. A pause. The tinkling of bells is heard as the horses trot away. ASTROFF. They have gone! The professor, I suppose, is glad to go. He couldn't be tempted back now by a fortune. MARINA comes in. MARINA. They have gone. [She sits down in an arm-chair and knits her stocking.] SONIA comes in wiping her eyes. SONIA. They have gone. God be with them. [To her uncle] And now, Uncle Vanya, let us do something! VOITSKI. To work! To work! SONIA. It is long, long, since you and I have sat together at this table. [She lights a lamp on the table] No ink! [She takes the inkstand to the cupboard and fills it from an ink-bottle] How sad it is to see them go! MME. VOITSKAYA comes slowly in. MME. VOITSKAYA. They have gone. She sits down and at once becomes absorbed in her book. SONIA sits down at the table and looks through an account book. SONIA. First, Uncle Vanya, let us write up the accounts. They are in a dreadful state. Come, begin. You take one and I will take the other. VOITSKI. In account with [They sit silently writing.] MARINA. [Yawning] The sand-man has come. ASTROFF. How still it is. Their pens scratch, the cricket sings; it is so warm and comfortable. I hate to go. [The tinkling of bells is heard.] ASTROFF. My carriage has come. There now remains but to say good-bye to you, my friends, and to my table here, and then--away! [He puts the map into the portfolio.] MARINA. Don't hurry away; sit a little longer with us. ASTROFF. Impossible. VOITSKI. [Writing] And carry forward from the old debt two seventy-five-- WORKMAN comes in. WORKMAN. Your carriage is waiting, sir. ASTROFF. All right. [He hands the WORKMAN his medicine-case, portfolio, and box] Look out, don't crush the portfolio! WORKMAN. Very well, sir. SONIA. When shall we see you again? ASTROFF. Hardly before next summer. Probably not this winter, though, of course, if anything should happen you will let me know. [He shakes hands with them] Thank you for your kindness, for your hospitality, for everything! [He goes up to MARINA and kisses her head] Good-bye, old nurse! MARINA. Are you going without your tea? ASTROFF. I don't want any, nurse. MARINA. Won't you have a drop of vodka? ASTROFF. [Hesitatingly] Yes, I might. MARINA goes out. ASTROFF. [After a pause] My off-wheeler has gone lame for some reason. I noticed it yesterday when Peter was taking him to water. VOITSKI. You should have him re-shod. ASTROFF. I shall have to go around by the blacksmith's on my way home. It can't be avoided. [He stands looking up at the map of Africa hanging on the wall] I suppose it is roasting hot in Africa now. VOITSKI. Yes, I suppose it is. MARINA comes back carrying a tray on which are a glass of vodka and a piece of bread. MARINA. Help yourself. ASTROFF drinks MARINA. To your good health! [She bows deeply] Eat your bread with it. ASTROFF. No, I like it so. And now, good-bye. [To MARINA] You needn't come out to see me off, nurse. He goes out. SONIA follows him with a candle to light him to the carriage. MARINA sits down in her armchair. VOITSKI. [Writing] On the 2d of February, twenty pounds of butter; on the 16th, twenty pounds of butter again. Buckwheat flour--[A pause. Bells are heard tinkling.] MARINA. He has gone. [A pause.] SONIA comes in and sets the candle stick on the table. SONIA. He has gone. VOITSKI. [Adding and writing] Total, fifteen--twenty-five-- SONIA sits down and begins to write. [Yawning] Oh, ho! The Lord have mercy. TELEGIN comes in on tiptoe, sits down near the door, and begins to tune his guitar. VOITSKI. [To SONIA, stroking her hair] Oh, my child, I am miserable; if you only knew how miserable I am! SONIA. What can we do? We must live our lives. [A pause] Yes, we shall live, Uncle Vanya. We shall live through the long procession of days before us, and through the long evenings; we shall patiently bear the trials that fate imposes on us; we shall work for others without rest, both now and when we are old; and when our last hour comes we shall meet it humbly, and there, beyond the grave, we shall say that we have suffered and wept, that our life was bitter, and God will have pity on us. Ah, then dear, dear Uncle, we shall see that bright and beautiful life; we shall rejoice and look back upon our sorrow here; a tender smile--and--we shall rest. I have faith, Uncle, fervent, passionate faith. [SONIA kneels down before her uncle and lays her head on his hands. She speaks in a weary voice] We shall rest. [TELEGIN plays softly on the guitar] We shall rest. We shall hear the angels. We shall see heaven shining like a jewel. We shall see all evil and all our pain sink away in the great compassion that shall enfold the world. Our life will be as peaceful and tender and sweet as a caress. I have faith; I have faith. [She wipes away her tears] My poor, poor Uncle Vanya, you are crying! [Weeping] You have never known what happiness was, but wait, Uncle Vanya, wait! We shall rest. [She embraces him] We shall rest. [The WATCHMAN'S rattle is heard in the garden; TELEGIN plays softly; MME. VOITSKAYA writes something on the margin of her pamphlet; MARINA knits her stocking] We shall rest. The curtain slowly falls.

Act 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20200714032621/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/uncle-vanya/summary/act-4

In Vanya's room, Telegin and Marina sit and wind wool to make stockings. They talk about how Serebryakov and Yelena are getting ready to leave. Telegin says that he hid Vanya's gun in the cellar to keep him from killing himself. Astrov and Vanya come in arguing. Astrov claims that Vanya has stolen some morphine from him and can't leave until he gets it back. Sonya enters, and Astrov tattles to her about the morphine. She begs her uncle to give it back, and he finally does. Sonya takes her uncle away to make up with her dad, and Yelena shows up to say goodbye to Astrov. Sonya hints that she does kind of like him, even if it's something that would never work out. Serebryakov, Vanya, Mariya, Telegin, and Sonya all come back, and Serebryakov apologizes to Vanya. Vanya promises to continue to send Serebryakov money from the estate's earnings. Everyone leaves except for Astrov and Vanya, and Vanya doesn't know what to do with himself. He wants to get to work. Sonya and Mariya come back after seeing off Serebryakov and Yelena, and everyone settles in to start writing bills and knitting. Astrov leaves everyone going about their business. Vanya is sad, and Sonya tells him that they must continue living until it's time for them to die, and then they shall rest. Bummer.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_1_chapters_9_to_15.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Red and the Black/section_3_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapters 9-15

chapters 9-15

{"name": "Chapters 9-15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapters-915", "summary": "Julien plans his campaign and, after much anguish, takes Mme. de Renal's hand the next evening. Although she at first withdraws, he insists, and ultimately, she offers it freely. Renal offends Julien by accusing him of neglecting the children, but Julien's sullen mood is suddenly changed by the imminence of a catastrophe: Renal might find his hidden picture of Napoleon as the mayor and the servants change the mattress stuffing. Mme. de Renal rescues it for Julien, unaware of whose picture the box contains. Renal, on the other hand, misinterprets Julien's pride for the cunning of the peasant demanding more wages. When he grants Julien a raise, the latter is abashed and scorns the mayor even more for measuring everything in monetary terms. Julien gives expanse to the joy of victory in the solitude of the mountains as he goes to visit Chelan. The next night, Julien dares to show his scorn of Renal by taking Mme. de Renal's hand in his very presence, albeit under the cover of dark, and he covers it with passionate kisses. Julien contemplates his campaign against this contemptible bourgeois; Mme. de Renal is torn between her jealousy and anguish at the first pangs of guilt, imagining herself to be a fallen woman. Her agitation is so great that she almost betrays her passion by asking Elisa abruptly if it is she, Elisa, whom Julien loves. Mme. de Renal resolves to treat Julien coldly. Julien takes offense and does not confide to her his plans to leave for a three-day trip. He stops off again in the mountains to enjoy his freedom in solitude. During their visit, Fouque offers Julien a partnership that would assure the latter of financial success. After deliberation, Julien rejects the offer since the success he envisages must be gained through hardship and accomplished by means of the Church. His friendship itself is instrumental in his rejection of the offer. He would not choose to betray Fouque later, once his education had been financed. Fouque confides to Julien the tales of his amorous conquests. Upon his return, Julien discovers that Mme. de Renal is in love with him, and he decides that his duty requires that he make her his mistress. He announces that he must leave since he loves her desperately. This avowal sends her into ecstasy, but she innocently assures herself that their relationship will be a platonic one. Julien awkwardly begins his seduction. His absence, caused by another trip to Verrieres, where he witnesses the disgrace into which Chelan has fallen, causes his awkward attempts of the previous day to be forgotten. He announces quite abruptly to Mme. de Renal that he will visit her room at two o'clock in the morning. The declaration is met with an indignant reprimand. He forces himself to carry out this, the most daring of his exploits, and it succeeds only because he forgets his plan and throws himself at Mme. de Renal's feet. He is unable to enjoy the experience, however, since he is so occupied seeing himself in the role of lover. Returning to his room, Julien's only thought is whether he played his role well.", "analysis": "In spite of the obvious earnestness of the characters, the reader cannot help but be amused at the \"comedy of errors and cross purposes\" that is played out in these chapters, having its climax in Chapter 15 with the seduction of Mme. de Renal. This triumph is not due to Julien's art but rather to his charm, which erupts in unguarded moments; to Mme. de Renal's love for him, which by this time has become passion; and to the unknowing collaboration of the mayor. Stendhal manipulates the episodes in such a way that each of the three characters acts independently of the others, yet almost by chance they contribute by their convergence to the fortuitous victory of Julien. This unwitting conspiracy is apparent upon analysis. Julien's ambition to seduce Mme. de Renal does not result from love for her but from his sense of duty toward himself. He owes it to himself to take her hand, but he has forgotten the incident the next morning. To motivate this \"de-motivated\" campaign, Stendhal then utilizes the mayor, whose reproach to Julien for his idleness provokes the latter to avenge his wounded pride by demanding an apology. To the amazement of Julien, the mayor grants him a raise. Julien realizes, however, that this second victory has not been earned, but the elation of the victories must be expressed in the solitude of the mountains. Julien's next step is again motivated by his scorn for the mayor. What an expression of ridicule to take Mme. de Renal's hand in the presence of her husband! That evening, Julien relaxes enough to actually enjoy the unknown pleasure that her beauty causes him. Planning his strategy according to Napoleon, he will further crush the mayor by requesting a three-day leave. Already, in spite of himself, however, a feeling for Mme. de Renal is autonomously manifesting itself. Stendhal comments that Julien longed to see her again, in spite of his expectations. The mutual coldness of their interview summarizes their dilemma: It moves them apart in order, ultimately, to unite them. The numerous absences of Julien ripen Mme. de Renal for the ultimate conquest, although Julien does not absent himself for that specific purpose. The tranquility enjoyed by Julien during his second retreat to the mountains is disturbed by Fouque's offer. Even this obstacle advances Julien's cause, unbeknownst to him: It frees his mind to think of her. Fouque's amorous affairs teach Julien something about women. Upon his return, therefore, he comes \"naturally\" to the realization that Mme. de Renal loves him. This proves to be the greatest step in his progression since when she herself initiates the hand-clasp ritual, Julien \"ups the ante\" in his self-imposition of obstacle pattern, deciding that it is his duty to seduce her, to make her his mistress. This decision, then, is made in all lucidity. With no love yet prompting him, only his ambition and pride, Julien announces hypocritically that he loves her passionately. As he executes his plan, he falls from blunder into blunder, and his attempts at paying court are climaxed by his brutal announcement of the early morning visit he will pay. Had Mme. de Renal not been moved by Julien's tears of confusion and had her love not progressed to its paroxysm, she would never have given herself. Julien's conquest of Mme. de Renal and his love for her at this point take the form of a military assault on society. Mme. de Renal, on the other hand, already painfully knows the bliss of love. She allies herself unknowingly more and more closely with Julien against her husband. The sweet complicity into which she enters with Julien has a twofold importance: It is a sign of a greater degree of involvement with Julien and a means to the realization of a further step in the crystallization of her love because it contains the seeds of jealousy which will torment her. At first her conflict is between the fear of not being loved and the shame of becoming an adulteress. Then when she permits herself to enjoy the thought of happiness with Julien, she is tormented by jealousy, by the fear that he loves another. Soon fear of Julien's departure overcomes any thought she has of resisting him. His hypocritical confession of love for her sends her into a blissful state, although she continues to delude herself as to the future of their relationship, which she can only see as platonic. The final blunder that precipitates the seduction again reproduces in miniature their entire experience. He clumsily tries to make contact with her foot; she reproaches him, ordering him to be careful; he is offended by the tone and leaves for a day, an absence that prepares her to accept him. In the two studies of love that the novel presents, with Mme. de Renal, and in Part II, with Mathilde, Stendhal is not only contrasting two types of love -- passionate and intellectual -- but is focusing different stages of the love experience, and the two are presented in a complementary way. Julien and Mme. de Renal are united through blunder and by accident, and separation brings about the union. Julien and Mathilde will both calculate, and Julien will succeed in keeping her love alive only through imposing separation and distance."}

CHAPTER IX AN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY M. Guerin's Dido, a charming sketch!--_Strombeck_. His expression was singular when he saw Madame de Renal the next day; he watched her like an enemy with whom he would have to fight a duel. These looks, which were so different from those of the previous evening, made Madame de Renal lose her head; she had been kind to him and he appeared angry. She could not take her eyes off his. Madame Derville's presence allowed Julien to devote less time to conversation, and more time to thinking about what he had in his mind. His one object all this day was to fortify himself by reading the inspired book that gave strength to his soul. He considerably curtailed the children's lessons, and when Madame de Renal's presence had effectually brought him back to the pursuit of his ambition, he decided that she absolutely must allow her hand to rest in his that evening. The setting of the sun which brought the crucial moment nearer and nearer made Julien's heart beat in a strange way. Night came. He noticed with a joy, which took an immense weight off his heart, that it was going to be very dark. The sky, which was laden with big clouds that had been brought along by a sultry wind, seemed to herald a storm. The two friends went for their walk very late. All they did that night struck Julien as strange. They were enjoying that hour which seems to give certain refined souls an increased pleasure in loving. At last they sat down, Madame de Renal beside Julien, and Madame Derville near her friend. Engrossed as he was by the attempt which he was going to make, Julien could think of nothing to say. The conversation languished. "Shall I be as nervous and miserable over my first duel?" said Julien to himself; for he was too suspicious both of himself and of others, not to realise his own mental state. In his mortal anguish, he would have preferred any danger whatsoever. How many times did he not wish some matter to crop up which would necessitate Madame de Renal going into the house and leaving the garden! The violent strain on Julien's nerves was too great for his voice not to be considerably changed; soon Madame de Renal's voice became nervous as well, but Julien did not notice it. The awful battle raging between duty and timidity was too painful, for him to be in a position to observe anything outside himself. A quarter to ten had just struck on the chateau clock without his having ventured anything. Julien was indignant at his own cowardice, and said to himself, "at the exact moment when ten o'clock strikes, I will perform what I have resolved to do all through the day, or I will go up to my room and blow out my brains." After a final moment of expectation and anxiety, during which Julien was rendered almost beside himself by his excessive emotion, ten o'clock struck from the clock over his head. Each stroke of the fatal clock reverberated in his bosom, and caused an almost physical pang. Finally, when the last stroke of ten was still reverberating, he stretched out his hand and took Madame de Renal's, who immediately withdrew it. Julien, scarcely knowing what he was doing, seized it again. In spite of his own excitement, he could not help being struck by the icy coldness of the hand which he was taking; he pressed it convulsively; a last effort was made to take it away, but in the end the hand remained in his. His soul was inundated with happiness, not that he loved Madame de Renal, but an awful torture had just ended. He thought it necessary to say something, to avoid Madame Derville noticing anything. His voice was now strong and ringing. Madame de Renal's, on the contrary, betrayed so much emotion that her friend thought she was ill, and suggested her going in. Julien scented danger, "if Madame de Renal goes back to the salon, I shall relapse into the awful state in which I have been all day. I have held the hand far too short a time for it really to count as the scoring of an actual advantage." At the moment when Madame Derville was repeating her suggestion to go back to the salon, Julien squeezed vigorously the hand that was abandoned to him. Madame de Renal, who had started to get up, sat down again and said in a faint voice, "I feel a little ill, as a matter of fact, but the open air is doing me good." These words confirmed Julien's happiness, which at the present moment was extreme; he spoke, he forgot to pose, and appeared the most charming man in the world to the two friends who were listening to him. Nevertheless, there was a slight lack of courage in all this eloquence which had suddenly come upon him. He was mortally afraid that Madame Derville would get tired of the wind before the storm, which was beginning to rise, and want to go back alone into the salon. He would then have remained _tete-a-tete_ with Madame de Renal. He had had, almost by accident that blind courage which is sufficient for action; but he felt that it was out of his power to speak the simplest word to Madame de Renal. He was certain that, however slight her reproaches might be, he would nevertheless be worsted, and that the advantage he had just won would be destroyed. Luckily for him on this evening, his moving and emphatic speeches found favour with Madame Derville, who very often found him as clumsy as a child and not at all amusing. As for Madame de Renal, with her hand in Julien's, she did not have a thought; she simply allowed herself to go on living. The hours spent under this great pine tree, planted by by Charles the Bold according to the local tradition, were a real period of happiness. She listened with delight to the soughing of the wind in the thick foliage of the pine tree and to the noise of some stray drops which were beginning to fall upon the leaves which were lowest down. Julien failed to notice one circumstance which, if he had, would have quickly reassured him; Madame de Renal, who had been obliged to take away her hand, because she had got up to help her cousin to pick up a flower-pot which the wind had knocked over at her feet, had scarcely sat down again before she gave him her hand with scarcely any difficulty and as though it had already been a pre-arranged thing between them. Midnight had struck a long time ago; it was at last necessary to leave the garden; they separated. Madame de Renal swept away as she was, by the happiness of loving, was so completely ignorant of the world that she scarcely reproached herself at all. Her happiness deprived her of her sleep. A leaden sleep overwhelmed Julien who was mortally fatigued by the battle which timidity and pride had waged in his heart all through the day. He was called at five o'clock on the following day and scarcely gave Madame de Renal a single thought. He had accomplished his duty, and a heroic duty too. The consciousness of this filled him with happiness; he locked himself in his room, and abandoned himself with quite a new pleasure to reading exploits of his hero. When the breakfast bell sounded, the reading of the Bulletins of the Great Army had made him forget all his advantages of the previous day. He said to himself flippantly, as he went down to the salon, "I must tell that woman that I am in love with her." Instead of those looks brimful of pleasure which he was expecting to meet, he found the stern visage of M. de Renal, who had arrived from Verrieres two hours ago, and did not conceal his dissatisfaction at Julien's having passed the whole morning without attending to the children. Nothing could have been more sordid than this self-important man when he was in a bad temper and thought that he could safely show it. Each harsh word of her husband pierced Madame de Renal's heart. As for Julien, he was so plunged in his ecstasy, and still so engrossed by the great events which had been passing before his eyes for several hours, that he had some difficulty at first in bringing his attention sufficiently down to listen to the harsh remarks which M. de Renal was addressing to him. He said to him at last, rather abruptly, "I was ill." The tone of this answer would have stung a much less sensitive man than the mayor of Verrieres. He half thought of answering Julien by turning him out of the house straight away. He was only restrained by the maxim which he had prescribed for himself, of never hurrying unduly in business matters. "The young fool," he said to himself shortly afterwards, "has won a kind of reputation in my house. That man Valenod may take him into his family, or he may quite well marry Elisa, and in either case, he will be able to have the laugh of me in his heart." In spite of the wisdom of these reflections, M. de Renal's dissatisfaction did not fail to vent itself any the less by a string of coarse insults which gradually irritated Julien. Madame de Renal was on the point of bursting into tears. Breakfast was scarcely over, when she asked Julien to give her his arm for a walk. She leaned on him affectionately. Julien could only answer all that Madame de Renal said to him by whispering. "_That's what rich people are like!_" M. de Renal was walking quite close to them; his presence increased Julien's anger. He suddenly noticed that Madame de Renal was leaning on his arm in a manner which was somewhat marked. This horrified him, and he pushed her violently away and disengaged his arm. Luckily, M. de Renal did not see this new piece of impertinence; it was only noticed by Madame Derville. Her friend burst into tears. M. de Renal now started to chase away by a shower of stones a little peasant girl who had taken a private path crossing a corner of the orchard. "Monsieur Julien, restrain yourself, I pray you. Remember that we all have our moments of temper," said madame Derville rapidly. Julien looked at her coldly with eyes in which the most supreme contempt was depicted. This look astonished Madame Derville, and it would have surprised her even more if she had appreciated its real expression; she would have read in it something like a vague hope of the most atrocious vengeance. It is, no doubt, such moments of humiliation which have made Robespierres. "Your Julien is very violent; he frightens me," said Madame Derville to her friend, in a low voice. "He is right to be angry," she answered. "What does it matter if he does pass a morning without speaking to the children, after the astonishing progress which he has made them make. One must admit that men are very hard." For the first time in her life Madame de Renal experienced a kind of desire for vengeance against her husband. The extreme hatred of the rich by which Julien was animated was on the point of exploding. Luckily, M. de Renal called his gardener, and remained occupied with him in barring by faggots of thorns the private road through the orchard. Julien did not vouchsafe any answer to the kindly consideration of which he was the object during all the rest of the walk. M. de Renal had scarcely gone away before the two friends made the excuse of being fatigued, and each asked him for an arm. Walking as he did between these two women whose extreme nervousness filled their cheeks with a blushing embarrassment, the haughty pallor and sombre, resolute air of Julien formed a strange contrast. He despised these women and all tender sentiments. "What!" he said to himself, "not even an income of five hundred francs to finish my studies! Ah! how I should like to send them packing." And absorbed as he was by these stern ideas, such few courteous words of his two friends as he deigned to take the trouble to understand, displeased him as devoid of sense, silly, feeble, in a word--feminine. As the result of speaking for the sake of speaking and of endeavouring to keep the conversation alive, it came about that Madame de Renal mentioned that her husband had come from Verrieres because he had made a bargain for the May straw with one of his farmers. (In this district it is the May straw with which the bed mattresses are filled). "My husband will not rejoin us," added Madame de Renal; "he will occupy himself with finishing the re-stuffing of the house mattresses with the help of the gardener and his valet. He has put the May straw this morning in all the beds on the first storey; he is now at the second." Julien changed colour. He looked at Madame de Renal in a singular way, and soon managed somehow to take her on one side, doubling his pace. Madame Derville allowed them to get ahead. "Save my life," said Julien to Madame de Renal; "only you can do it, for you know that the valet hates me desperately. I must confess to you, madame, that I have a portrait. I have hidden it in the mattress of my bed." At these words Madame de Renal in her turn became pale. "Only you, Madame, are able at this moment to go into my room, feel about without their noticing in the corner of the mattress; it is nearest the window. You will find a small, round box of black cardboard, very glossy." "Does it contain a portrait?" said Madame de Renal, scarcely able to hold herself upright. Julien noticed her air of discouragement, and at once proceeded to exploit it. "I have a second favour to ask you, madame. I entreat you not to look at that portrait; it is my secret." "It is a secret," repeated Madame de Renal in a faint voice. But though she had been brought up among people who are proud of their fortune and appreciative of nothing except money, love had already instilled generosity into her soul. Truly wounded as she was, it was with an air of the most simple devotion that Madame de Renal asked Julien the questions necessary to enable her to fulfil her commission. "So" she said to him as she went away, "it is a little round box of black cardboard, very glossy." "Yes, Madame," answered Julien, with that hardness which danger gives to men. She ascended the second storey of the chateau as pale as though she had been going to her death. Her misery was completed by the sensation that she was on the verge of falling ill, but the necessity of doing Julien a service restored her strength. "I must have that box," she said to herself, as she doubled her pace. She heard her husband speaking to the valet in Julien's very room. Happily, they passed into the children's room. She lifted up the mattress, and plunged her hand into the stuffing so violently that she bruised her fingers. But, though she was very sensitive to slight pain of this kind, she was not conscious of it now, for she felt almost simultaneously the smooth surface of the cardboard box. She seized it and disappeared. She had scarcely recovered from the fear of being surprised by her husband than the horror with which this box inspired her came within an ace of positively making her feel ill. "So Julien is in love, and I hold here the portrait of the woman whom he loves!" Seated on the chair in the ante-chamber of his apartment, Madame de Renal fell a prey to all the horrors of jealousy. Her extreme ignorance, moreover, was useful to her at this juncture; her astonishment mitigated her grief. Julien seized the box without thanking her or saying a single word, and ran into his room, where he lit a fire and immediately burnt it. He was pale and in a state of collapse. He exaggerated the extent of the danger which he had undergone. "Finding Napoleon's portrait," he said to himself, "in the possession of a man who professes so great a hate for the usurper! Found, too, by M. de Renal, who is so great an _ultra_, and is now in a state of irritation, and, to complete my imprudence, lines written in my own handwriting on the white cardboard behind the portrait, lines, too, which can leave no doubt on the score of my excessive admiration. And each of these transports of love is dated. There was one the day before yesterday." "All my reputation collapsed and shattered in a moment," said Julien to himself as he watched the box burn, "and my reputation is my only asset. It is all I have to live by--and what a life to, by heaven!" An hour afterwards, this fatigue, together with the pity which he felt for himself made him inclined to be more tender. He met Madame de Renal and took her hand, which he kissed with more sincerity than he had ever done before. She blushed with happiness and almost simultaneously rebuffed Julien with all the anger of jealousy. Julien's pride which had been so recently wounded made him act foolishly at this juncture. He saw in Madame de Renal nothing but a rich woman, he disdainfully let her hand fall and went away. He went and walked about meditatively in the garden. Soon a bitter smile appeared on his lips. "Here I am walking about as serenely as a man who is master of his own time. I am not bothering about the children! I am exposing myself to M. de Renal's humiliating remarks, and he will be quite right." He ran to the children's room. The caresses of the youngest child, whom he loved very much, somewhat calmed his agony. "He does not despise me yet," thought Julien. But he soon reproached himself for this alleviation of his agony as though it were a new weakness. The children caress me just in the same way in which they would caress the young hunting-hound which was bought yesterday. CHAPTER X A GREAT HEART AND A SMALL FORTUNE But passion most disembles, yet betrays, Even by its darkness, as the blackest sky Foretells the heaviest tempest. _Don Juan_, c. 4, st. 75. M. De Renal was going through all the rooms in the chateau, and he came back into the children's room with the servants who were bringing back the stuffings of the mattresses. The sudden entry of this man had the effect on Julien of the drop of water which makes the pot overflow. Looking paler and more sinister than usual, he rushed towards him. M. de Renal stopped and looked at his servants. "Monsieur," said Julien to him, "Do you think your children would have made the progress they have made with me with any other tutor? If you answer 'No,'" continued Julien so quickly that M. de Renal did not have time to speak, "how dare you reproach me with neglecting them?" M. de Renal, who had scarcely recovered from his fright, concluded from the strange tone he saw this little peasant assume, that he had some advantageous offer in his pocket, and that he was going to leave him. The more he spoke the more Julien's anger increased, "I can live without you, Monsieur," he added. "I am really sorry to see you so upset," answered M. de Renal shuddering a little. The servants were ten yards off engaged in making the beds. "That is not what I mean, Monsieur," replied Julien quite beside himself. "Think of the infamous words that you have addressed to me, and before women too." M. de Renal understood only too well what Julien was asking, and a painful conflict tore his soul. It happened that Julien, who was really mad with rage, cried out, "I know where to go, Monsieur, when I leave your house." At these words M. de Renal saw Julien installed with M. Valenod. "Well, sir," he said at last with a sigh, just as though he had called in a surgeon to perform the most painful operation, "I accede to your request. I will give you fifty francs a month. Starting from the day after to-morrow which is the first of the month." Julien wanted to laugh, and stood there dumbfounded. All his anger had vanished. "I do not despise the brute enough," he said to himself. "I have no doubt that that is the greatest apology that so base a soul can make." The children who had listened to this scene with gaping mouths, ran into the garden to tell their mother that M. Julien was very angry, but that he was going to have fifty francs a month. Julien followed them as a matter of habit without even looking at M. de Renal whom he left in a considerable state of irritation. "That makes one hundred and sixty-eight francs," said the mayor to himself, "that M. Valenod has cost me. I must absolutely speak a few strong words to him about his contract to provide for the foundlings." A minute afterwards Julien found himself opposite M. de Renal. "I want to speak to M. Chelan on a matter of conscience. I have the honour to inform you that I shall be absent some hours." "Why, my dear Julien," said M. de Renal smiling with the falsest expression possible, "take the whole day, and to-morrow too if you like, my good friend. Take the gardener's horse to go to Verrieres." "He is on the very point," said M. de Renal to himself, "of giving an answer to Valenod. He has promised me nothing, but I must let this hot-headed young man have time to cool down." Julien quickly went away, and went up into the great forest, through which one can manage to get from Vergy to Verrieres. He did not wish to arrive at M. Chelan's at once. Far from wishing to cramp himself in a new pose of hypocrisy he needed to see clear in his own soul, and to give audience to the crowd of sentiments which were agitating him. "I have won a battle," he said to himself, as soon as he saw that he was well in the forest, and far from all human gaze. "So I have won a battle." This expression shed a rosy light on his situation, and restored him to some serenity. "Here I am with a salary of fifty francs a month, M. de Renal must be precious afraid, but what of?" This meditation about what could have put fear into the heart of that happy, powerful man against whom he had been boiling with rage only an hour back, completed the restoration to serenity of Julien's soul. He was almost able to enjoy for a moment the delightful beauty of the woods amidst which he was walking. Enormous blocks of bare rocks had fallen down long ago in the middle of the forest by the mountain side. Great cedars towered almost as high as these rocks whose shade caused a delicious freshness within three yards of places where the heat of the sun's rays would have made it impossible to rest. Julien took breath for a moment in the shade of these great rocks, and then he began again to climb. Traversing a narrow path that was scarcely marked, and was only used by the goat herds, he soon found himself standing upon an immense rock with the complete certainty of being far away from all mankind. This physical position made him smile. It symbolised to him the position he was burning to attain in the moral sphere. The pure air of these lovely mountains filled his soul with serenity and even with joy. The mayor of Verrieres still continued to typify in his eyes all the wealth and all the arrogance of the earth; but Julien felt that the hatred that had just thrilled him had nothing personal about it in spite of all the violence which he had manifested. If he had left off seeing M. de Renal he would in eight days have forgotten him, his castle, his dogs, his children and all his family. "I forced him, I don't know how, to make the greatest sacrifice. What? more than fifty crowns a year, and only a minute before I managed to extricate myself from the greatest danger; so there are two victories in one day. The second one is devoid of merit, I must find out the why and the wherefore. But these laborious researches are for to-morrow." Standing up on his great rock, Julien looked at the sky which was all afire with an August sun. The grasshoppers sang in the field about the rock; when they held their peace there was universal silence around him. He saw twenty leagues of country at his feet. He noticed from time to time some hawk, which launching off from the great rocks over his head was describing in silence its immense circles. Julien's eye followed the bird of prey mechanically. Its tranquil powerful movements struck him. He envied that strength, that isolation. "Would Napoleon's destiny be one day his?" CHAPTER XI AN EVENING Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, And tremulously gently her small hand Withdrew itself from his, but left behind A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland, And slight, so very slight that to the mind, 'Twas but a doubt. _Don Juan_, c. I. st, 71. It was necessary, however, to put in an appearance at Verrieres. As Julien left the cure house he was fortunate enough to meet M. Valenod, whom he hastened to tell of the increase in his salary. On returning to Vergy, Julien waited till night had fallen before going down into the garden. His soul was fatigued by the great number of violent emotions which had agitated him during the day. "What shall I say to them?" he reflected anxiously, as he thought about the ladies. He was far from realising that his soul was just in a mood to discuss those trivial circumstances which usually monopolise all feminine interests. Julien was often unintelligible to Madame Derville, and even to her friend, and he in his turn only half understood all that they said to him. Such was the effect of the force and, if I may venture to use such language, the greatness of the transports of passion which overwhelmed the soul of this ambitious youth. In this singular being it was storm nearly every day. As he entered the garden this evening, Julien was inclined to take an interest in what the pretty cousins were thinking. They were waiting for him impatiently. He took his accustomed seat next to Madame de Renal. The darkness soon became profound. He attempted to take hold of a white hand which he had seen some time near him, as it leant on the back of a chair. Some hesitation was shewn, but eventually the hand was withdrawn in a manner which indicated displeasure. Julien was inclined to give up the attempt as a bad job, and to continue his conversation quite gaily, when he heard M. de Renal approaching. The coarse words he had uttered in the morning were still ringing in Julien's ears. "Would not taking possession of his wife's hand in his very presence," he said to himself, "be a good way of scoring off that creature who has all that life can give him. Yes! I will do it. I, the very man for whom he has evidenced so great a contempt." From that moment the tranquillity which was so alien to Julien's real character quickly disappeared. He was obsessed by an anxious desire that Madame de Renal should abandon her hand to him. M. de Renal was talking politics with vehemence; two or three commercial men in Verrieres had been growing distinctly richer than he was, and were going to annoy him over the elections. Madame Derville was listening to him. Irritated by these tirades, Julien brought his chair nearer Madame de Renal. All his movements were concealed by the darkness. He dared to put his hand very near to the pretty arm which was left uncovered by the dress. He was troubled and had lost control of his mind. He brought his face near to that pretty arm and dared to put his lips on it. Madame de Renal shuddered. Her husband was four paces away. She hastened to give her hand to Julien, and at the same time to push him back a little. As M. de Renal was continuing his insults against those ne'er-do-wells and Jacobins who were growing so rich, Julien covered the hand which had been abandoned to him with kisses, which were either really passionate or at any rate seemed so to Madame de Renal. But the poor woman had already had the proofs on that same fatal day that the man whom she adored, without owning it to herself, loved another! During the whole time Julien had been absent she had been the prey to an extreme unhappiness which had made her reflect. "What," she said to herself, "Am I going to love, am I going to be in love? Am I, a married woman, going to fall in love? But," she said to herself, "I have never felt for my husband this dark madness, which never permits of my keeping Julien out of my thoughts. After all, he is only a child who is full of respect for me. This madness will be fleeting. In what way do the sentiments which I may have for this young man concern my husband? M. de Renal would be bored by the conversations which I have with Julien on imaginative subjects. As for him, he simply thinks of his business. I am not taking anything away from him to give to Julien." No hypocrisy had sullied the purity of that naive soul, now swept away by a passion such as it had never felt before. She deceived herself, but without knowing it. But none the less, a certain instinct of virtue was alarmed. Such were the combats which were agitating her when Julien appeared in the garden. She heard him speak and almost at the same moment she saw him sit down by her side. Her soul was as it were transported by this charming happiness which had for the last fortnight surprised her even more than it had allured. Everything was novel for her. None the less, she said to herself after some moments, "the mere presence of Julien is quite enough to blot out all his wrongs." She was frightened; it was then that she took away her hand. His passionate kisses, the like of which she had never received before, made her forget that perhaps he loved another woman. Soon he was no longer guilty in her eyes. The cessation of that poignant pain which suspicion had engendered and the presence of a happiness that she had never even dreamt of, gave her ecstasies of love and of mad gaiety. The evening was charming for everyone, except the mayor of Verrieres, who was unable to forget his _parvenu_ manufacturers. Julien left off thinking about his black ambition, or about those plans of his which were so difficult to accomplish. For the first time in his life he was led away by the power of beauty. Lost in a sweetly vague reverie, quite alien to his character, and softly pressing that hand, which he thought ideally pretty, he half listened to the rustle of the leaves of the pine trees, swept by the light night breeze, and to the dogs of the mill on the Doubs, who barked in the distance. But this emotion was one of pleasure and not passion. As he entered his room, he only thought of one happiness, that of taking up again his favourite book. When one is twenty the idea of the world and the figure to be cut in it dominate everything. He soon, however, laid down the book. As the result of thinking of the victories of Napoleon, he had seen a new element in his own victory. "Yes," he said to himself, "I have won a battle. I must exploit it. I must crush the pride of that proud gentleman while he is in retreat. That would be real Napoleon. I must ask him for three days' holiday to go and see my friend Fouque. If he refuses me I will threaten to give him notice, but he will yield the point." Madame de Renal could not sleep a wink. It seemed as though, until this moment, she had never lived. She was unable to distract her thoughts from the happiness of feeling Julian cover her hand with his burning kisses. Suddenly the awful word adultery came into her mind. All the loathesomeness with which the vilest debauchery can invest sensual love presented itself to her imagination. These ideas essayed to pollute the divinely tender image which she was fashioning of Julien, and of the happiness of loving him. The future began to be painted in terrible colours. She began to regard herself as contemptible. That moment was awful. Her soul was arriving in unknown countries. During the evening she had tasted a novel happiness. Now she found herself suddenly plunged in an atrocious unhappiness. She had never had any idea of such sufferings; they troubled her reason. She thought for a moment of confessing to her husband that she was apprehensive of loving Julien. It would be an opportunity of speaking of him. Fortunately her memory threw up a maxim which her aunt had once given her on the eve of her marriage. The maxim dealt with the danger of making confidences to a husband, for a husband is after all a master. She wrung her hands in the excess of her grief. She was driven this way and that by clashing and painful ideas. At one moment she feared that she was not loved. The next the awful idea of crime tortured her, as much as if she had to be exposed in the pillory on the following day in the public square of Verrieres, with a placard to explain her adultery to the populace. Madame de Renal had no experience of life. Even in the full possession of her faculties, and when fully exercising her reason, she would never have appreciated any distinction between being guilty in the eyes of God, and finding herself publicly overwhelmed with the crudest marks of universal contempt. When the awful idea of adultery, and of all the disgrace which in her view that crime brought in its train, left her some rest, she began to dream of the sweetness of living innocently with Julien as in the days that had gone by. She found herself confronted with the horrible idea that Julien loved another woman. She still saw his pallor when he had feared to lose her portrait, or to compromise her by exposing it to view. For the first time she had caught fear on that tranquil and noble visage. He had never shewn such emotion to her or her children. This additional anguish reached the maximum of unhappiness which the human soul is capable of enduring. Unconsciously, Madame de Renal uttered cries which woke up her maid. Suddenly she saw the brightness of a light appear near her bed, and recognized Elisa. "Is it you he loves?" she exclaimed in her delirium. Fortunately, the maid was so astonished by the terrible trouble in which she found her mistress that she paid no attention to this singular expression. Madame de Renal appreciated her imprudence. "I have the fever," she said to her, "and I think I am a little delirious." Completely woken up by the necessity of controlling herself, she became less unhappy. Reason regained that supreme control which the semi-somnolent state had taken away. To free herself from her maid's continual stare, she ordered her maid to read the paper, and it was as she listened to the monotonous voice of this girl, reading a long article from the _Quotidienne_ that Madame de Renal made the virtuous resolution to treat Julien with absolute coldness when she saw him again. CHAPTER XII A JOURNEY Elegant people are to be found in Paris. People of character may exist in the provinces.--Sieyes At five o'clock the following day, before Madame de Renal was visible, Julien obtained a three days' holiday from her husband. Contrary to his expectation Julien found himself desirous of seeing her again. He kept thinking of that pretty hand of hers. He went down into the garden, but Madame de Renal kept him waiting for a long time. But if Julien had loved her, he would have seen her forehead glued to the pane behind the half-closed blinds on the first floor. She was looking at him. Finally, in spite of her resolutions, she decided to go into the garden. Her habitual pallor had been succeeded by more lively hues. This woman, simple as she was, was manifestly agitated; a sentiment of constraint, and even of anger, altered that expression of profound serenity which seemed, as it were, to be above all the vulgar interests of life and gave so much charm to that divine face. Julien approached her with eagerness, admiring those beautiful arms which were just visible through a hastily donned shawl. The freshness of the morning air seemed to accentuate still more the brilliance of her complexion which the agitation of the past night rendered all the more susceptible to all impressions. This demure and pathetic beauty, which was, at the same time, full of thoughts which are never found in the inferior classes, seemed to reveal to Julien a faculty in his own soul which he had never before realised. Engrossed in his admiration of the charms on which his his greedy gaze was riveted, Julien took for granted the friendly welcome which he was expecting to receive. He was all the more astonished at the icy coldness which she endeavoured to manifest to him, and through which he thought he could even distinguish the intention of putting him in his place. The smile of pleasure died away from his lips as he remembered his rank in society, especially from the point of view of a rich and noble heiress. In a single moment his face exhibited nothing but haughtiness and anger against himself. He felt violently disgusted that he could have put off his departure for more than an hour, simply to receive so humiliating a welcome. "It is only a fool," he said to himself, "who is angry with others; a stone falls because it is heavy. Am I going to be a child all my life? How on earth is it that I manage to contract the charming habit of showing my real self to those people simply in return for their money? If I want to win their respect and that of my own self, I must shew them that it is simply a business transaction between my poverty and their wealth, but that my heart is a thousand leagues away from their insolence, and is situated in too high a sphere to be affected by their petty marks of favour or disdain." While these feelings were crowding the soul of the young tutor, his mobile features assumed an expression of ferocity and injured pride. Madame de Renal was extremely troubled. The virtuous coldness that she had meant to put into her welcome was succeeded by an expression of interest--an interest animated by all the surprise brought about by the sudden change which she had just seen. The empty morning platitudes about their health and the fineness of the day suddenly dried up. Julien's judgment was disturbed by no passion, and he soon found a means of manifesting to Madame de Renal how light was the friendly relationship that he considered existed between them. He said nothing to her about the little journey that he was going to make; saluted her, and went away. As she watched him go, she was overwhelmed by the sombre haughtiness which she read in that look which had been so gracious the previous evening. Her eldest son ran up from the bottom of the garden, and said as he kissed her, "We have a holiday, M. Julien is going on a journey." At these words, Madame de Renal felt seized by a deadly coldness. She was unhappy by reason of her virtue, and even more unhappy by reason of her weakness. This new event engrossed her imagination, and she was transported far beyond the good resolutions which she owed to the awful night she had just passed. It was not now a question of resisting that charming lover, but of losing him for ever. It was necessary to appear at breakfast. To complete her anguish, M. de Renal and Madame Derville talked of nothing but Julien's departure. The mayor of Verrieres had noticed something unusual in the firm tone in which he had asked for a holiday. "That little peasant has no doubt got somebody else's offer up his sleeve, but that somebody else, even though it's M. Valenod, is bound to be a little discouraged by the sum of six hundred francs, which the annual salary now tots up to. He must have asked yesterday at Verrieres for a period of three days to think it over, and our little gentleman runs off to the mountains this morning so as not to be obliged to give me an answer. Think of having to reckon with a wretched workman who puts on airs, but that's what we've come to." "If my husband, who does not know how deeply he has wounded Julien, thinks that he will leave us, what can I think myself?" said Madame de Renal to herself. "Yes, that is all decided." In order to be able at any rate to be free to cry, and to avoid answering Madame Derville's questions, she pleaded an awful headache, and went to bed. "That's what women are," repeated M. de Renal, "there is always something out of order in those complicated machines," and he went off jeering. While Madame de Renal was a prey to all the poignancy of the terrible passion in which chance had involved her, Julien went merrily on his way, surrounded by the most beautiful views that mountain scenery can offer. He had to cross the great chain north of Vergy. The path which he followed rose gradually among the big beech woods, and ran into infinite spirals on the slope of the high mountain which forms the northern boundary of the Doubs valley. Soon the traveller's view, as he passed over the lower slopes bounding the course of the Doubs towards the south, extends as far as the fertile plains of Burgundy and Beaujolais. However insensible was the soul of this ambitious youth to this kind of beauty, he could not help stopping from time to time to look at a spectacle at once so vast and so impressive. Finally, he reached the summit of the great mountain, near which he had to pass in order to arrive by this cross-country route at the solitary valley where lived his friend Fouque, the young wood merchant. Julien was in no hurry to see him; either him, or any other human being. Hidden like a bird of prey amid the bare rocks which crowned the great mountain, he could see a long way off anyone coming near him. He discovered a little grotto in the middle of the almost vertical slope of one of the rocks. He found a way to it, and was soon ensconced in this retreat. "Here," he said, "with eyes brilliant with joy, men cannot hurt me." It occurred to him to indulge in the pleasure of writing down those thoughts of his which were so dangerous to him everywhere else. A square stone served him for a desk; his pen flew. He saw nothing of what was around him. He noticed at last that the sun was setting behind the distant mountains of Beaujolais. "Why shouldn't I pass the night here?" he said to himself. "I have bread, and I am free." He felt a spiritual exultation at the sound of that great word. The necessity of playing the hypocrite resulted in his not being free, even at Fouque's. Leaning his head on his two hands, Julien stayed in the grotto, more happy than he had ever been in his life, thrilled by his dreams, and by the bliss of his freedom. Without realising it, he saw all the rays of the twilight become successively extinguished. Surrounded by this immense obscurity, his soul wandered into the contemplation of what he imagined that he would one day meet in Paris. First it was a woman, much more beautiful and possessed of a much more refined temperament than anything he could have found in the provinces. He loved with passion, and was loved. If he separated from her for some instants, it was only to cover himself with glory, and to deserve to be loved still more. A young man brought up in the environment of the sad truths of Paris society, would, on reaching this point in his romance, even if we assume him possessed of Julien's imagination, have been brought back to himself by the cold irony of the situation. Great deeds would have disappeared from out his ken together with hope of achieving them and have been succeeded by the platitude. "If one leave one's mistress one runs alas! the risk of being deceived two or three times a day." But the young peasant saw nothing but the lack of opportunity between himself and the most heroic feats. But a deep night had succeeded the day, and there were still two leagues to walk before he could descend to the cabin in which Fouque lived. Before leaving the little cave, Julien made a light and carefully burnt all that he had written. He quite astonished his friend when he knocked at his door at one o'clock in the morning. He found Fouque engaged in making up his accounts. He was a young man of high stature, rather badly made, with big, hard features, a never-ending nose, and a large fund of good nature concealed beneath this repulsive appearance. "Have you quarelled with M. de Renal then that you turn up unexpectedly like this?" Julien told him, but in a suitable way, the events of the previous day. "Stay with me," said Fouque to him. "I see that you know M. de Renal, M. Valenod, the sub-prefect Maugron, the cure Chelan. You have understood the subtleties of the character of those people. So there you are then, quite qualified to attend auctions. You know arithmetic better than I do; you will keep my accounts; I make a lot in my business. The impossibility of doing everything myself, and the fear of taking a rascal for my partner prevents me daily from undertaking excellent business. It's scarcely a month since I put Michaud de Saint-Amand, whom I haven't seen for six years, and whom I ran across at the sale at Pontarlier in the way of making six thousand francs. Why shouldn't it have been you who made those six thousand francs, or at any rate three thousand. For if I had had you with me that day, I would have raised the bidding for that lot of timber and everybody else would soon have run away. Be my partner." This offer upset Julien. It spoilt the train of his mad dreams. Fouque showed his accounts to Julien during the whole of the supper--which the two friends prepared themselves like the Homeric heroes (for Fouque lived alone) and proved to him all the advantages offered by his timber business. Fouque had the highest opinion of the gifts and character of Julien. When, finally, the latter was alone in his little room of pinewood, he said to himself: "It is true I can make some thousands of francs here and then take up with advantage the profession of a soldier, or of a priest, according to the fashion then prevalent in France. The little hoard that I shall have amassed will remove all petty difficulties. In the solitude of this mountain I shall have dissipated to some extent my awful ignorance of so many of the things which make up the life of all those men of fashion. But Fouque has given up all thoughts of marriage, and at the same time keeps telling me that solitude makes him unhappy. It is clear that if he takes a partner who has no capital to put into his business, he does so in the hopes of getting a companion who will never leave him." "Shall I deceive my friend," exclaimed Julien petulantly. This being who found hypocrisy and complete callousness his ordinary means of self-preservation could not, on this occasion, endure the idea of the slightest lack of delicate feeling towards a man whom he loved. But suddenly Julien was happy. He had a reason for a refusal. What! Shall I be coward enough to waste seven or eight years. I shall get to twenty-eight in that way! But at that age Bonaparte had achieved his greatest feats. When I shall have made in obscurity a little money by frequenting timber sales, and earning the good graces of some rascally under-strappers who will guarantee that I shall still have the sacred fire with which one makes a name for oneself? The following morning, Julien with considerable sangfroid, said in answer to the good Fouque, who regarded the matter of the partnership as settled, that his vocation for the holy ministry of the altars would not permit him to accept it. Fouque did not return to the subject. "But just think," he repeated to him, "I'll make you my partner, or if you prefer it, I'll give you four thousand francs a year, and you want to return to that M. de Renal of yours, who despises you like the mud on his shoes. When you have got two hundred louis in front of you, what is to prevent you from entering the seminary? I'll go further: I will undertake to procure for you the best living in the district, for," added Fouque, lowering his voice, I supply firewood to M. le ----, M. le ----, M. ----. I provide them with first quality oak, but they only pay me for plain wood, but never was money better invested. Nothing could conquer Julien's vocation. Fouque finished by thinking him a little mad. The third day, in the early morning, Julien left his friend, and passed the day amongst the rocks of the great mountain. He found his little cave again, but he had no longer peace of mind. His friend's offers had robbed him of it. He found himself, not between vice and virtue, like Hercules, but between mediocrity coupled with an assured prosperity, and all the heroic dreams of his youth. "So I have not got real determination after all," he said to himself, and it was his doubt on this score which pained him the most. "I am not of the stuff of which great men are made, because I fear that eight years spent in earning a livelihood will deprive me of that sublime energy which inspires the accomplishment of extraordinary feats." CHAPTER XIII THE OPEN WORK STOCKINGS A novel: a mirror which one takes out on one's walk along the high road.--_Saint-Real_. When Julien perceived the picturesque ruins of the old church at Vergy, he noticed that he had not given a single thought to Madame de Renal since the day before yesterday. The other day, when I took my leave, that woman made me realise the infinite distance which separated us; she treated me like a labourer's son. No doubt she wished to signify her repentance for having allowed me to hold her hand the evening before. ... It is, however very pretty, is that hand. What a charm, what a nobility is there in that woman's expression! The possibility of making a fortune with Fouque gave a certain facility to Julien's logic. It was not spoilt quite so frequently by the irritation and the keen consciousness of his poverty and low estate in the eyes of the world. Placed as it were on a high promontory, he was able to exercise his judgment, and had a commanding view, so to speak, of both extreme poverty and that competence which he still called wealth. He was far from judging his position really philosophically, but he had enough penetration to feel different after this little journey into the mountain. He was struck with the extreme uneasiness with which Madame de Renal listened to the brief account which she had asked for of his journey. Fouque had had plans of marriage, and unhappy love affairs, and long confidences on this subject had formed the staple of the two friends' conversation. Having found happiness too soon, Fouque had realised that he was not the only one who was loved. All these accounts had astonished Julien. He had learnt many new things. His solitary life of imagination and suspicion had kept him remote from anything which could enlighten him. During his absence, life had been nothing for Madame de Renal but a series of tortures, which, though different, were all unbearable. She was really ill. "Now mind," said Madame Derville to her when she saw Julien arrive, "you don't go into the garden this evening in your weak state; the damp air will make your complaint twice as bad." Madame Derville was surprised to see that her friend, who was always scolded by M. de Renal by reason of the excessive simplicity of her dress, had just got some open-work stockings and some charming little shoes which had come from Paris. For three days Madame de Renal's only distraction had been to cut out a summer dress of a pretty little material which was very fashionable, and get it made with express speed by Elisa. This dress could scarcely have been finished a few moments before Julien's arrival, but Madame de Renal put it on immediately. Her friend had no longer any doubt. "She loves," unhappy woman, said Madame Derville to herself. She understood all the strange symptoms of the malady. She saw her speak to Julien. The most violent blush was succeeded by pallor. Anxiety was depicted in her eyes, which were riveted on those of the young tutor. Madame de Renal expected every minute that he would give an explanation of his conduct, and announce that he was either going to leave the house or stay there. Julien carefully avoided that subject, and did not even think of it. After terrible struggles, Madame de Renal eventually dared to say to him in a trembling voice that mirrored all her passion: "Are you going to leave your pupils to take another place?" Julien was struck by Madame de Renal's hesitating voice and look. "That woman loves me," he said to himself! "But after this temporary moment of weakness, for which her pride is no doubt reproaching her, and as soon as she has ceased fearing that I shall leave, she will be as haughty as ever." This view of their mutual position passed through Julien's mind as rapidly as a flash of lightning. He answered with some hesitation, "I shall be extremely distressed to leave children who are so nice and so well-born, but perhaps it will be necessary. One has duties to oneself as well." As he pronounced the expression, "well-born" (it was one of those aristocratic phrases which Julien had recently learnt), he became animated by a profound feeling of antipathy. "I am not well-born," he said to himself, "in that woman's eyes." As Madame de Renal listened to him, she admired his genius and his beauty, and the hinted possibility of his departure pierced her heart. All her friends at Verrieres who had come to dine at Vergy during Julien's absence had complimented her almost jealously on the astonishing man whom her husband had had the good fortune to unearth. It was not that they understood anything about the progress of children. The feat of knowing his Bible by heart, and what is more, of knowing it in Latin, had struck the inhabitants of Verrieres with an admiration which will last perhaps a century. Julien, who never spoke to anyone, was ignorant of all this. If Madame de Renal had possessed the slightest presence of mind, she would have complimented him on the reputation which he had won, and Julien's pride, once satisfied, he would have been sweet and amiable towards her, especially as he thought her new dress charming. Madame de Renal was also pleased with her pretty dress, and with what Julien had said to her about it, and wanted to walk round the garden. But she soon confessed that she was incapable of walking. She had taken the traveller's arm, and the contact of that arm, far from increasing her strength, deprived her of it completely. It was night. They had scarcely sat down before Julien, availing himself of his old privilege, dared to bring his lips near his pretty neighbour's arm, and to take her hand. He kept thinking of the boldness which Fouque had exhibited with his mistresses and not of Madame de Renal; the word "well-born" was still heavy on his heart. He felt his hand pressed, but experienced no pleasure. So far from his being proud, or even grateful for the sentiment that Madame de Renal was betraying that evening by only too evident signs, he was almost insensible to her beauty, her elegance, and her freshness. Purity of soul, and the absence of all hateful emotion, doubtless prolong the duration of youth. It is the face which ages first with the majority of women. Julien sulked all the evening. Up to the present he had only been angry with the social order, but from that time that Fouque had offered him an ignoble means of obtaining a competency, he was irritated with himself. Julien was so engrossed in his thoughts, that, although from time to time he said a few words to the ladies, he eventually let go Madame de Renal's hand without noticing it. This action overwhelmed the soul of the poor woman. She saw in it her whole fate. If she had been certain of Julien's affection, her virtue would possibly have found strength to resist him. But trembling lest she should lose him for ever, she was distracted by her passion to the point of taking again Julien's hand, which he had left in his absent-mindedness leaning on the back of the chair. This action woke up this ambitious youth; he would have liked to have had for witnesses all those proud nobles who had regarded him at meals, when he was at the bottom of the table with the children, with so condescending a smile. "That woman cannot despise me; in that case," he said to himself. "I ought to shew my appreciation of her beauty. I owe it to myself to be her lover." That idea would not have occurred to him before the naive confidences which his friend had made. The sudden resolution which he had just made formed an agreeable distraction. He kept saying to himself, "I must have one of those two women;" he realised that he would have very much preferred to have paid court to Madame Derville. It was not that she was more agreeable, but that she had always seen him as the tutor distinguished by his knowledge, and not as the journeyman carpenter with his cloth jacket folded under his arm as he had first appeared to Madame de Renal. It was precisely as a young workman, blushing up to the whites of his eyes, standing by the door of the house and not daring to ring, that he made the most alluring appeal to Madame de Renal's imagination. As he went on reviewing his position, Julien saw that the conquest of Madame Derville, who had probably noticed the taste which Madame de Renal was manifesting for him, was out of the question. He was thus brought back to the latter lady. "What do I know of the character of that woman?" said Julien to himself. "Only this: before my journey, I used to take her hand, and she used to take it away. To-day, I take my hand away, and she seizes and presses it. A fine opportunity to pay her back all the contempt she had had for me. God knows how many lovers she has had, probably she is only deciding in my favour by reason of the easiness of assignations." Such, alas, is the misfortune of an excessive civilisation. The soul of a young man of twenty, possessed of any education, is a thousand leagues away from that _abandon_ without which love is frequently but the most tedious of duties. "I owe it all the more to myself," went on the petty vanity of Julien, "to succeed with that woman, by reason of the fact that if I ever make a fortune, and I am reproached by anyone with my menial position as a tutor, I shall then be able to give out that it was love which got me the post." Julien again took his hand away from Madame de Renal, and then took her hand again and pressed it. As they went back to the drawing-room about midnight, Madame de Renal said to him in a whisper. "You are leaving us, you are going?" Julien answered with a sigh. "I absolutely must leave, for I love you passionately. It is wrong ... how wrong indeed for a young priest?" Madame de Renal leant upon his arm, and with so much abandon that her cheek felt the warmth of Julien's. The nights of these two persons were quite different. Madame de Renal was exalted by the ecstacies of the highest moral pleasure. A coquettish young girl, who loves early in life, gets habituated to the trouble of love, and when she reaches the age of real passion, finds the charm of novelty lacking. As Madame de Renal had never read any novels, all the refinements of her happiness were new to her. No mournful truth came to chill her, not even the spectre of the future. She imagined herself as happy in ten years' time as she was at the present moment. Even the idea of virtue and of her sworn fidelity to M. de Renal, which had agitated her some days past, now presented itself in vain, and was sent about its business like an importunate visitor. "I will never grant anything to Julien," said Madame de Renal; "we will live in the future like we have been living for the last month. He shall be a friend." CHAPTER XIV THE ENGLISH SCISSORS A young girl of sixteen had a pink complexion, and yet used red rouge.--_Polidori_. Fouque's offer had, as a matter of fact, taken away all Julien's happiness; he could not make up his mind to any definite course. "Alas! perhaps I am lacking in character. I should have been a bad soldier of Napoleon. At least," he added, "my little intrigue with the mistress of the house will distract me a little." Happily for him, even in this little subordinate incident, his inner emotions quite failed to correspond with his flippant words. He was frightened of Madame de Renal because of her pretty dress. In his eyes, that dress was a vanguard of Paris. His pride refused to leave anything to chance and the inspiration of the moment. He made himself a very minute plan of campaign, moulded on the confidences of Fouque, and a little that he had read about love in the Bible. As he was very nervous, though he did not admit it to himself, he wrote down this plan. Madame de Renal was alone with him for a moment in the drawing-room on the following morning. "Have you no other name except Julien," she said. Our hero was at a loss to answer so nattering a question. This circumstance had not been anticipated in his plan. If he had not been stupid enough to have made a plan, Julien's quick wit would have served him well, and the surprise would only have intensified the quickness of his perception. He was clumsy, and exaggerated his clumsiness, Madame de Renal quickly forgave him. She attributed it to a charming frankness. And an air of frankness was the very thing which in her view was just lacking in this man who was acknowledged to have so much genius. "That little tutor of yours inspires me with a great deal of suspicion," said Madame Derville to her sometimes. "I think he looks as if he were always thinking, and he never acts without calculation. He is a sly fox." Julien remained profoundly humiliated by the misfortune of not having known what answer to make to Madame de Renal. "A man like I am ought to make up for this check!" and seizing the moment when they were passing from one room to another, he thought it was his duty to give Madame de Renal a kiss. Nothing could have been less tactful, nothing less agreeable, and nothing more imprudent both for him and for her. They were within an inch of being noticed. Madame de Renal thought him mad. She was frightened, and above all, shocked. This stupidity reminded her of M. Valenod. "What would happen to me," she said to herself, "if I were alone with him?" All her virtue returned, because her love was waning. She so arranged it that one of her children always remained with her. Julien found the day very tedious, and passed it entirely in clumsily putting into operation his plan of seduction. He did not look at Madame de Renal on a single occasion without that look having a reason, but nevertheless he was not sufficiently stupid to fail to see that he was not succeeding at all in being amiable, and was succeeding even less in being fascinating. Madame de Renal did not recover from her astonishment at finding him so awkward and at the same time so bold. "It is the timidity of love in men of intellect," she said to herself with an inexpressible joy. "Could it be possible that he had never been loved by my rival?" After breakfast Madame de Renal went back to the drawing-room to receive the visit of M. Charcot de Maugiron, the sub-prefect of Bray. She was working at a little frame of fancy-work some distance from the ground. Madame Derville was at her side; that was how she was placed when our hero thought it suitable to advance his boot in the full light and press the pretty foot of Madame de Renal, whose open-work stockings, and pretty Paris shoe were evidently attracting the looks of the gallant sub-prefect. Madame de Renal was very much afraid, and let fall her scissors, her ball of wool and her needles, so that Julien's movement could be passed for a clumsy effort, intended to prevent the fall of the scissors, which presumably he had seen slide. Fortunately, these little scissors of English steel were broken, and Madame de Renal did not spare her regrets that Julien had not succeeded in getting nearer to her. "You noticed them falling before I did--you could have prevented it, instead, all your zealousness only succeeding in giving me a very big kick." All this took in the sub-perfect, but not Madame Derville. "That pretty boy has very silly manners," she thought. The social code of a provincial capital never forgives this kind of lapse. Madame de Renal found an opportunity of saying to Julien, "Be prudent, I order you." Julien appreciated his own clumsiness. He was upset. He deliberated with himself for a long time, in order to ascertain whether or not he ought to be angry at the expression "I order you." He was silly enough to think she might have said "I order you," if it were some question concerning the children's education, but in answering my love she puts me on an equality. It is impossible to love without equality ... and all his mind ran riot in making common-places on equality. He angrily repeated to himself that verse of Corneille which Madame Derville had taught him some days before. "L'amour les egalites, et ne les cherche pas." Julien who had never had a mistress in his whole life, but yet insisted on playing the role of a Don Juan, made a shocking fool of himself all day. He had only one sensible idea. Bored with himself and Madame de Renal, he viewed with apprehension the advance of the evening when he would have to sit by her side in the darkness of the garden. He told M. de Renal that he was going to Verrieres to see the cure. He left after dinner, and only came back in the night. At Verrieres Julien found M. Chelan occupied in moving. He had just been deprived of his living; the curate Maslon was replacing him. Julien helped the good cure, and it occurred to him to write to Fouque that the irresistible mission which he felt for the holy ministry had previously prevented him from accepting his kind offer, but that he had just seen an instance of injustice, and that perhaps it would be safer not to enter into Holy Orders. Julien congratulated himself on his subtlety in exploiting the dismissal of the cure of Verrieres so as to leave himself a loop-hole for returning to commerce in the event of a gloomy prudence routing the spirit of heroism from his mind. CHAPTER XV THE COCK'S SONG Amour en latin faict amour; Or done provient d'amour la mart, Et, par avant, souley qui moreq, Deuil, plours, pieges, forfailz, remord. BLASON D'AMOUR. If Julien had possessed a little of that adroitness on which he so gratuitously plumed himself, he could have congratulated himself the following day on the effect produced by his journey to Verrieres. His absence had caused his clumsiness to be forgotten. But on that day also he was rather sulky. He had a ludicrous idea in the evening, and with singular courage he communicated it to Madame de Renal. They had scarcely sat down in the garden before Julien brought his mouth near Madame de Renal's ear without waiting till it was sufficiently dark and at the risk of compromising her terribly, said to her, "Madame, to-night, at two o'clock, I shall go into your room, I must tell you something." Julien trembled lest his request should be granted. His rakish pose weighed him down so terribly that if he could have followed his own inclination he would have returned to his room for several days and refrained from seeing the ladies any more. He realised that he had spoiled by his clever conduct of last evening all the bright prospects of the day that had just passed, and was at his wits' end what to do. Madame de Renal answered the impertinent declaration which Julien had dared to make to her with indignation which was real and in no way exaggerated. He thought he could see contempt in her curt reply. The expression "for shame," had certainly occurred in that whispered answer. Julien went to the children's room under the pretext of having something to say to them, and on his return he placed himself beside Madame Derville and very far from Madame de Renal. He thus deprived himself of all possibility of taking her hand. The conversation was serious, and Julien acquitted himself very well, apart from a few moments of silence during which he was cudgelling his brains. "Why can't I invent some pretty manoeuvre," he said to himself which will force Madame de Renal to vouchsafe to me those unambiguous signs of tenderness which a few days ago made me think that she was mine. Julien was extremely disconcerted by the almost desperate plight to which he had brought his affairs. Nothing, however, would have embarrassed him more than success. When they separated at midnight, his pessimism made him think that he enjoyed Madame Derville's contempt, and that probably he stood no better with Madame de Renal. Feeling in a very bad temper and very humiliated, Julien did not sleep. He was leagues away from the idea of giving up all intriguing and planning, and of living from day to day with Madame de Renal, and of being contented like a child with the happiness brought by every day. He racked his brains inventing clever manoeuvres, which an instant afterwards he found absurd, and, to put it shortly, was very unhappy when two o'clock rang from the castle clock. The noise woke him up like the cock's crow woke up St. Peter. The most painful episode was now timed to begin--he had not given a thought to his impertinent proposition, since the moment when he had made it and it had been so badly received. "I have told her that I will go to her at two o'clock," he said to himself as he got up, "I may be inexperienced and coarse, as the son of a peasant naturally would be. Madame Derville has given me to understand as much, but at any rate, I will not be weak." Julien had reason to congratulate himself on his courage, for he had never put his self-control to so painful a test. As he opened his door, he was trembling to such an extent that his knees gave way under him, and he was forced to lean against the wall. He was without shoes; he went and listened at M. de Renal's door, and could hear his snoring. He was disconsolate, he had no longer any excuse for not going to her room. But, Great Heaven! What was he to do there? He had no plan, and even if he had had one, he felt himself so nervous that he would have been incapable of carrying it out. Eventually, suffering a thousand times more than if he had been walking to his death, he entered the little corridor that led to Madame de Renal's room. He opened the door with a trembling hand and made a frightful noise. There was light; a night light was burning on the mantelpiece. He had not expected this new misfortune. As she saw him enter, Madame de Renal got quickly out of bed. "Wretch," she cried. There was a little confusion. Julien forgot his useless plans, and turned to his natural role. To fail to please so charming a woman appeared to him the greatest of misfortunes. His only answer to her reproaches was to throw himself at her feet while he kissed her knees. As she was speaking to him with extreme harshness, he burst into tears. When Julien came out of Madame de Renal's room some hours afterwards, one could have said, adopting the conventional language of the novel, that there was nothing left to be desired. In fact, he owed to the love he had inspired, and to the unexpected impression which her alluring charms had produced upon him, a victory to which his own clumsy tactics would never have led him. But victim that he was of a distorted pride, he pretended even in the sweetest moments to play the role of a man accustomed to the subjugation of women: he made incredible but deliberate efforts to spoil his natural charm. Instead of watching the transports which he was bringing into existence, and those pangs of remorse which only set their keenness into fuller relief, the idea of duty was continually before his eyes. He feared a frightful remorse, and eternal ridicule, if he departed from the ideal model he proposed to follow. In a word, the very quality which made Julien into a superior being was precisely that which prevented him from savouring the happiness which was placed within his grasp. It's like the case of a young girl of sixteen with a charming complexion who is mad enough to put on rouge before going to a ball. Mortally terrified by the apparition of Julien, Madame de Renal was soon a prey to the most cruel alarm. The prayers and despair of Julien troubled her keenly. Even when there was nothing left for her to refuse him she pushed Julien away from her with a genuine indignation, and straightway threw herself into his arms. There was no plan apparent in all this conduct. She thought herself eternally damned, and tried to hide from herself the sight of hell by loading Julien with the wildest caresses. In a word, nothing would have been lacking in our hero's happiness, not even an ardent sensibility in the woman whom he had just captured, if he had only known how to enjoy it. Julien's departure did not in any way bring to an end those ecstacies which thrilled her in spite of herself, and those troubles of remorse which lacerated her. "My God! being happy--being loved, is that all it comes to?" This was Julien's first thought as he entered his room. He was a prey to the astonishment and nervous anxiety of the man who has just obtained what he has long desired. He has been accustomed to desire, and has no longer anything to desire, and nevertheless has no memories. Like a soldier coming back from parade. Julien was absorbed in rehearsing the details of his conduct. "Have I failed in nothing which I owe to myself? Have I played my part well?" And what a part! the part of a man accustomed to be brilliant with women.

Chapters 9-15

https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapters-915

Julien plans his campaign and, after much anguish, takes Mme. de Renal's hand the next evening. Although she at first withdraws, he insists, and ultimately, she offers it freely. Renal offends Julien by accusing him of neglecting the children, but Julien's sullen mood is suddenly changed by the imminence of a catastrophe: Renal might find his hidden picture of Napoleon as the mayor and the servants change the mattress stuffing. Mme. de Renal rescues it for Julien, unaware of whose picture the box contains. Renal, on the other hand, misinterprets Julien's pride for the cunning of the peasant demanding more wages. When he grants Julien a raise, the latter is abashed and scorns the mayor even more for measuring everything in monetary terms. Julien gives expanse to the joy of victory in the solitude of the mountains as he goes to visit Chelan. The next night, Julien dares to show his scorn of Renal by taking Mme. de Renal's hand in his very presence, albeit under the cover of dark, and he covers it with passionate kisses. Julien contemplates his campaign against this contemptible bourgeois; Mme. de Renal is torn between her jealousy and anguish at the first pangs of guilt, imagining herself to be a fallen woman. Her agitation is so great that she almost betrays her passion by asking Elisa abruptly if it is she, Elisa, whom Julien loves. Mme. de Renal resolves to treat Julien coldly. Julien takes offense and does not confide to her his plans to leave for a three-day trip. He stops off again in the mountains to enjoy his freedom in solitude. During their visit, Fouque offers Julien a partnership that would assure the latter of financial success. After deliberation, Julien rejects the offer since the success he envisages must be gained through hardship and accomplished by means of the Church. His friendship itself is instrumental in his rejection of the offer. He would not choose to betray Fouque later, once his education had been financed. Fouque confides to Julien the tales of his amorous conquests. Upon his return, Julien discovers that Mme. de Renal is in love with him, and he decides that his duty requires that he make her his mistress. He announces that he must leave since he loves her desperately. This avowal sends her into ecstasy, but she innocently assures herself that their relationship will be a platonic one. Julien awkwardly begins his seduction. His absence, caused by another trip to Verrieres, where he witnesses the disgrace into which Chelan has fallen, causes his awkward attempts of the previous day to be forgotten. He announces quite abruptly to Mme. de Renal that he will visit her room at two o'clock in the morning. The declaration is met with an indignant reprimand. He forces himself to carry out this, the most daring of his exploits, and it succeeds only because he forgets his plan and throws himself at Mme. de Renal's feet. He is unable to enjoy the experience, however, since he is so occupied seeing himself in the role of lover. Returning to his room, Julien's only thought is whether he played his role well.

In spite of the obvious earnestness of the characters, the reader cannot help but be amused at the "comedy of errors and cross purposes" that is played out in these chapters, having its climax in Chapter 15 with the seduction of Mme. de Renal. This triumph is not due to Julien's art but rather to his charm, which erupts in unguarded moments; to Mme. de Renal's love for him, which by this time has become passion; and to the unknowing collaboration of the mayor. Stendhal manipulates the episodes in such a way that each of the three characters acts independently of the others, yet almost by chance they contribute by their convergence to the fortuitous victory of Julien. This unwitting conspiracy is apparent upon analysis. Julien's ambition to seduce Mme. de Renal does not result from love for her but from his sense of duty toward himself. He owes it to himself to take her hand, but he has forgotten the incident the next morning. To motivate this "de-motivated" campaign, Stendhal then utilizes the mayor, whose reproach to Julien for his idleness provokes the latter to avenge his wounded pride by demanding an apology. To the amazement of Julien, the mayor grants him a raise. Julien realizes, however, that this second victory has not been earned, but the elation of the victories must be expressed in the solitude of the mountains. Julien's next step is again motivated by his scorn for the mayor. What an expression of ridicule to take Mme. de Renal's hand in the presence of her husband! That evening, Julien relaxes enough to actually enjoy the unknown pleasure that her beauty causes him. Planning his strategy according to Napoleon, he will further crush the mayor by requesting a three-day leave. Already, in spite of himself, however, a feeling for Mme. de Renal is autonomously manifesting itself. Stendhal comments that Julien longed to see her again, in spite of his expectations. The mutual coldness of their interview summarizes their dilemma: It moves them apart in order, ultimately, to unite them. The numerous absences of Julien ripen Mme. de Renal for the ultimate conquest, although Julien does not absent himself for that specific purpose. The tranquility enjoyed by Julien during his second retreat to the mountains is disturbed by Fouque's offer. Even this obstacle advances Julien's cause, unbeknownst to him: It frees his mind to think of her. Fouque's amorous affairs teach Julien something about women. Upon his return, therefore, he comes "naturally" to the realization that Mme. de Renal loves him. This proves to be the greatest step in his progression since when she herself initiates the hand-clasp ritual, Julien "ups the ante" in his self-imposition of obstacle pattern, deciding that it is his duty to seduce her, to make her his mistress. This decision, then, is made in all lucidity. With no love yet prompting him, only his ambition and pride, Julien announces hypocritically that he loves her passionately. As he executes his plan, he falls from blunder into blunder, and his attempts at paying court are climaxed by his brutal announcement of the early morning visit he will pay. Had Mme. de Renal not been moved by Julien's tears of confusion and had her love not progressed to its paroxysm, she would never have given herself. Julien's conquest of Mme. de Renal and his love for her at this point take the form of a military assault on society. Mme. de Renal, on the other hand, already painfully knows the bliss of love. She allies herself unknowingly more and more closely with Julien against her husband. The sweet complicity into which she enters with Julien has a twofold importance: It is a sign of a greater degree of involvement with Julien and a means to the realization of a further step in the crystallization of her love because it contains the seeds of jealousy which will torment her. At first her conflict is between the fear of not being loved and the shame of becoming an adulteress. Then when she permits herself to enjoy the thought of happiness with Julien, she is tormented by jealousy, by the fear that he loves another. Soon fear of Julien's departure overcomes any thought she has of resisting him. His hypocritical confession of love for her sends her into a blissful state, although she continues to delude herself as to the future of their relationship, which she can only see as platonic. The final blunder that precipitates the seduction again reproduces in miniature their entire experience. He clumsily tries to make contact with her foot; she reproaches him, ordering him to be careful; he is offended by the tone and leaves for a day, an absence that prepares her to accept him. In the two studies of love that the novel presents, with Mme. de Renal, and in Part II, with Mathilde, Stendhal is not only contrasting two types of love -- passionate and intellectual -- but is focusing different stages of the love experience, and the two are presented in a complementary way. Julien and Mme. de Renal are united through blunder and by accident, and separation brings about the union. Julien and Mathilde will both calculate, and Julien will succeed in keeping her love alive only through imposing separation and distance.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/chapters_9_to_15.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_2_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapters 9-15

chapters 9-15

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section3/", "summary": "The next few chapters establish the rhythm of life on Bathsheba Everdene's farm and introduce a new plot line into the novel, Bathsheba's relationship with Mr. Boldwood. The day after Gabriel's arrival, the dignified bachelor Mr. Boldwood knocks on Bathsheba's door as she and her servant Liddy Smallbury are cleaning. Boldwood comes to ask if there is any news of Fanny Robin, whom he had helped when she was younger. From Liddy's gossip we learn that Boldwood is a confirmed bachelor whom many of the local women have tried unsuccessfully to woo. Bathsheba calls a meeting of the farm workers to announce that she has dismissed the Pennyways for thieving and that she will take on the bailiff's responsibilities herself. She also asks for news of Fanny Robin, who is still missing. Chapter 10 describes the meeting and consists primarily of a roll call, in which the various farm laborers identify themselves and their trades to both Bathsheba and the reader. Chapter 11 reveals what has happened to Fanny Robin; here we see her arrive at the barracks of Sergeant Troy, many miles north of Weatherbury. The narrator describes the scene from a distance; we see Fanny as \"a spot\" almost lost in the snow. She throws snowballs at a window to get the sergeant's attention, and they have a brief conversation in which she reminds him that he has promised to marry her. He responds callously but agrees to uphold his promise. When he shuts his window, the other soldiers are laughing. In the next chapter, it is market-day, and Bathsheba tries out her new role of farmer. The only woman in the group, she nonetheless comports herself well. The only man oblivious to her beauty is Mr. Boldwood, who does not look at her once, as Liddy remarks on the way home. When Bathsheba and Liddy are at home on Sunday, Bathsheba is about to send a valentine to a young boy when Liddy suggests that she send it to Boldwood instead. On a whim, Bathsheba agrees, setting in motion one of the novel's tragedies. The valentine contains a meaningless ditty, \"Roses are red, Violets are blue...\" but Bathsheba impulsively stamps it with a seal that reads, \"Marry Me.\" The narrator reflects that Bathsheba knows nothing of love. Unfortunately, the letter has a profound effect on Boldwood. It is the one ornate object in a puritanically plain home, and he places it on the mantlepiece, disturbed and excited. Then he receives a second letter; in his excitement he opens it hurriedly, only then noticing that it is addressed to Gabriel. He delivers it to Gabriel the next morning and Gabriel shares its contents with Boldwood: It is a letter from Fanny identifying herself as the girl Gabriel met in the forest and returning the shilling he had given her. The letter also announces her engagement to Sergeant Troy. As he leaves, Boldwood asks Gabriel to identify the handwriting on the valentine, and he tells Boldwood that it is Bathsheba's.", "analysis": "Commentary The most important event in this section is the sending of the valentine and the unintentional effect it has on Boldwood. This one act will haunt both Bathsheba and Boldwood until the end of the novel. Hardy uses this set of circumstances to analyze one of his favorite concerns: how a person's life is determined by minor, seemingly insignificant events. Sometimes these events are questions of luck or forces beyond human control. Here, however, Hardy examines human agency: Bathsheba sends the valentine in jest, without thinking, but her act results in extraordinary consequences. Another theme throughout this section is the imbalances of affection in human relations; this imbalance characterizes the relationship between Gabriel and Bathsheba, as well as that between Sergeant Troy and Fanny Price, and Liddy tells us that Boldwood has been unaware of several local women's efforts to win his affections. While this asymmetry is a natural part of relationships, its consequences can be dire."}

THE HOMESTEAD--A VISITOR--HALF-CONFIDENCES By daylight, the bower of Oak's new-found mistress, Bathsheba Everdene, presented itself as a hoary building, of the early stage of Classic Renaissance as regards its architecture, and of a proportion which told at a glance that, as is so frequently the case, it had once been the memorial hall upon a small estate around it, now altogether effaced as a distinct property, and merged in the vast tract of a non-resident landlord, which comprised several such modest demesnes. Fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone, decorated its front, and above the roof the chimneys were panelled or columnar, some coped gables with finials and like features still retaining traces of their Gothic extraction. Soft brown mosses, like faded velveteen, formed cushions upon the stone tiling, and tufts of the houseleek or sengreen sprouted from the eaves of the low surrounding buildings. A gravel walk leading from the door to the road in front was encrusted at the sides with more moss--here it was a silver-green variety, the nut-brown of the gravel being visible to the width of only a foot or two in the centre. This circumstance, and the generally sleepy air of the whole prospect here, together with the animated and contrasting state of the reverse facade, suggested to the imagination that on the adaptation of the building for farming purposes the vital principle of the house had turned round inside its body to face the other way. Reversals of this kind, strange deformities, tremendous paralyses, are often seen to be inflicted by trade upon edifices--either individual or in the aggregate as streets and towns--which were originally planned for pleasure alone. Lively voices were heard this morning in the upper rooms, the main staircase to which was of hard oak, the balusters, heavy as bed-posts, being turned and moulded in the quaint fashion of their century, the handrail as stout as a parapet-top, and the stairs themselves continually twisting round like a person trying to look over his shoulder. Going up, the floors above were found to have a very irregular surface, rising to ridges, sinking into valleys; and being just then uncarpeted, the face of the boards was seen to be eaten into innumerable vermiculations. Every window replied by a clang to the opening and shutting of every door, a tremble followed every bustling movement, and a creak accompanied a walker about the house, like a spirit, wherever he went. In the room from which the conversation proceeded Bathsheba and her servant-companion, Liddy Smallbury, were to be discovered sitting upon the floor, and sorting a complication of papers, books, bottles, and rubbish spread out thereon--remnants from the household stores of the late occupier. Liddy, the maltster's great-granddaughter, was about Bathsheba's equal in age, and her face was a prominent advertisement of the light-hearted English country girl. The beauty her features might have lacked in form was amply made up for by perfection of hue, which at this winter-time was the softened ruddiness on a surface of high rotundity that we meet with in a Terburg or a Gerard Douw; and, like the presentations of those great colourists, it was a face which kept well back from the boundary between comeliness and the ideal. Though elastic in nature she was less daring than Bathsheba, and occasionally showed some earnestness, which consisted half of genuine feeling, and half of mannerliness superadded by way of duty. Through a partly-opened door the noise of a scrubbing-brush led up to the charwoman, Maryann Money, a person who for a face had a circular disc, furrowed less by age than by long gazes of perplexity at distant objects. To think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak of her was to raise the image of a dried Normandy pippin. "Stop your scrubbing a moment," said Bathsheba through the door to her. "I hear something." Maryann suspended the brush. The tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the front of the building. The paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and, what was most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door. The door was tapped with the end of a crop or stick. "What impertinence!" said Liddy, in a low voice. "To ride up the footpath like that! Why didn't he stop at the gate? Lord! 'Tis a gentleman! I see the top of his hat." "Be quiet!" said Bathsheba. The further expression of Liddy's concern was continued by aspect instead of narrative. "Why doesn't Mrs. Coggan go to the door?" Bathsheba continued. Rat-tat-tat-tat resounded more decisively from Bathsheba's oak. "Maryann, you go!" said she, fluttering under the onset of a crowd of romantic possibilities. "Oh ma'am--see, here's a mess!" The argument was unanswerable after a glance at Maryann. "Liddy--you must," said Bathsheba. Liddy held up her hands and arms, coated with dust from the rubbish they were sorting, and looked imploringly at her mistress. "There--Mrs. Coggan is going!" said Bathsheba, exhaling her relief in the form of a long breath which had lain in her bosom a minute or more. The door opened, and a deep voice said-- "Is Miss Everdene at home?" "I'll see, sir," said Mrs. Coggan, and in a minute appeared in the room. "Dear, what a thirtover place this world is!" continued Mrs. Coggan (a wholesome-looking lady who had a voice for each class of remark according to the emotion involved; who could toss a pancake or twirl a mop with the accuracy of pure mathematics, and who at this moment showed hands shaggy with fragments of dough and arms encrusted with flour). "I am never up to my elbows, Miss, in making a pudding but one of two things do happen--either my nose must needs begin tickling, and I can't live without scratching it, or somebody knocks at the door. Here's Mr. Boldwood wanting to see you, Miss Everdene." A woman's dress being a part of her countenance, and any disorder in the one being of the same nature with a malformation or wound in the other, Bathsheba said at once-- "I can't see him in this state. Whatever shall I do?" Not-at-homes were hardly naturalized in Weatherbury farmhouses, so Liddy suggested--"Say you're a fright with dust, and can't come down." "Yes--that sounds very well," said Mrs. Coggan, critically. "Say I can't see him--that will do." Mrs. Coggan went downstairs, and returned the answer as requested, adding, however, on her own responsibility, "Miss is dusting bottles, sir, and is quite a object--that's why 'tis." "Oh, very well," said the deep voice indifferently. "All I wanted to ask was, if anything had been heard of Fanny Robin?" "Nothing, sir--but we may know to-night. William Smallbury is gone to Casterbridge, where her young man lives, as is supposed, and the other men be inquiring about everywhere." The horse's tramp then recommenced and retreated, and the door closed. "Who is Mr. Boldwood?" said Bathsheba. "A gentleman-farmer at Little Weatherbury." "Married?" "No, miss." "How old is he?" "Forty, I should say--very handsome--rather stern-looking--and rich." "What a bother this dusting is! I am always in some unfortunate plight or other," Bathsheba said, complainingly. "Why should he inquire about Fanny?" "Oh, because, as she had no friends in her childhood, he took her and put her to school, and got her her place here under your uncle. He's a very kind man that way, but Lord--there!" "What?" "Never was such a hopeless man for a woman! He's been courted by sixes and sevens--all the girls, gentle and simple, for miles round, have tried him. Jane Perkins worked at him for two months like a slave, and the two Miss Taylors spent a year upon him, and he cost Farmer Ives's daughter nights of tears and twenty pounds' worth of new clothes; but Lord--the money might as well have been thrown out of the window." A little boy came up at this moment and looked in upon them. This child was one of the Coggans, who, with the Smallburys, were as common among the families of this district as the Avons and Derwents among our rivers. He always had a loosened tooth or a cut finger to show to particular friends, which he did with an air of being thereby elevated above the common herd of afflictionless humanity--to which exhibition people were expected to say "Poor child!" with a dash of congratulation as well as pity. "I've got a pen-nee!" said Master Coggan in a scanning measure. "Well--who gave it you, Teddy?" said Liddy. "Mis-terr Bold-wood! He gave it to me for opening the gate." "What did he say?" "He said, 'Where are you going, my little man?' and I said, 'To Miss Everdene's please,' and he said, 'She is a staid woman, isn't she, my little man?' and I said, 'Yes.'" "You naughty child! What did you say that for?" "'Cause he gave me the penny!" "What a pucker everything is in!" said Bathsheba, discontentedly when the child had gone. "Get away, Maryann, or go on with your scrubbing, or do something! You ought to be married by this time, and not here troubling me!" "Ay, mistress--so I did. But what between the poor men I won't have, and the rich men who won't have me, I stand as a pelican in the wilderness!" "Did anybody ever want to marry you miss?" Liddy ventured to ask when they were again alone. "Lots of 'em, I daresay?" Bathsheba paused, as if about to refuse a reply, but the temptation to say yes, since it was really in her power was irresistible by aspiring virginity, in spite of her spleen at having been published as old. "A man wanted to once," she said, in a highly experienced tone, and the image of Gabriel Oak, as the farmer, rose before her. "How nice it must seem!" said Liddy, with the fixed features of mental realization. "And you wouldn't have him?" "He wasn't quite good enough for me." "How sweet to be able to disdain, when most of us are glad to say, 'Thank you!' I seem I hear it. 'No, sir--I'm your better.' or 'Kiss my foot, sir; my face is for mouths of consequence.' And did you love him, miss?" "Oh, no. But I rather liked him." "Do you now?" "Of course not--what footsteps are those I hear?" Liddy looked from a back window into the courtyard behind, which was now getting low-toned and dim with the earliest films of night. A crooked file of men was approaching the back door. The whole string of trailing individuals advanced in the completest balance of intention, like the remarkable creatures known as Chain Salpae, which, distinctly organized in other respects, have one will common to a whole family. Some were, as usual, in snow-white smock-frocks of Russia duck, and some in whitey-brown ones of drabbet--marked on the wrists, breasts, backs, and sleeves with honeycomb-work. Two or three women in pattens brought up the rear. "The Philistines be upon us," said Liddy, making her nose white against the glass. "Oh, very well. Maryann, go down and keep them in the kitchen till I am dressed, and then show them in to me in the hall." MISTRESS AND MEN Half-an-hour later Bathsheba, in finished dress, and followed by Liddy, entered the upper end of the old hall to find that her men had all deposited themselves on a long form and a settle at the lower extremity. She sat down at a table and opened the time-book, pen in her hand, with a canvas money-bag beside her. From this she poured a small heap of coin. Liddy chose a position at her elbow and began to sew, sometimes pausing and looking round, or, with the air of a privileged person, taking up one of the half-sovereigns lying before her and surveying it merely as a work of art, while strictly preventing her countenance from expressing any wish to possess it as money. "Now before I begin, men," said Bathsheba, "I have two matters to speak of. The first is that the bailiff is dismissed for thieving, and that I have formed a resolution to have no bailiff at all, but to manage everything with my own head and hands." The men breathed an audible breath of amazement. "The next matter is, have you heard anything of Fanny?" "Nothing, ma'am." "Have you done anything?" "I met Farmer Boldwood," said Jacob Smallbury, "and I went with him and two of his men, and dragged Newmill Pond, but we found nothing." "And the new shepherd have been to Buck's Head, by Yalbury, thinking she had gone there, but nobody had seed her," said Laban Tall. "Hasn't William Smallbury been to Casterbridge?" "Yes, ma'am, but he's not yet come home. He promised to be back by six." "It wants a quarter to six at present," said Bathsheba, looking at her watch. "I daresay he'll be in directly. Well, now then"--she looked into the book--"Joseph Poorgrass, are you there?" "Yes, sir--ma'am I mane," said the person addressed. "I be the personal name of Poorgrass." "And what are you?" "Nothing in my own eye. In the eye of other people--well, I don't say it; though public thought will out." "What do you do on the farm?" "I do do carting things all the year, and in seed time I shoots the rooks and sparrows, and helps at pig-killing, sir." "How much to you?" "Please nine and ninepence and a good halfpenny where 'twas a bad one, sir--ma'am I mane." "Quite correct. Now here are ten shillings in addition as a small present, as I am a new comer." Bathsheba blushed slightly at the sense of being generous in public, and Henery Fray, who had drawn up towards her chair, lifted his eyebrows and fingers to express amazement on a small scale. "How much do I owe you--that man in the corner--what's your name?" continued Bathsheba. "Matthew Moon, ma'am," said a singular framework of clothes with nothing of any consequence inside them, which advanced with the toes in no definite direction forwards, but turned in or out as they chanced to swing. "Matthew Mark, did you say?--speak out--I shall not hurt you," inquired the young farmer, kindly. "Matthew Moon, mem," said Henery Fray, correctingly, from behind her chair, to which point he had edged himself. "Matthew Moon," murmured Bathsheba, turning her bright eyes to the book. "Ten and twopence halfpenny is the sum put down to you, I see?" "Yes, mis'ess," said Matthew, as the rustle of wind among dead leaves. "Here it is, and ten shillings. Now the next--Andrew Randle, you are a new man, I hear. How come you to leave your last farm?" "P-p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-l-l-l-l-ease, ma'am, p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-please, ma'am-please'm-please'm--" "'A's a stammering man, mem," said Henery Fray in an undertone, "and they turned him away because the only time he ever did speak plain he said his soul was his own, and other iniquities, to the squire. 'A can cuss, mem, as well as you or I, but 'a can't speak a common speech to save his life." "Andrew Randle, here's yours--finish thanking me in a day or two. Temperance Miller--oh, here's another, Soberness--both women I suppose?" "Yes'm. Here we be, 'a b'lieve," was echoed in shrill unison. "What have you been doing?" "Tending thrashing-machine and wimbling haybonds, and saying 'Hoosh!' to the cocks and hens when they go upon your seeds, and planting Early Flourballs and Thompson's Wonderfuls with a dibble." "Yes--I see. Are they satisfactory women?" she inquired softly of Henery Fray. "Oh mem--don't ask me! Yielding women--as scarlet a pair as ever was!" groaned Henery under his breath. "Sit down." "Who, mem?" "Sit down." Joseph Poorgrass, in the background twitched, and his lips became dry with fear of some terrible consequences, as he saw Bathsheba summarily speaking, and Henery slinking off to a corner. "Now the next. Laban Tall, you'll stay on working for me?" "For you or anybody that pays me well, ma'am," replied the young married man. "True--the man must live!" said a woman in the back quarter, who had just entered with clicking pattens. "What woman is that?" Bathsheba asked. "I be his lawful wife!" continued the voice with greater prominence of manner and tone. This lady called herself five-and-twenty, looked thirty, passed as thirty-five, and was forty. She was a woman who never, like some newly married, showed conjugal tenderness in public, perhaps because she had none to show. "Oh, you are," said Bathsheba. "Well, Laban, will you stay on?" "Yes, he'll stay, ma'am!" said again the shrill tongue of Laban's lawful wife. "Well, he can speak for himself, I suppose." "Oh Lord, not he, ma'am! A simple tool. Well enough, but a poor gawkhammer mortal," the wife replied. "Heh-heh-heh!" laughed the married man with a hideous effort of appreciation, for he was as irrepressibly good-humoured under ghastly snubs as a parliamentary candidate on the hustings. The names remaining were called in the same manner. "Now I think I have done with you," said Bathsheba, closing the book and shaking back a stray twine of hair. "Has William Smallbury returned?" "No, ma'am." "The new shepherd will want a man under him," suggested Henery Fray, trying to make himself official again by a sideway approach towards her chair. "Oh--he will. Who can he have?" "Young Cain Ball is a very good lad," Henery said, "and Shepherd Oak don't mind his youth?" he added, turning with an apologetic smile to the shepherd, who had just appeared on the scene, and was now leaning against the doorpost with his arms folded. "No, I don't mind that," said Gabriel. "How did Cain come by such a name?" asked Bathsheba. "Oh you see, mem, his pore mother, not being a Scripture-read woman, made a mistake at his christening, thinking 'twas Abel killed Cain, and called en Cain, meaning Abel all the time. The parson put it right, but 'twas too late, for the name could never be got rid of in the parish. 'Tis very unfortunate for the boy." "It is rather unfortunate." "Yes. However, we soften it down as much as we can, and call him Cainy. Ah, pore widow-woman! she cried her heart out about it almost. She was brought up by a very heathen father and mother, who never sent her to church or school, and it shows how the sins of the parents are visited upon the children, mem." Mr. Fray here drew up his features to the mild degree of melancholy required when the persons involved in the given misfortune do not belong to your own family. "Very well then, Cainey Ball to be under-shepherd. And you quite understand your duties?--you I mean, Gabriel Oak?" "Quite well, I thank you, Miss Everdene," said Shepherd Oak from the doorpost. "If I don't, I'll inquire." Gabriel was rather staggered by the remarkable coolness of her manner. Certainly nobody without previous information would have dreamt that Oak and the handsome woman before whom he stood had ever been other than strangers. But perhaps her air was the inevitable result of the social rise which had advanced her from a cottage to a large house and fields. The case is not unexampled in high places. When, in the writings of the later poets, Jove and his family are found to have moved from their cramped quarters on the peak of Olympus into the wide sky above it, their words show a proportionate increase of arrogance and reserve. Footsteps were heard in the passage, combining in their character the qualities both of weight and measure, rather at the expense of velocity. (All.) "Here's Billy Smallbury come from Casterbridge." "And what's the news?" said Bathsheba, as William, after marching to the middle of the hall, took a handkerchief from his hat and wiped his forehead from its centre to its remoter boundaries. "I should have been sooner, miss," he said, "if it hadn't been for the weather." He then stamped with each foot severely, and on looking down his boots were perceived to be clogged with snow. "Come at last, is it?" said Henery. "Well, what about Fanny?" said Bathsheba. "Well, ma'am, in round numbers, she's run away with the soldiers," said William. "No; not a steady girl like Fanny!" "I'll tell ye all particulars. When I got to Casterbridge Barracks, they said, 'The Eleventh Dragoon-Guards be gone away, and new troops have come.' The Eleventh left last week for Melchester and onwards. The Route came from Government like a thief in the night, as is his nature to, and afore the Eleventh knew it almost, they were on the march. They passed near here." Gabriel had listened with interest. "I saw them go," he said. "Yes," continued William, "they pranced down the street playing 'The Girl I Left Behind Me,' so 'tis said, in glorious notes of triumph. Every looker-on's inside shook with the blows of the great drum to his deepest vitals, and there was not a dry eye throughout the town among the public-house people and the nameless women!" "But they're not gone to any war?" "No, ma'am; but they be gone to take the places of them who may, which is very close connected. And so I said to myself, Fanny's young man was one of the regiment, and she's gone after him. There, ma'am, that's it in black and white." "Did you find out his name?" "No; nobody knew it. I believe he was higher in rank than a private." Gabriel remained musing and said nothing, for he was in doubt. "Well, we are not likely to know more to-night, at any rate," said Bathsheba. "But one of you had better run across to Farmer Boldwood's and tell him that much." She then rose; but before retiring, addressed a few words to them with a pretty dignity, to which her mourning dress added a soberness that was hardly to be found in the words themselves. "Now mind, you have a mistress instead of a master. I don't yet know my powers or my talents in farming; but I shall do my best, and if you serve me well, so shall I serve you. Don't any unfair ones among you (if there are any such, but I hope not) suppose that because I'm a woman I don't understand the difference between bad goings-on and good." (All.) "No'm!" (Liddy.) "Excellent well said." "I shall be up before you are awake; I shall be afield before you are up; and I shall have breakfasted before you are afield. In short, I shall astonish you all." (All.) "Yes'm!" "And so good-night." (All.) "Good-night, ma'am." Then this small thesmothete stepped from the table, and surged out of the hall, her black silk dress licking up a few straws and dragging them along with a scratching noise upon the floor. Liddy, elevating her feelings to the occasion from a sense of grandeur, floated off behind Bathsheba with a milder dignity not entirely free from travesty, and the door was closed. OUTSIDE THE BARRACKS--SNOW--A MEETING For dreariness nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts of a certain town and military station, many miles north of Weatherbury, at a later hour on this same snowy evening--if that may be called a prospect of which the chief constituent was darkness. It was a night when sorrow may come to the brightest without causing any great sense of incongruity: when, with impressible persons, love becomes solicitousness, hope sinks to misgiving, and faith to hope: when the exercise of memory does not stir feelings of regret at opportunities for ambition that have been passed by, and anticipation does not prompt to enterprise. The scene was a public path, bordered on the left hand by a river, behind which rose a high wall. On the right was a tract of land, partly meadow and partly moor, reaching, at its remote verge, to a wide undulating upland. The changes of the seasons are less obtrusive on spots of this kind than amid woodland scenery. Still, to a close observer, they are just as perceptible; the difference is that their media of manifestation are less trite and familiar than such well-known ones as the bursting of the buds or the fall of the leaf. Many are not so stealthy and gradual as we may be apt to imagine in considering the general torpidity of a moor or waste. Winter, in coming to the country hereabout, advanced in well-marked stages, wherein might have been successively observed the retreat of the snakes, the transformation of the ferns, the filling of the pools, a rising of fogs, the embrowning by frost, the collapse of the fungi, and an obliteration by snow. This climax of the series had been reached to-night on the aforesaid moor, and for the first time in the season its irregularities were forms without features; suggestive of anything, proclaiming nothing, and without more character than that of being the limit of something else--the lowest layer of a firmament of snow. From this chaotic skyful of crowding flakes the mead and moor momentarily received additional clothing, only to appear momentarily more naked thereby. The vast arch of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it were the roof of a large dark cavern, gradually sinking in upon its floor; for the instinctive thought was that the snow lining the heavens and that encrusting the earth would soon unite into one mass without any intervening stratum of air at all. We turn our attention to the left-hand characteristics; which were flatness in respect of the river, verticality in respect of the wall behind it, and darkness as to both. These features made up the mass. If anything could be darker than the sky, it was the wall, and if any thing could be gloomier than the wall it was the river beneath. The indistinct summit of the facade was notched and pronged by chimneys here and there, and upon its face were faintly signified the oblong shapes of windows, though only in the upper part. Below, down to the water's edge, the flat was unbroken by hole or projection. An indescribable succession of dull blows, perplexing in their regularity, sent their sound with difficulty through the fluffy atmosphere. It was a neighbouring clock striking ten. The bell was in the open air, and being overlaid with several inches of muffling snow, had lost its voice for the time. About this hour the snow abated: ten flakes fell where twenty had fallen, then one had the room of ten. Not long after a form moved by the brink of the river. By its outline upon the colourless background, a close observer might have seen that it was small. This was all that was positively discoverable, though it seemed human. The shape went slowly along, but without much exertion, for the snow, though sudden, was not as yet more than two inches deep. At this time some words were spoken aloud:-- "One. Two. Three. Four. Five." Between each utterance the little shape advanced about half a dozen yards. It was evident now that the windows high in the wall were being counted. The word "Five" represented the fifth window from the end of the wall. Here the spot stopped, and dwindled smaller. The figure was stooping. Then a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the fifth window. It smacked against the wall at a point several yards from its mark. The throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the execution of a woman. No man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or squirrel in his childhood, could possibly have thrown with such utter imbecility as was shown here. Another attempt, and another; till by degrees the wall must have become pimpled with the adhering lumps of snow. At last one fragment struck the fifth window. The river would have been seen by day to be of that deep smooth sort which races middle and sides with the same gliding precision, any irregularities of speed being immediately corrected by a small whirlpool. Nothing was heard in reply to the signal but the gurgle and cluck of one of these invisible wheels--together with a few small sounds which a sad man would have called moans, and a happy man laughter--caused by the flapping of the waters against trifling objects in other parts of the stream. The window was struck again in the same manner. Then a noise was heard, apparently produced by the opening of the window. This was followed by a voice from the same quarter. "Who's there?" The tones were masculine, and not those of surprise. The high wall being that of a barrack, and marriage being looked upon with disfavour in the army, assignations and communications had probably been made across the river before to-night. "Is it Sergeant Troy?" said the blurred spot in the snow, tremulously. This person was so much like a mere shade upon the earth, and the other speaker so much a part of the building, that one would have said the wall was holding a conversation with the snow. "Yes," came suspiciously from the shadow. "What girl are you?" "Oh, Frank--don't you know me?" said the spot. "Your wife, Fanny Robin." "Fanny!" said the wall, in utter astonishment. "Yes," said the girl, with a half-suppressed gasp of emotion. There was something in the woman's tone which is not that of the wife, and there was a manner in the man which is rarely a husband's. The dialogue went on: "How did you come here?" "I asked which was your window. Forgive me!" "I did not expect you to-night. Indeed, I did not think you would come at all. It was a wonder you found me here. I am orderly to-morrow." "You said I was to come." "Well--I said that you might." "Yes, I mean that I might. You are glad to see me, Frank?" "Oh yes--of course." "Can you--come to me!" "My dear Fan, no! The bugle has sounded, the barrack gates are closed, and I have no leave. We are all of us as good as in the county gaol till to-morrow morning." "Then I shan't see you till then!" The words were in a faltering tone of disappointment. "How did you get here from Weatherbury?" "I walked--some part of the way--the rest by the carriers." "I am surprised." "Yes--so am I. And Frank, when will it be?" "What?" "That you promised." "I don't quite recollect." "O you do! Don't speak like that. It weighs me to the earth. It makes me say what ought to be said first by you." "Never mind--say it." "O, must I?--it is, when shall we be married, Frank?" "Oh, I see. Well--you have to get proper clothes." "I have money. Will it be by banns or license?" "Banns, I should think." "And we live in two parishes." "Do we? What then?" "My lodgings are in St. Mary's, and this is not. So they will have to be published in both." "Is that the law?" "Yes. O Frank--you think me forward, I am afraid! Don't, dear Frank--will you--for I love you so. And you said lots of times you would marry me, and--and--I--I--I--" "Don't cry, now! It is foolish. If I said so, of course I will." "And shall I put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours?" "Yes" "To-morrow?" "Not to-morrow. We'll settle in a few days." "You have the permission of the officers?" "No, not yet." "O--how is it? You said you almost had before you left Casterbridge." "The fact is, I forgot to ask. Your coming like this is so sudden and unexpected." "Yes--yes--it is. It was wrong of me to worry you. I'll go away now. Will you come and see me to-morrow, at Mrs. Twills's, in North Street? I don't like to come to the Barracks. There are bad women about, and they think me one." "Quite, so. I'll come to you, my dear. Good-night." "Good-night, Frank--good-night!" And the noise was again heard of a window closing. The little spot moved away. When she passed the corner a subdued exclamation was heard inside the wall. "Ho--ho--Sergeant--ho--ho!" An expostulation followed, but it was indistinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which was hardly distinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpools outside. FARMERS--A RULE--AN EXCEPTION The first public evidence of Bathsheba's decision to be a farmer in her own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the following market-day in the cornmarket at Casterbridge. The low though extensive hall, supported by beams and pillars, and latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thronged with hot men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the speaker of the minute looking sideways into his auditor's face and concentrating his argument by a contraction of one eyelid during delivery. The greater number carried in their hands ground-ash saplings, using them partly as walking-sticks and partly for poking up pigs, sheep, neighbours with their backs turned, and restful things in general, which seemed to require such treatment in the course of their peregrinations. During conversations each subjected his sapling to great varieties of usage--bending it round his back, forming an arch of it between his two hands, overweighting it on the ground till it reached nearly a semicircle; or perhaps it was hastily tucked under the arm whilst the sample-bag was pulled forth and a handful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was flung upon the floor, an issue of events perfectly well known to half-a-dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as usual crept into the building unobserved, and waited the fulfilment of their anticipations with a high-stretched neck and oblique eye. Among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single one of her sex that the room contained. She was prettily and even daintily dressed. She moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard after them as a romance after sermons, was felt among them like a breeze among furnaces. It had required a little determination--far more than she had at first imagined--to take up a position here, for at her first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every face had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned rigidly fixed there. Two or three only of the farmers were personally known to Bathsheba, and to these she had made her way. But if she was to be the practical woman she had intended to show herself, business must be carried on, introductions or none, and she ultimately acquired confidence enough to speak and reply boldly to men merely known to her by hearsay. Bathsheba too had her sample-bags, and by degrees adopted the professional pour into the hand--holding up the grains in her narrow palm for inspection, in perfect Casterbridge manner. Something in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth, and in the keenly pointed corners of her red mouth when, with parted lips, she somewhat defiantly turned up her face to argue a point with a tall man, suggested that there was potentiality enough in that lithe slip of humanity for alarming exploits of sex, and daring enough to carry them out. But her eyes had a softness--invariably a softness--which, had they not been dark, would have seemed mistiness; as they were, it lowered an expression that might have been piercing to simple clearness. Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigor, she always allowed her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with hers. In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was natural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a woman. But there was an elasticity in her firmness which removed it from obstinacy, as there was a _naivete_ in her cheapening which saved it from meanness. Those of the farmers with whom she had no dealings (by far the greater part) were continually asking each other, "Who is she?" The reply would be-- "Farmer Everdene's niece; took on Weatherbury Upper Farm; turned away the baily, and swears she'll do everything herself." The other man would then shake his head. "Yes, 'tis a pity she's so headstrong," the first would say. "But we ought to be proud of her here--she lightens up the old place. 'Tis such a shapely maid, however, that she'll soon get picked up." It would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement in such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism as had the beauty of her face and movements. However, the interest was general, and this Saturday's _debut_ in the forum, whatever it may have been to Bathsheba as the buying and selling farmer, was unquestionably a triumph to her as the maiden. Indeed, the sensation was so pronounced that her instinct on two or three occasions was merely to walk as a queen among these gods of the fallow, like a little sister of a little Jove, and to neglect closing prices altogether. The numerous evidences of her power to attract were only thrown into greater relief by a marked exception. Women seem to have eyes in their ribbons for such matters as these. Bathsheba, without looking within a right angle of him, was conscious of a black sheep among the flock. It perplexed her first. If there had been a respectable minority on either side, the case would have been most natural. If nobody had regarded her, she would have taken the matter indifferently--such cases had occurred. If everybody, this man included, she would have taken it as a matter of course--people had done so before. But the smallness of the exception made the mystery. She soon knew thus much of the recusant's appearance. He was a gentlemanly man, with full and distinctly outlined Roman features, the prominences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze-like richness of tone. He was erect in attitude, and quiet in demeanour. One characteristic pre-eminently marked him--dignity. Apparently he had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age at which a man's aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of a dozen years or so; and, artificially, a woman's does likewise. Thirty-five and fifty were his limits of variation--he might have been either, or anywhere between the two. It may be said that married men of forty are usually ready and generous enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate beauty they may discern by the way. Probably, as with persons playing whist for love, the consciousness of a certain immunity under any circumstances from that worst possible ultimate, the having to pay, makes them unduly speculative. Bathsheba was convinced that this unmoved person was not a married man. When marketing was over, she rushed off to Liddy, who was waiting for her beside the yellow gig in which they had driven to town. The horse was put in, and on they trotted--Bathsheba's sugar, tea, and drapery parcels being packed behind, and expressing in some indescribable manner, by their colour, shape, and general lineaments, that they were that young lady-farmer's property, and the grocer's and draper's no more. "I've been through it, Liddy, and it is over. I shan't mind it again, for they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there; but this morning it was as bad as being married--eyes everywhere!" "I knowed it would be," Liddy said. "Men be such a terrible class of society to look at a body." "But there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time upon me." The information was put in this form that Liddy might not for a moment suppose her mistress was at all piqued. "A very good-looking man," she continued, "upright; about forty, I should think. Do you know at all who he could be?" Liddy couldn't think. "Can't you guess at all?" said Bathsheba with some disappointment. "I haven't a notion; besides, 'tis no difference, since he took less notice of you than any of the rest. Now, if he'd taken more, it would have mattered a great deal." Bathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and they bowled along in silence. A low carriage, bowling along still more rapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed them. "Why, there he is!" she said. Liddy looked. "That! That's Farmer Boldwood--of course 'tis--the man you couldn't see the other day when he called." "Oh, Farmer Boldwood," murmured Bathsheba, and looked at him as he outstripped them. The farmer had never turned his head once, but with eyes fixed on the most advanced point along the road, passed as unconsciously and abstractedly as if Bathsheba and her charms were thin air. "He's an interesting man--don't you think so?" she remarked. "O yes, very. Everybody owns it," replied Liddy. "I wonder why he is so wrapt up and indifferent, and seemingly so far away from all he sees around him." "It is said--but not known for certain--that he met with some bitter disappointment when he was a young man and merry. A woman jilted him, they say." "People always say that--and we know very well women scarcely ever jilt men; 'tis the men who jilt us. I expect it is simply his nature to be so reserved." "Simply his nature--I expect so, miss--nothing else in the world." "Still, 'tis more romantic to think he has been served cruelly, poor thing'! Perhaps, after all, he has!" "Depend upon it he has. Oh yes, miss, he has! I feel he must have." "However, we are very apt to think extremes of people. I shouldn't wonder after all if it wasn't a little of both--just between the two--rather cruelly used and rather reserved." "Oh dear no, miss--I can't think it between the two!" "That's most likely." "Well, yes, so it is. I am convinced it is most likely. You may take my word, miss, that that's what's the matter with him." SORTES SANCTORUM--THE VALENTINE It was Sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the thirteenth of February. Dinner being over, Bathsheba, for want of a better companion, had asked Liddy to come and sit with her. The mouldy pile was dreary in winter-time before the candles were lighted and the shutters closed; the atmosphere of the place seemed as old as the walls; every nook behind the furniture had a temperature of its own, for the fire was not kindled in this part of the house early in the day; and Bathsheba's new piano, which was an old one in other annals, looked particularly sloping and out of level on the warped floor before night threw a shade over its less prominent angles and hid the unpleasantness. Liddy, like a little brook, though shallow, was always rippling; her presence had not so much weight as to task thought, and yet enough to exercise it. On the table lay an old quarto Bible, bound in leather. Liddy looking at it said,-- "Did you ever find out, miss, who you are going to marry by means of the Bible and key?" "Don't be so foolish, Liddy. As if such things could be." "Well, there's a good deal in it, all the same." "Nonsense, child." "And it makes your heart beat fearful. Some believe in it; some don't; I do." "Very well, let's try it," said Bathsheba, bounding from her seat with that total disregard of consistency which can be indulged in towards a dependent, and entering into the spirit of divination at once. "Go and get the front door key." Liddy fetched it. "I wish it wasn't Sunday," she said, on returning. "Perhaps 'tis wrong." "What's right week days is right Sundays," replied her mistress in a tone which was a proof in itself. The book was opened--the leaves, drab with age, being quite worn away at much-read verses by the forefingers of unpractised readers in former days, where they were moved along under the line as an aid to the vision. The special verse in the Book of Ruth was sought out by Bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye. They slightly thrilled and abashed her. It was Wisdom in the abstract facing Folly in the concrete. Folly in the concrete blushed, persisted in her intention, and placed the key on the book. A rusty patch immediately upon the verse, caused by previous pressure of an iron substance thereon, told that this was not the first time the old volume had been used for the purpose. "Now keep steady, and be silent," said Bathsheba. The verse was repeated; the book turned round; Bathsheba blushed guiltily. "Who did you try?" said Liddy curiously. "I shall not tell you." "Did you notice Mr. Boldwood's doings in church this morning, miss?" Liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her thoughts had taken. "No, indeed," said Bathsheba, with serene indifference. "His pew is exactly opposite yours, miss." "I know it." "And you did not see his goings on!" "Certainly I did not, I tell you." Liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy, and shut her lips decisively. This move was unexpected, and proportionately disconcerting. "What did he do?" Bathsheba said perforce. "Didn't turn his head to look at you once all the service." "Why should he?" again demanded her mistress, wearing a nettled look. "I didn't ask him to." "Oh no. But everybody else was noticing you; and it was odd he didn't. There, 'tis like him. Rich and gentlemanly, what does he care?" Bathsheba dropped into a silence intended to express that she had opinions on the matter too abstruse for Liddy's comprehension, rather than that she had nothing to say. "Dear me--I had nearly forgotten the valentine I bought yesterday," she exclaimed at length. "Valentine! who for, miss?" said Liddy. "Farmer Boldwood?" It was the single name among all possible wrong ones that just at this moment seemed to Bathsheba more pertinent than the right. "Well, no. It is only for little Teddy Coggan. I have promised him something, and this will be a pretty surprise for him. Liddy, you may as well bring me my desk and I'll direct it at once." Bathsheba took from her desk a gorgeously illuminated and embossed design in post-octavo, which had been bought on the previous market-day at the chief stationer's in Casterbridge. In the centre was a small oval enclosure; this was left blank, that the sender might insert tender words more appropriate to the special occasion than any generalities by a printer could possibly be. "Here's a place for writing," said Bathsheba. "What shall I put?" "Something of this sort, I should think," returned Liddy promptly:-- "The rose is red, The violet blue, Carnation's sweet, And so are you." "Yes, that shall be it. It just suits itself to a chubby-faced child like him," said Bathsheba. She inserted the words in a small though legible handwriting; enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped her pen for the direction. "What fun it would be to send it to the stupid old Boldwood, and how he would wonder!" said the irrepressible Liddy, lifting her eyebrows, and indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she thought of the moral and social magnitude of the man contemplated. Bathsheba paused to regard the idea at full length. Boldwood's had begun to be a troublesome image--a species of Daniel in her kingdom who persisted in kneeling eastward when reason and common sense said that he might just as well follow suit with the rest, and afford her the official glance of admiration which cost nothing at all. She was far from being seriously concerned about his nonconformity. Still, it was faintly depressing that the most dignified and valuable man in the parish should withhold his eyes, and that a girl like Liddy should talk about it. So Liddy's idea was at first rather harassing than piquant. "No, I won't do that. He wouldn't see any humour in it." "He'd worry to death," said the persistent Liddy. "Really, I don't care particularly to send it to Teddy," remarked her mistress. "He's rather a naughty child sometimes." "Yes--that he is." "Let's toss as men do," said Bathsheba, idly. "Now then, head, Boldwood; tail, Teddy. No, we won't toss money on a Sunday, that would be tempting the devil indeed." "Toss this hymn-book; there can't be no sinfulness in that, miss." "Very well. Open, Boldwood--shut, Teddy. No; it's more likely to fall open. Open, Teddy--shut, Boldwood." The book went fluttering in the air and came down shut. Bathsheba, a small yawn upon her mouth, took the pen, and with off-hand serenity directed the missive to Boldwood. "Now light a candle, Liddy. Which seal shall we use? Here's a unicorn's head--there's nothing in that. What's this?--two doves--no. It ought to be something extraordinary, ought it not, Liddy? Here's one with a motto--I remember it is some funny one, but I can't read it. We'll try this, and if it doesn't do we'll have another." A large red seal was duly affixed. Bathsheba looked closely at the hot wax to discover the words. "Capital!" she exclaimed, throwing down the letter frolicsomely. "'Twould upset the solemnity of a parson and clerke too." Liddy looked at the words of the seal, and read-- "MARRY ME." The same evening the letter was sent, and was duly sorted in Casterbridge post-office that night, to be returned to Weatherbury again in the morning. So very idly and unreflectingly was this deed done. Of love as a spectacle Bathsheba had a fair knowledge; but of love subjectively she knew nothing. EFFECT OF THE LETTER--SUNRISE At dusk, on the evening of St. Valentine's Day, Boldwood sat down to supper as usual, by a beaming fire of aged logs. Upon the mantel-shelf before him was a time-piece, surmounted by a spread eagle, and upon the eagle's wings was the letter Bathsheba had sent. Here the bachelor's gaze was continually fastening itself, till the large red seal became as a blot of blood on the retina of his eye; and as he ate and drank he still read in fancy the words thereon, although they were too remote for his sight-- "MARRY ME." The pert injunction was like those crystal substances which, colourless themselves, assume the tone of objects about them. Here, in the quiet of Boldwood's parlour, where everything that was not grave was extraneous, and where the atmosphere was that of a Puritan Sunday lasting all the week, the letter and its dictum changed their tenor from the thoughtlessness of their origin to a deep solemnity, imbibed from their accessories now. Since the receipt of the missive in the morning, Boldwood had felt the symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distorted in the direction of an ideal passion. The disturbance was as the first floating weed to Columbus--the contemptibly little suggesting possibilities of the infinitely great. The letter must have had an origin and a motive. That the latter was of the smallest magnitude compatible with its existence at all, Boldwood, of course, did not know. And such an explanation did not strike him as a possibility even. It is foreign to a mystified condition of mind to realize of the mystifier that the processes of approving a course suggested by circumstance, and of striking out a course from inner impulse, would look the same in the result. The vast difference between starting a train of events, and directing into a particular groove a series already started, is rarely apparent to the person confounded by the issue. When Boldwood went to bed he placed the valentine in the corner of the looking-glass. He was conscious of its presence, even when his back was turned upon it. It was the first time in Boldwood's life that such an event had occurred. The same fascination that caused him to think it an act which had a deliberate motive prevented him from regarding it as an impertinence. He looked again at the direction. The mysterious influences of night invested the writing with the presence of the unknown writer. Somebody's--some WOMAN'S--hand had travelled softly over the paper bearing his name; her unrevealed eyes had watched every curve as she formed it; her brain had seen him in imagination the while. Why should she have imagined him? Her mouth--were the lips red or pale, plump or creased?--had curved itself to a certain expression as the pen went on--the corners had moved with all their natural tremulousness: what had been the expression? The vision of the woman writing, as a supplement to the words written, had no individuality. She was a misty shape, and well she might be, considering that her original was at that moment sound asleep and oblivious of all love and letter-writing under the sky. Whenever Boldwood dozed she took a form, and comparatively ceased to be a vision: when he awoke there was the letter justifying the dream. The moon shone to-night, and its light was not of a customary kind. His window admitted only a reflection of its rays, and the pale sheen had that reversed direction which snow gives, coming upward and lighting up his ceiling in an unnatural way, casting shadows in strange places, and putting lights where shadows had used to be. The substance of the epistle had occupied him but little in comparison with the fact of its arrival. He suddenly wondered if anything more might be found in the envelope than what he had withdrawn. He jumped out of bed in the weird light, took the letter, pulled out the flimsy sheet, shook the envelope--searched it. Nothing more was there. Boldwood looked, as he had a hundred times the preceding day, at the insistent red seal: "Marry me," he said aloud. The solemn and reserved yeoman again closed the letter, and stuck it in the frame of the glass. In doing so he caught sight of his reflected features, wan in expression, and insubstantial in form. He saw how closely compressed was his mouth, and that his eyes were wide-spread and vacant. Feeling uneasy and dissatisfied with himself for this nervous excitability, he returned to bed. Then the dawn drew on. The full power of the clear heaven was not equal to that of a cloudy sky at noon, when Boldwood arose and dressed himself. He descended the stairs and went out towards the gate of a field to the east, leaning over which he paused and looked around. It was one of the usual slow sunrises of this time of the year, and the sky, pure violet in the zenith, was leaden to the northward, and murky to the east, where, over the snowy down or ewe-lease on Weatherbury Upper Farm, and apparently resting upon the ridge, the only half of the sun yet visible burnt rayless, like a red and flameless fire shining over a white hearthstone. The whole effect resembled a sunset as childhood resembles age. In other directions, the fields and sky were so much of one colour by the snow, that it was difficult in a hasty glance to tell whereabouts the horizon occurred; and in general there was here, too, that before-mentioned preternatural inversion of light and shade which attends the prospect when the garish brightness commonly in the sky is found on the earth, and the shades of earth are in the sky. Over the west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yellow, like tarnished brass. Boldwood was listlessly noting how the frost had hardened and glazed the surface of the snow, till it shone in the red eastern light with the polish of marble; how, in some portions of the slope, withered grass-bents, encased in icicles, bristled through the smooth wan coverlet in the twisted and curved shapes of old Venetian glass; and how the footprints of a few birds, which had hopped over the snow whilst it lay in the state of a soft fleece, were now frozen to a short permanency. A half-muffled noise of light wheels interrupted him. Boldwood turned back into the road. It was the mail-cart--a crazy, two-wheeled vehicle, hardly heavy enough to resist a puff of wind. The driver held out a letter. Boldwood seized it and opened it, expecting another anonymous one--so greatly are people's ideas of probability a mere sense that precedent will repeat itself. "I don't think it is for you, sir," said the man, when he saw Boldwood's action. "Though there is no name, I think it is for your shepherd." Boldwood looked then at the address-- To the New Shepherd, Weatherbury Farm, Near Casterbridge "Oh--what a mistake!--it is not mine. Nor is it for my shepherd. It is for Miss Everdene's. You had better take it on to him--Gabriel Oak--and say I opened it in mistake." At this moment, on the ridge, up against the blazing sky, a figure was visible, like the black snuff in the midst of a candle-flame. Then it moved and began to bustle about vigorously from place to place, carrying square skeleton masses, which were riddled by the same rays. A small figure on all fours followed behind. The tall form was that of Gabriel Oak; the small one that of George; the articles in course of transit were hurdles. "Wait," said Boldwood. "That's the man on the hill. I'll take the letter to him myself." To Boldwood it was now no longer merely a letter to another man. It was an opportunity. Exhibiting a face pregnant with intention, he entered the snowy field. Gabriel, at that minute, descended the hill towards the right. The glow stretched down in this direction now, and touched the distant roof of Warren's Malthouse--whither the shepherd was apparently bent: Boldwood followed at a distance. A MORNING MEETING--THE LETTER AGAIN The scarlet and orange light outside the malthouse did not penetrate to its interior, which was, as usual, lighted by a rival glow of similar hue, radiating from the hearth. The maltster, after having lain down in his clothes for a few hours, was now sitting beside a three-legged table, breakfasting of bread and bacon. This was eaten on the plateless system, which is performed by placing a slice of bread upon the table, the meat flat upon the bread, a mustard plaster upon the meat, and a pinch of salt upon the whole, then cutting them vertically downwards with a large pocket-knife till wood is reached, when the severed lump is impaled on the knife, elevated, and sent the proper way of food. The maltster's lack of teeth appeared not to sensibly diminish his powers as a mill. He had been without them for so many years that toothlessness was felt less to be a defect than hard gums an acquisition. Indeed, he seemed to approach the grave as a hyperbolic curve approaches a straight line--less directly as he got nearer, till it was doubtful if he would ever reach it at all. In the ashpit was a heap of potatoes roasting, and a boiling pipkin of charred bread, called "coffee", for the benefit of whomsoever should call, for Warren's was a sort of clubhouse, used as an alternative to the inn. "I say, says I, we get a fine day, and then down comes a snapper at night," was a remark now suddenly heard spreading into the malthouse from the door, which had been opened the previous moment. The form of Henery Fray advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from his boots when about half-way there. The speech and entry had not seemed to be at all an abrupt beginning to the maltster, introductory matter being often omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and deed, and the maltster having the same latitude allowed him, did not hurry to reply. He picked up a fragment of cheese, by pecking upon it with his knife, as a butcher picks up skewers. Henery appeared in a drab kerseymere great-coat, buttoned over his smock-frock, the white skirts of the latter being visible to the distance of about a foot below the coat-tails, which, when you got used to the style of dress, looked natural enough, and even ornamental--it certainly was comfortable. Matthew Moon, Joseph Poorgrass, and other carters and waggoners followed at his heels, with great lanterns dangling from their hands, which showed that they had just come from the cart-horse stables, where they had been busily engaged since four o'clock that morning. "And how is she getting on without a baily?" the maltster inquired. Henery shook his head, and smiled one of the bitter smiles, dragging all the flesh of his forehead into a corrugated heap in the centre. "She'll rue it--surely, surely!" he said. "Benjy Pennyways were not a true man or an honest baily--as big a betrayer as Judas Iscariot himself. But to think she can carr' on alone!" He allowed his head to swing laterally three or four times in silence. "Never in all my creeping up--never!" This was recognized by all as the conclusion of some gloomy speech which had been expressed in thought alone during the shake of the head; Henery meanwhile retained several marks of despair upon his face, to imply that they would be required for use again directly he should go on speaking. "All will be ruined, and ourselves too, or there's no meat in gentlemen's houses!" said Mark Clark. "A headstrong maid, that's what she is--and won't listen to no advice at all. Pride and vanity have ruined many a cobbler's dog. Dear, dear, when I think o' it, I sorrows like a man in travel!" "True, Henery, you do, I've heard ye," said Joseph Poorgrass in a voice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn smile of misery. "'Twould do a martel man no harm to have what's under her bonnet," said Billy Smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one tooth before him. "She can spaik real language, and must have some sense somewhere. Do ye foller me?" "I do, I do; but no baily--I deserved that place," wailed Henery, signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions of a high destiny apparently visible to him on Billy Smallbury's smock-frock. "There, 'twas to be, I suppose. Your lot is your lot, and Scripture is nothing; for if you do good you don't get rewarded according to your works, but be cheated in some mean way out of your recompense." "No, no; I don't agree with'ee there," said Mark Clark. "God's a perfect gentleman in that respect." "Good works good pay, so to speak it," attested Joseph Poorgrass. A short pause ensued, and as a sort of _entr'acte_ Henery turned and blew out the lanterns, which the increase of daylight rendered no longer necessary even in the malthouse, with its one pane of glass. "I wonder what a farmer-woman can want with a harpsichord, dulcimer, pianner, or whatever 'tis they d'call it?" said the maltster. "Liddy saith she've a new one." "Got a pianner?" "Ay. Seems her old uncle's things were not good enough for her. She've bought all but everything new. There's heavy chairs for the stout, weak and wiry ones for the slender; great watches, getting on to the size of clocks, to stand upon the chimbley-piece." "Pictures, for the most part wonderful frames." "And long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse-hair pillows at each end," said Mr. Clark. "Likewise looking-glasses for the pretty, and lying books for the wicked." A firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside; the door was opened about six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaimed-- "Neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-born lambs?" "Ay, sure, shepherd," said the conclave. The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled from top to bottom with the blow. Mr. Oak appeared in the entry with a steaming face, hay-bands wound about his ankles to keep out the snow, a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking altogether an epitome of the world's health and vigour. Four lambs hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the dog George, whom Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe, stalked solemnly behind. "Well, Shepherd Oak, and how's lambing this year, if I mid say it?" inquired Joseph Poorgrass. "Terrible trying," said Oak. "I've been wet through twice a-day, either in snow or rain, this last fortnight. Cainy and I haven't tined our eyes to-night." "A good few twins, too, I hear?" "Too many by half. Yes; 'tis a very queer lambing this year. We shan't have done by Lady Day." "And last year 'twer all over by Sexajessamine Sunday," Joseph remarked. "Bring on the rest Cain," said Gabriel, "and then run back to the ewes. I'll follow you soon." Cainy Ball--a cheery-faced young lad, with a small circular orifice by way of mouth, advanced and deposited two others, and retired as he was bidden. Oak lowered the lambs from their unnatural elevation, wrapped them in hay, and placed them round the fire. "We've no lambing-hut here, as I used to have at Norcombe," said Gabriel, "and 'tis such a plague to bring the weakly ones to a house. If 'twasn't for your place here, malter, I don't know what I should do i' this keen weather. And how is it with you to-day, malter?" "Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd; but no younger." "Ay--I understand." "Sit down, Shepherd Oak," continued the ancient man of malt. "And how was the old place at Norcombe, when ye went for your dog? I should like to see the old familiar spot; but faith, I shouldn't know a soul there now." "I suppose you wouldn't. 'Tis altered very much." "Is it true that Dicky Hill's wooden cider-house is pulled down?" "Oh yes--years ago, and Dicky's cottage just above it." "Well, to be sure!" "Yes; and Tompkins's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear two hogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees." "Rooted?--you don't say it! Ah! stirring times we live in--stirring times." "And you can mind the old well that used to be in the middle of the place? That's turned into a solid iron pump with a large stone trough, and all complete." "Dear, dear--how the face of nations alter, and what we live to see nowadays! Yes--and 'tis the same here. They've been talking but now of the mis'ess's strange doings." "What have you been saying about her?" inquired Oak, sharply turning to the rest, and getting very warm. "These middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for pride and vanity," said Mark Clark; "but I say, let her have rope enough. Bless her pretty face--shouldn't I like to do so--upon her cherry lips!" The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well known sound with his own. "Mark," said Gabriel, sternly, "now you mind this! none of that dalliance-talk--that smack-and-coddle style of yours--about Miss Everdene. I don't allow it. Do you hear?" "With all my heart, as I've got no chance," replied Mr. Clark, cordially. "I suppose you've been speaking against her?" said Oak, turning to Joseph Poorgrass with a very grim look. "No, no--not a word I--'tis a real joyful thing that she's no worse, that's what I say," said Joseph, trembling and blushing with terror. "Matthew just said--" "Matthew Moon, what have you been saying?" asked Oak. "I? Why ye know I wouldn't harm a worm--no, not one underground worm?" said Matthew Moon, looking very uneasy. "Well, somebody has--and look here, neighbours," Gabriel, though one of the quietest and most gentle men on earth, rose to the occasion, with martial promptness and vigour. "That's my fist." Here he placed his fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in the mathematical centre of the maltster's little table, and with it gave a bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughly took in the idea of fistiness before he went further. "Now--the first man in the parish that I hear prophesying bad of our mistress, why" (here the fist was raised and let fall as Thor might have done with his hammer in assaying it)--"he'll smell and taste that--or I'm a Dutchman." All earnestly expressed by their features that their minds did not wander to Holland for a moment on account of this statement, but were deploring the difference which gave rise to the figure; and Mark Clark cried "Hear, hear; just what I should ha' said." The dog George looked up at the same time after the shepherd's menace, and though he understood English but imperfectly, began to growl. "Now, don't ye take on so, shepherd, and sit down!" said Henery, with a deprecating peacefulness equal to anything of the kind in Christianity. "We hear that ye be a extraordinary good and clever man, shepherd," said Joseph Poorgrass with considerable anxiety from behind the maltster's bedstead, whither he had retired for safety. "'Tis a great thing to be clever, I'm sure," he added, making movements associated with states of mind rather than body; "we wish we were, don't we, neighbours?" "Ay, that we do, sure," said Matthew Moon, with a small anxious laugh towards Oak, to show how very friendly disposed he was likewise. "Who's been telling you I'm clever?" said Oak. "'Tis blowed about from pillar to post quite common," said Matthew. "We hear that ye can tell the time as well by the stars as we can by the sun and moon, shepherd." "Yes, I can do a little that way," said Gabriel, as a man of medium sentiments on the subject. "And that ye can make sun-dials, and prent folks' names upon their waggons almost like copper-plate, with beautiful flourishes, and great long tails. A excellent fine thing for ye to be such a clever man, shepherd. Joseph Poorgrass used to prent to Farmer James Everdene's waggons before you came, and 'a could never mind which way to turn the J's and E's--could ye, Joseph?" Joseph shook his head to express how absolute was the fact that he couldn't. "And so you used to do 'em the wrong way, like this, didn't ye, Joseph?" Matthew marked on the dusty floor with his whip-handle [the word J A M E S appears here with the "J" and the "E" printed backwards] "And how Farmer James would cuss, and call thee a fool, wouldn't he, Joseph, when 'a seed his name looking so inside-out-like?" continued Matthew Moon with feeling. "Ay--'a would," said Joseph, meekly. "But, you see, I wasn't so much to blame, for them J's and E's be such trying sons o' witches for the memory to mind whether they face backward or forward; and I always had such a forgetful memory, too." "'Tis a very bad affliction for ye, being such a man of calamities in other ways." "Well, 'tis; but a happy Providence ordered that it should be no worse, and I feel my thanks. As to shepherd, there, I'm sure mis'ess ought to have made ye her baily--such a fitting man for't as you be." "I don't mind owning that I expected it," said Oak, frankly. "Indeed, I hoped for the place. At the same time, Miss Everdene has a right to be her own baily if she choose--and to keep me down to be a common shepherd only." Oak drew a slow breath, looked sadly into the bright ashpit, and seemed lost in thoughts not of the most hopeful hue. The genial warmth of the fire now began to stimulate the nearly lifeless lambs to bleat and move their limbs briskly upon the hay, and to recognize for the first time the fact that they were born. Their noise increased to a chorus of baas, upon which Oak pulled the milk-can from before the fire, and taking a small tea-pot from the pocket of his smock-frock, filled it with milk, and taught those of the helpless creatures which were not to be restored to their dams how to drink from the spout--a trick they acquired with astonishing aptitude. "And she don't even let ye have the skins of the dead lambs, I hear?" resumed Joseph Poorgrass, his eyes lingering on the operations of Oak with the necessary melancholy. "I don't have them," said Gabriel. "Ye be very badly used, shepherd," hazarded Joseph again, in the hope of getting Oak as an ally in lamentation after all. "I think she's took against ye--that I do." "Oh no--not at all," replied Gabriel, hastily, and a sigh escaped him, which the deprivation of lamb skins could hardly have caused. Before any further remark had been added a shade darkened the door, and Boldwood entered the malthouse, bestowing upon each a nod of a quality between friendliness and condescension. "Ah! Oak, I thought you were here," he said. "I met the mail-cart ten minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which I opened without reading the address. I believe it is yours. You must excuse the accident please." "Oh yes--not a bit of difference, Mr. Boldwood--not a bit," said Gabriel, readily. He had not a correspondent on earth, nor was there a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish would not have been welcome to peruse. Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand:-- DEAR FRIEND,--I do not know your name, but I think these few lines will reach you, which I wrote to thank you for your kindness to me the night I left Weatherbury in a reckless way. I also return the money I owe you, which you will excuse my not keeping as a gift. All has ended well, and I am happy to say I am going to be married to the young man who has courted me for some time--Sergeant Troy, of the 11th Dragoon Guards, now quartered in this town. He would, I know, object to my having received anything except as a loan, being a man of great respectability and high honour--indeed, a nobleman by blood. I should be much obliged to you if you would keep the contents of this letter a secret for the present, dear friend. We mean to surprise Weatherbury by coming there soon as husband and wife, though I blush to state it to one nearly a stranger. The sergeant grew up in Weatherbury. Thanking you again for your kindness, I am, your sincere well-wisher, FANNY ROBIN. "Have you read it, Mr. Boldwood?" said Gabriel; "if not, you had better do so. I know you are interested in Fanny Robin." Boldwood read the letter and looked grieved. "Fanny--poor Fanny! the end she is so confident of has not yet come, she should remember--and may never come. I see she gives no address." "What sort of a man is this Sergeant Troy?" said Gabriel. "H'm--I'm afraid not one to build much hope upon in such a case as this," the farmer murmured, "though he's a clever fellow, and up to everything. A slight romance attaches to him, too. His mother was a French governess, and it seems that a secret attachment existed between her and the late Lord Severn. She was married to a poor medical man, and soon after an infant was born; and while money was forthcoming all went on well. Unfortunately for her boy, his best friends died; and he got then a situation as second clerk at a lawyer's in Casterbridge. He stayed there for some time, and might have worked himself into a dignified position of some sort had he not indulged in the wild freak of enlisting. I have much doubt if ever little Fanny will surprise us in the way she mentions--very much doubt. A silly girl!--silly girl!" The door was hurriedly burst open again, and in came running Cainy Ball out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bell of a penny trumpet, from which he coughed with noisy vigour and great distension of face. "Now, Cain Ball," said Oak, sternly, "why will you run so fast and lose your breath so? I'm always telling you of it." "Oh--I--a puff of mee breath--went--the--wrong way, please, Mister Oak, and made me cough--hok--hok!" "Well--what have you come for?" "I've run to tell ye," said the junior shepherd, supporting his exhausted youthful frame against the doorpost, "that you must come directly. Two more ewes have twinned--that's what's the matter, Shepherd Oak." "Oh, that's it," said Oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the present his thoughts on poor Fanny. "You are a good boy to run and tell me, Cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat. But, before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we'll mark this lot and have done with 'em." Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped it into the pot, and imprinted on the buttocks of the infant sheep the initials of her he delighted to muse on--"B. E.," which signified to all the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to Farmer Bathsheba Everdene, and to no one else. "Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off. Good morning, Mr. Boldwood." The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies he had himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of the lambing field hard by--their frames being now in a sleek and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death's-door plight of half an hour before. Boldwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated, and turned back. He followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating return. On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed, the farmer drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it, and allowed it to lie open on his hand. A letter was revealed--Bathsheba's. "I was going to ask you, Oak," he said, with unreal carelessness, "if you know whose writing this is?" Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flushed face, "Miss Everdene's." Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name. He now felt a strangely distressing qualm from a new thought. The letter could of course be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry would not have been necessary. Boldwood mistook his confusion: sensitive persons are always ready with their "Is it I?" in preference to objective reasoning. "The question was perfectly fair," he returned--and there was something incongruous in the serious earnestness with which he applied himself to an argument on a valentine. "You know it is always expected that privy inquiries will be made: that's where the--fun lies." If the word "fun" had been "torture," it could not have been uttered with a more constrained and restless countenance than was Boldwood's then. Soon parting from Gabriel, the lonely and reserved man returned to his house to breakfast--feeling twinges of shame and regret at having so far exposed his mood by those fevered questions to a stranger. He again placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to think of the circumstances attending it by the light of Gabriel's information.

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section3/

The next few chapters establish the rhythm of life on Bathsheba Everdene's farm and introduce a new plot line into the novel, Bathsheba's relationship with Mr. Boldwood. The day after Gabriel's arrival, the dignified bachelor Mr. Boldwood knocks on Bathsheba's door as she and her servant Liddy Smallbury are cleaning. Boldwood comes to ask if there is any news of Fanny Robin, whom he had helped when she was younger. From Liddy's gossip we learn that Boldwood is a confirmed bachelor whom many of the local women have tried unsuccessfully to woo. Bathsheba calls a meeting of the farm workers to announce that she has dismissed the Pennyways for thieving and that she will take on the bailiff's responsibilities herself. She also asks for news of Fanny Robin, who is still missing. Chapter 10 describes the meeting and consists primarily of a roll call, in which the various farm laborers identify themselves and their trades to both Bathsheba and the reader. Chapter 11 reveals what has happened to Fanny Robin; here we see her arrive at the barracks of Sergeant Troy, many miles north of Weatherbury. The narrator describes the scene from a distance; we see Fanny as "a spot" almost lost in the snow. She throws snowballs at a window to get the sergeant's attention, and they have a brief conversation in which she reminds him that he has promised to marry her. He responds callously but agrees to uphold his promise. When he shuts his window, the other soldiers are laughing. In the next chapter, it is market-day, and Bathsheba tries out her new role of farmer. The only woman in the group, she nonetheless comports herself well. The only man oblivious to her beauty is Mr. Boldwood, who does not look at her once, as Liddy remarks on the way home. When Bathsheba and Liddy are at home on Sunday, Bathsheba is about to send a valentine to a young boy when Liddy suggests that she send it to Boldwood instead. On a whim, Bathsheba agrees, setting in motion one of the novel's tragedies. The valentine contains a meaningless ditty, "Roses are red, Violets are blue..." but Bathsheba impulsively stamps it with a seal that reads, "Marry Me." The narrator reflects that Bathsheba knows nothing of love. Unfortunately, the letter has a profound effect on Boldwood. It is the one ornate object in a puritanically plain home, and he places it on the mantlepiece, disturbed and excited. Then he receives a second letter; in his excitement he opens it hurriedly, only then noticing that it is addressed to Gabriel. He delivers it to Gabriel the next morning and Gabriel shares its contents with Boldwood: It is a letter from Fanny identifying herself as the girl Gabriel met in the forest and returning the shilling he had given her. The letter also announces her engagement to Sergeant Troy. As he leaves, Boldwood asks Gabriel to identify the handwriting on the valentine, and he tells Boldwood that it is Bathsheba's.

Commentary The most important event in this section is the sending of the valentine and the unintentional effect it has on Boldwood. This one act will haunt both Bathsheba and Boldwood until the end of the novel. Hardy uses this set of circumstances to analyze one of his favorite concerns: how a person's life is determined by minor, seemingly insignificant events. Sometimes these events are questions of luck or forces beyond human control. Here, however, Hardy examines human agency: Bathsheba sends the valentine in jest, without thinking, but her act results in extraordinary consequences. Another theme throughout this section is the imbalances of affection in human relations; this imbalance characterizes the relationship between Gabriel and Bathsheba, as well as that between Sergeant Troy and Fanny Price, and Liddy tells us that Boldwood has been unaware of several local women's efforts to win his affections. While this asymmetry is a natural part of relationships, its consequences can be dire.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/03.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_1_part_3.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter iii

chapter iii

{"name": "Chapter III", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase1-chapter1-11", "summary": "At home, Tess learns of her newly discovered noble lineage from her mother, Joan Durbeyfield. Mr. Durbeyfield is drinking at Rolliver's, a nearby home where locals drink illegally in an upstairs bedroom. Tess is outraged because her father must leave at midnight to transport beehives to the Casterbridge market. Under the pretext of retrieving her husband, Joan takes a break from her never-ending housework and Tess puts the younger children to bed. But, \"since her mother's leaving simply meant one more to fetch,\" Tess sends her younger brother Abraham to fetch their parents. However, he too also becomes ensnared in the pub and Tess must leave the house to bring them all home", "analysis": ""}

As for Tess Durbeyfield, she did not so easily dislodge the incident from her consideration. She had no spirit to dance again for a long time, though she might have had plenty of partners; but ah! they did not speak so nicely as the strange young man had done. It was not till the rays of the sun had absorbed the young stranger's retreating figure on the hill that she shook off her temporary sadness and answered her would-be partner in the affirmative. She remained with her comrades till dusk, and participated with a certain zest in the dancing; though, being heart-whole as yet, she enjoyed treading a measure purely for its own sake; little divining when she saw "the soft torments, the bitter sweets, the pleasing pains, and the agreeable distresses" of those girls who had been wooed and won, what she herself was capable of in that kind. The struggles and wrangles of the lads for her hand in a jig were an amusement to her--no more; and when they became fierce she rebuked them. She might have stayed even later, but the incident of her father's odd appearance and manner returned upon the girl's mind to make her anxious, and wondering what had become of him she dropped away from the dancers and bent her steps towards the end of the village at which the parental cottage lay. While yet many score yards off, other rhythmic sounds than those she had quitted became audible to her; sounds that she knew well--so well. They were a regular series of thumpings from the interior of the house, occasioned by the violent rocking of a cradle upon a stone floor, to which movement a feminine voice kept time by singing, in a vigorous gallopade, the favourite ditty of "The Spotted Cow"-- I saw her lie do'-own in yon'-der green gro'-ove; Come, love!' and I'll tell' you where!' The cradle-rocking and the song would cease simultaneously for a moment, and an exclamation at highest vocal pitch would take the place of the melody. "God bless thy diment eyes! And thy waxen cheeks! And thy cherry mouth! And thy Cubit's thighs! And every bit o' thy blessed body!" After this invocation the rocking and the singing would recommence, and the "Spotted Cow" proceed as before. So matters stood when Tess opened the door and paused upon the mat within it, surveying the scene. The interior, in spite of the melody, struck upon the girl's senses with an unspeakable dreariness. From the holiday gaieties of the field--the white gowns, the nosegays, the willow-wands, the whirling movements on the green, the flash of gentle sentiment towards the stranger--to the yellow melancholy of this one-candled spectacle, what a step! Besides the jar of contrast there came to her a chill self-reproach that she had not returned sooner, to help her mother in these domesticities, instead of indulging herself out-of-doors. There stood her mother amid the group of children, as Tess had left her, hanging over the Monday washing-tub, which had now, as always, lingered on to the end of the week. Out of that tub had come the day before--Tess felt it with a dreadful sting of remorse--the very white frock upon her back which she had so carelessly greened about the skirt on the damping grass--which had been wrung up and ironed by her mother's own hands. As usual, Mrs Durbeyfield was balanced on one foot beside the tub, the other being engaged in the aforesaid business of rocking her youngest child. The cradle-rockers had done hard duty for so many years, under the weight of so many children, on that flagstone floor, that they were worn nearly flat, in consequence of which a huge jerk accompanied each swing of the cot, flinging the baby from side to side like a weaver's shuttle, as Mrs Durbeyfield, excited by her song, trod the rocker with all the spring that was left in her after a long day's seething in the suds. Nick-knock, nick-knock, went the cradle; the candle-flame stretched itself tall, and began jigging up and down; the water dribbled from the matron's elbows, and the song galloped on to the end of the verse, Mrs Durbeyfield regarding her daughter the while. Even now, when burdened with a young family, Joan Durbeyfield was a passionate lover of tune. No ditty floated into Blackmoor Vale from the outer world but Tess's mother caught up its notation in a week. There still faintly beamed from the woman's features something of the freshness, and even the prettiness, of her youth; rendering it probable that the personal charms which Tess could boast of were in main part her mother's gift, and therefore unknightly, unhistorical. "I'll rock the cradle for 'ee, mother," said the daughter gently. "Or I'll take off my best frock and help you wring up? I thought you had finished long ago." Her mother bore Tess no ill-will for leaving the housework to her single-handed efforts for so long; indeed, Joan seldom upbraided her thereon at any time, feeling but slightly the lack of Tess's assistance whilst her instinctive plan for relieving herself of her labours lay in postponing them. To-night, however, she was even in a blither mood than usual. There was a dreaminess, a pre-occupation, an exaltation, in the maternal look which the girl could not understand. "Well, I'm glad you've come," her mother said, as soon as the last note had passed out of her. "I want to go and fetch your father; but what's more'n that, I want to tell 'ee what have happened. Y'll be fess enough, my poppet, when th'st know!" (Mrs Durbeyfield habitually spoke the dialect; her daughter, who had passed the Sixth Standard in the National School under a London-trained mistress, spoke two languages: the dialect at home, more or less; ordinary English abroad and to persons of quality.) "Since I've been away?" Tess asked. "Ay!" "Had it anything to do with father's making such a mommet of himself in thik carriage this afternoon? Why did 'er? I felt inclined to sink into the ground with shame!" "That wer all a part of the larry! We've been found to be the greatest gentlefolk in the whole county--reaching all back long before Oliver Grumble's time--to the days of the Pagan Turks--with monuments, and vaults, and crests, and 'scutcheons, and the Lord knows what all. In Saint Charles's days we was made Knights o' the Royal Oak, our real name being d'Urberville! ... Don't that make your bosom plim? 'Twas on this account that your father rode home in the vlee; not because he'd been drinking, as people supposed." "I'm glad of that. Will it do us any good, mother?" "O yes! 'Tis thoughted that great things may come o't. No doubt a mampus of volk of our own rank will be down here in their carriages as soon as 'tis known. Your father learnt it on his way hwome from Shaston, and he has been telling me the whole pedigree of the matter." "Where is father now?" asked Tess suddenly. Her mother gave irrelevant information by way of answer: "He called to see the doctor to-day in Shaston. It is not consumption at all, it seems. It is fat round his heart, 'a says. There, it is like this." Joan Durbeyfield, as she spoke, curved a sodden thumb and forefinger to the shape of the letter C, and used the other forefinger as a pointer. "'At the present moment,' he says to your father, 'your heart is enclosed all round there, and all round there; this space is still open,' 'a says. 'As soon as it do meet, so,'"--Mrs Durbeyfield closed her fingers into a circle complete--"'off you will go like a shadder, Mr Durbeyfield,' 'a says. 'You mid last ten years; you mid go off in ten months, or ten days.'" Tess looked alarmed. Her father possibly to go behind the eternal cloud so soon, notwithstanding this sudden greatness! "But where IS father?" she asked again. Her mother put on a deprecating look. "Now don't you be bursting out angry! The poor man--he felt so rafted after his uplifting by the pa'son's news--that he went up to Rolliver's half an hour ago. He do want to get up his strength for his journey to-morrow with that load of beehives, which must be delivered, family or no. He'll have to start shortly after twelve to-night, as the distance is so long." "Get up his strength!" said Tess impetuously, the tears welling to her eyes. "O my God! Go to a public-house to get up his strength! And you as well agreed as he, mother!" Her rebuke and her mood seemed to fill the whole room, and to impart a cowed look to the furniture, and candle, and children playing about, and to her mother's face. "No," said the latter touchily, "I be not agreed. I have been waiting for 'ee to bide and keep house while I go fetch him." "I'll go." "O no, Tess. You see, it would be no use." Tess did not expostulate. She knew what her mother's objection meant. Mrs Durbeyfield's jacket and bonnet were already hanging slily upon a chair by her side, in readiness for this contemplated jaunt, the reason for which the matron deplored more than its necessity. "And take the _Compleat Fortune-Teller_ to the outhouse," Joan continued, rapidly wiping her hands, and donning the garments. The _Compleat Fortune-Teller_ was an old thick volume, which lay on a table at her elbow, so worn by pocketing that the margins had reached the edge of the type. Tess took it up, and her mother started. This going to hunt up her shiftless husband at the inn was one of Mrs Durbeyfield's still extant enjoyments in the muck and muddle of rearing children. To discover him at Rolliver's, to sit there for an hour or two by his side and dismiss all thought and care of the children during the interval, made her happy. A sort of halo, an occidental glow, came over life then. Troubles and other realities took on themselves a metaphysical impalpability, sinking to mere mental phenomena for serene contemplation, and no longer stood as pressing concretions which chafed body and soul. The youngsters, not immediately within sight, seemed rather bright and desirable appurtenances than otherwise; the incidents of daily life were not without humorousness and jollity in their aspect there. She felt a little as she had used to feel when she sat by her now wedded husband in the same spot during his wooing, shutting her eyes to his defects of character, and regarding him only in his ideal presentation as lover. Tess, being left alone with the younger children, went first to the outhouse with the fortune-telling book, and stuffed it into the thatch. A curious fetishistic fear of this grimy volume on the part of her mother prevented her ever allowing it to stay in the house all night, and hither it was brought back whenever it had been consulted. Between the mother, with her fast-perishing lumber of superstitions, folk-lore, dialect, and orally transmitted ballads, and the daughter, with her trained National teachings and Standard knowledge under an infinitely Revised Code, there was a gap of two hundred years as ordinarily understood. When they were together the Jacobean and the Victorian ages were juxtaposed. Returning along the garden path Tess mused on what the mother could have wished to ascertain from the book on this particular day. She guessed the recent ancestral discovery to bear upon it, but did not divine that it solely concerned herself. Dismissing this, however, she busied herself with sprinkling the linen dried during the day-time, in company with her nine-year-old brother Abraham, and her sister Eliza-Louisa of twelve and a half, called "'Liza-Lu," the youngest ones being put to bed. There was an interval of four years and more between Tess and the next of the family, the two who had filled the gap having died in their infancy, and this lent her a deputy-maternal attitude when she was alone with her juniors. Next in juvenility to Abraham came two more girls, Hope and Modesty; then a boy of three, and then the baby, who had just completed his first year. All these young souls were passengers in the Durbeyfield ship--entirely dependent on the judgement of the two Durbeyfield adults for their pleasures, their necessities, their health, even their existence. If the heads of the Durbeyfield household chose to sail into difficulty, disaster, starvation, disease, degradation, death, thither were these half-dozen little captives under hatches compelled to sail with them--six helpless creatures, who had never been asked if they wished for life on any terms, much less if they wished for it on such hard conditions as were involved in being of the shiftless house of Durbeyfield. Some people would like to know whence the poet whose philosophy is in these days deemed as profound and trustworthy as his song is breezy and pure, gets his authority for speaking of "Nature's holy plan." It grew later, and neither father nor mother reappeared. Tess looked out of the door, and took a mental journey through Marlott. The village was shutting its eyes. Candles and lamps were being put out everywhere: she could inwardly behold the extinguisher and the extended hand. Her mother's fetching simply meant one more to fetch. Tess began to perceive that a man in indifferent health, who proposed to start on a journey before one in the morning, ought not to be at an inn at this late hour celebrating his ancient blood. "Abraham," she said to her little brother, "do you put on your hat--you bain't afraid?--and go up to Rolliver's, and see what has gone wi' father and mother." The boy jumped promptly from his seat, and opened the door, and the night swallowed him up. Half an hour passed yet again; neither man, woman, nor child returned. Abraham, like his parents, seemed to have been limed and caught by the ensnaring inn. "I must go myself," she said. 'Liza-Lu then went to bed, and Tess, locking them all in, started on her way up the dark and crooked lane or street not made for hasty progress; a street laid out before inches of land had value, and when one-handed clocks sufficiently subdivided the day.

Chapter III

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase1-chapter1-11

At home, Tess learns of her newly discovered noble lineage from her mother, Joan Durbeyfield. Mr. Durbeyfield is drinking at Rolliver's, a nearby home where locals drink illegally in an upstairs bedroom. Tess is outraged because her father must leave at midnight to transport beehives to the Casterbridge market. Under the pretext of retrieving her husband, Joan takes a break from her never-ending housework and Tess puts the younger children to bed. But, "since her mother's leaving simply meant one more to fetch," Tess sends her younger brother Abraham to fetch their parents. However, he too also becomes ensnared in the pub and Tess must leave the house to bring them all home

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/52.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_5_part_7.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 51

chapter 51

{"name": "Chapter 51", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52", "summary": "Over the preceding generation, the class of skilled laborers in Marlott had largely left, leaving only tenant farmers. Those who were not employed as farmers were largely forced to seek refuge. Upon John Durbeyfield's death, the Durbeyfield's lease of their home is not renewed and the family is forced to find accommodations elsewhere. Tess believes that their lease is not renewed because of her reappearance in Marlott, a reminder of the family's questionable morals. Alec tells Tess the full legend of the d'Urberville coach. According to family legend, a d'Urberville abducted a beautiful woman who tried to escape from his coach and, in a struggle, he killed her. Tess admits that she is the reason that her family must leave their home, for she is not a proper woman. She tells Alec that they will go to Kingsbere, where they have lodgings. Alec offers his house at Trantridge and tells Tess that her husband will never return to her. Tess says that, if her circumstances with Alec would change, her mother would be homeless again. He offers a guarantee in writing against that occurring. Tess says that she can have money from her father-in-law if she were to ask, but Alec retorts that he knows that she will never ask. Tess writes to Angel again, asking why he has treated her so monstrously and vowing to forget him because of the injustice she has received at his hands. Tess and her family remain in their home for the last night, and Joan sees a man at the window. Tess says that it is not her husband, and once they reach Kingsbere she will tell her mother everything. Tess worries that Alec is her husband in a very physical sense.", "analysis": "Tess once again shoulders the burden of her family's troubles in this chapter, as the disreputable status of her family for which she is partially to blame causes Joan Durbeyfield to lose the lease to the family house after John Durbeyfield's death. This returns to the theme of Tess's inability to escape her past, yet darkens this theme by showing that Tess's actions have determined the fate of her family. This turn of events seems particularly tragic, for the dutiful Tess has always taken responsibility when her family has faced hardship, yet always blames herself. Here Tess actually is the reason for her family's hardship. The recurrence of past sins is also evident in this chapter in Tess's worry that Alec is her husband in a more physical sense than Angel, a worry that also illustrates the differences between the carnal, physical Alec and the spiritual, intellectual Angel. The explanation of the d'Urberville coach foreshadows a tragic end to Tess Durbeyfield and neatly parallels the events of Tess's seduction by Alec. The legend posits that a beautiful woman falls victim to a villainous d'Urberville while traveling, recalling Alec's repeated attempts to seduce Tess while traveling by coach. However, at this point the conflict between Alec and Tess has not yet reached the point of serious violence. The offer that Alec d'Urberville makes guaranteeing that he help the Durbeyfield family is perhaps the one act of charity that Tess finds difficult to reject, for in this situation she condemns her family to the same suffering she has felt. However, this does not necessarily indicate that Alec's offer is pure; rather, it remains tainted by its actual intent, for like the others it is merely a means for him to secure Tess as his own once more"}

At length it was the eve of Old Lady-Day, and the agricultural world was in a fever of mobility such as only occurs at that particular date of the year. It is a day of fulfilment; agreements for outdoor service during the ensuing year, entered into at Candlemas, are to be now carried out. The labourers--or "work-folk", as they used to call themselves immemorially till the other word was introduced from without--who wish to remain no longer in old places are removing to the new farms. These annual migrations from farm to farm were on the increase here. When Tess's mother was a child the majority of the field-folk about Marlott had remained all their lives on one farm, which had been the home also of their fathers and grandfathers; but latterly the desire for yearly removal had risen to a high pitch. With the younger families it was a pleasant excitement which might possibly be an advantage. The Egypt of one family was the Land of Promise to the family who saw it from a distance, till by residence there it became it turn their Egypt also; and so they changed and changed. However, all the mutations so increasingly discernible in village life did not originate entirely in the agricultural unrest. A depopulation was also going on. The village had formerly contained, side by side with the argicultural labourers, an interesting and better-informed class, ranking distinctly above the former--the class to which Tess's father and mother had belonged--and including the carpenter, the smith, the shoemaker, the huckster, together with nondescript workers other than farm-labourers; a set of people who owed a certain stability of aim and conduct to the fact of their being lifeholders like Tess's father, or copyholders, or occasionally, small freeholders. But as the long holdings fell in, they were seldom again let to similar tenants, and were mostly pulled down, if not absolutely required by the farmer for his hands. Cottagers who were not directly employed on the land were looked upon with disfavour, and the banishment of some starved the trade of others, who were thus obliged to follow. These families, who had formed the backbone of the village life in the past, who were the depositaries of the village traditions, had to seek refuge in the large centres; the process, humorously designated by statisticians as "the tendency of the rural population towards the large towns", being really the tendency of water to flow uphill when forced by machinery. The cottage accommodation at Marlott having been in this manner considerably curtailed by demolitions, every house which remained standing was required by the agriculturist for his work-people. Ever since the occurrence of the event which had cast such a shadow over Tess's life, the Durbeyfield family (whose descent was not credited) had been tacitly looked on as one which would have to go when their lease ended, if only in the interests of morality. It was, indeed, quite true that the household had not been shining examples either of temperance, soberness, or chastity. The father, and even the mother, had got drunk at times, the younger children seldom had gone to church, and the eldest daughter had made queer unions. By some means the village had to be kept pure. So on this, the first Lady-Day on which the Durbeyfields were expellable, the house, being roomy, was required for a carter with a large family; and Widow Joan, her daughters Tess and 'Liza-Lu, the boy Abraham, and the younger children had to go elsewhere. On the evening preceding their removal it was getting dark betimes by reason of a drizzling rain which blurred the sky. As it was the last night they would spend in the village which had been their home and birthplace, Mrs Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, and Abraham had gone out to bid some friends goodbye, and Tess was keeping house till they should return. She was kneeling in the window-bench, her face close to the casement, where an outer pane of rain-water was sliding down the inner pane of glass. Her eyes rested on the web of a spider, probably starved long ago, which had been mistakenly placed in a corner where no flies ever came, and shivered in the slight draught through the casement. Tess was reflecting on the position of the household, in which she perceived her own evil influence. Had she not come home, her mother and the children might probably have been allowed to stay on as weekly tenants. But she had been observed almost immediately on her return by some people of scrupulous character and great influence: they had seen her idling in the churchyard, restoring as well as she could with a little trowel a baby's obliterated grave. By this means they had found that she was living here again; her mother was scolded for "harbouring" her; sharp retorts had ensued from Joan, who had independently offered to leave at once; she had been taken at her word; and here was the result. "I ought never to have come home," said Tess to herself, bitterly. She was so intent upon these thoughts that she hardly at first took note of a man in a white mackintosh whom she saw riding down the street. Possibly it was owing to her face being near to the pane that he saw her so quickly, and directed his horse so close to the cottage-front that his hoofs were almost upon the narrow border for plants growing under the wall. It was not till he touched the window with his riding-crop that she observed him. The rain had nearly ceased, and she opened the casement in obedience to his gesture. "Didn't you see me?" asked d'Urberville. "I was not attending," she said. "I heard you, I believe, though I fancied it was a carriage and horses. I was in a sort of dream." "Ah! you heard the d'Urberville Coach, perhaps. You know the legend, I suppose?" "No. My--somebody was going to tell it me once, but didn't." "If you are a genuine d'Urberville I ought not to tell you either, I suppose. As for me, I'm a sham one, so it doesn't matter. It is rather dismal. It is that this sound of a non-existent coach can only be heard by one of d'Urberville blood, and it is held to be of ill-omen to the one who hears it. It has to do with a murder, committed by one of the family, centuries ago." "Now you have begun it, finish it." "Very well. One of the family is said to have abducted some beautiful woman, who tried to escape from the coach in which he was carrying her off, and in the struggle he killed her--or she killed him--I forget which. Such is one version of the tale... I see that your tubs and buckets are packed. Going away, aren't you?" "Yes, to-morrow--Old Lady Day." "I heard you were, but could hardly believe it; it seems so sudden. Why is it?" "Father's was the last life on the property, and when that dropped we had no further right to stay. Though we might, perhaps, have stayed as weekly tenants--if it had not been for me." "What about you?" "I am not a--proper woman." D'Urberville's face flushed. "What a blasted shame! Miserable snobs! May their dirty souls be burnt to cinders!" he exclaimed in tones of ironic resentment. "That's why you are going, is it? Turned out?" "We are not turned out exactly; but as they said we should have to go soon, it was best to go now everybody was moving, because there are better chances." "Where are you going to?" "Kingsbere. We have taken rooms there. Mother is so foolish about father's people that she will go there." "But your mother's family are not fit for lodgings, and in a little hole of a town like that. Now why not come to my garden-house at Trantridge? There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother's death; but there's the house, as you know it, and the garden. It can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school. Really I ought to do something for you!" "But we have already taken the rooms at Kingsbere!" she declared. "And we can wait there--" "Wait--what for? For that nice husband, no doubt. Now look here, Tess, I know what men are, and, bearing in mind the _grounds_ of your separation, I am quite positive he will never make it up with you. Now, though I have been your enemy, I am your friend, even if you won't believe it. Come to this cottage of mine. We'll get up a regular colony of fowls, and your mother can attend to them excellently; and the children can go to school." Tess breathed more and more quickly, and at length she said-- "How do I know that you would do all this? Your views may change--and then--we should be--my mother would be--homeless again." "O no--no. I would guarantee you against such as that in writing, if necessary. Think it over." Tess shook her head. But d'Urberville persisted; she had seldom seen him so determined; he would not take a negative. "Please just tell your mother," he said, in emphatic tones. "It is her business to judge--not yours. I shall get the house swept out and whitened to-morrow morning, and fires lit; and it will be dry by the evening, so that you can come straight there. Now mind, I shall expect you." Tess again shook her head, her throat swelling with complicated emotion. She could not look up at d'Urberville. "I owe you something for the past, you know," he resumed. "And you cured me, too, of that craze; so I am glad--" "I would rather you had kept the craze, so that you had kept the practice which went with it!" "I am glad of this opportunity of repaying you a little. To-morrow I shall expect to hear your mother's goods unloading... Give me your hand on it now--dear, beautiful Tess!" With the last sentence he had dropped his voice to a murmur, and put his hand in at the half-open casement. With stormy eyes she pulled the stay-bar quickly, and, in doing so, caught his arm between the casement and the stone mullion. "Damnation--you are very cruel!" he said, snatching out his arm. "No, no!--I know you didn't do it on purpose. Well I shall expect you, or your mother and children at least." "I shall not come--I have plenty of money!" she cried. "Where?" "At my father-in-law's, if I ask for it." "IF you ask for it. But you won't, Tess; I know you; you'll never ask for it--you'll starve first!" With these words he rode off. Just at the corner of the street he met the man with the paint-pot, who asked him if he had deserted the brethren. "You go to the devil!" said d'Urberville. Tess remained where she was a long while, till a sudden rebellious sense of injustice caused the region of her eyes to swell with the rush of hot tears thither. Her husband, Angel Clare himself, had, like others, dealt out hard measure to her; surely he had! She had never before admitted such a thought; but he had surely! Never in her life--she could swear it from the bottom of her soul--had she ever intended to do wrong; yet these hard judgements had come. Whatever her sins, they were not sins of intention, but of inadvertence, and why should she have been punished so persistently? She passionately seized the first piece of paper that came to hand, and scribbled the following lines: O why have you treated me so monstrously, Angel! I do not deserve it. I have thought it all over carefully, and I can never, never forgive you! You know that I did not intend to wrong you--why have you so wronged me? You are cruel, cruel indeed! I will try to forget you. It is all injustice I have received at your hands! T. She watched till the postman passed by, ran out to him with her epistle, and then again took her listless place inside the window-panes. It was just as well to write like that as to write tenderly. How could he give way to entreaty? The facts had not changed: there was no new event to alter his opinion. It grew darker, the fire-light shining over the room. The two biggest of the younger children had gone out with their mother; the four smallest, their ages ranging from three-and-a-half years to eleven, all in black frocks, were gathered round the hearth babbling their own little subjects. Tess at length joined them, without lighting a candle. "This is the last night that we shall sleep here, dears, in the house where we were born," she said quickly. "We ought to think of it, oughtn't we?" They all became silent; with the impressibility of their age they were ready to burst into tears at the picture of finality she had conjured up, though all the day hitherto they had been rejoicing in the idea of a new place. Tess changed the subject. "Sing to me, dears," she said. "What shall we sing?" "Anything you know; I don't mind." There was a momentary pause; it was broken, first, in one little tentative note; then a second voice strengthened it, and a third and a fourth chimed in unison, with words they had learnt at the Sunday-school-- Here we suffer grief and pain, Here we meet to part again; In Heaven we part no more. The four sang on with the phlegmatic passivity of persons who had long ago settled the question, and there being no mistake about it, felt that further thought was not required. With features strained hard to enunciate the syllables they continued to regard the centre of the flickering fire, the notes of the youngest straying over into the pauses of the rest. Tess turned from them, and went to the window again. Darkness had now fallen without, but she put her face to the pane as though to peer into the gloom. It was really to hide her tears. If she could only believe what the children were singing; if she were only sure, how different all would now be; how confidently she would leave them to Providence and their future kingdom! But, in default of that, it behoved her to do something; to be their Providence; for to Tess, as to not a few millions of others, there was ghastly satire in the poet's lines-- Not in utter nakedness But trailing clouds of glory do we come. To her and her like, birth itself was an ordeal of degrading personal compulsion, whose gratuitousness nothing in the result seemed to justify, and at best could only palliate. In the shades of the wet road she soon discerned her mother with tall 'Liza-Lu and Abraham. Mrs Durbeyfield's pattens clicked up to the door, and Tess opened it. "I see the tracks of a horse outside the window," said Joan. "Hev somebody called?" "No," said Tess. The children by the fire looked gravely at her, and one murmured-- "Why, Tess, the gentleman a-horseback!" "He didn't call," said Tess. "He spoke to me in passing." "Who was the gentleman?" asked the mother. "Your husband?" "No. He'll never, never come," answered Tess in stony hopelessness. "Then who was it?" "Oh, you needn't ask. You've seen him before, and so have I." "Ah! What did he say?" said Joan curiously. "I will tell you when we are settled in our lodging at Kingsbere to-morrow--every word." It was not her husband, she had said. Yet a consciousness that in a physical sense this man alone was her husband seemed to weigh on her more and more.

Chapter 51

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52

Over the preceding generation, the class of skilled laborers in Marlott had largely left, leaving only tenant farmers. Those who were not employed as farmers were largely forced to seek refuge. Upon John Durbeyfield's death, the Durbeyfield's lease of their home is not renewed and the family is forced to find accommodations elsewhere. Tess believes that their lease is not renewed because of her reappearance in Marlott, a reminder of the family's questionable morals. Alec tells Tess the full legend of the d'Urberville coach. According to family legend, a d'Urberville abducted a beautiful woman who tried to escape from his coach and, in a struggle, he killed her. Tess admits that she is the reason that her family must leave their home, for she is not a proper woman. She tells Alec that they will go to Kingsbere, where they have lodgings. Alec offers his house at Trantridge and tells Tess that her husband will never return to her. Tess says that, if her circumstances with Alec would change, her mother would be homeless again. He offers a guarantee in writing against that occurring. Tess says that she can have money from her father-in-law if she were to ask, but Alec retorts that he knows that she will never ask. Tess writes to Angel again, asking why he has treated her so monstrously and vowing to forget him because of the injustice she has received at his hands. Tess and her family remain in their home for the last night, and Joan sees a man at the window. Tess says that it is not her husband, and once they reach Kingsbere she will tell her mother everything. Tess worries that Alec is her husband in a very physical sense.

Tess once again shoulders the burden of her family's troubles in this chapter, as the disreputable status of her family for which she is partially to blame causes Joan Durbeyfield to lose the lease to the family house after John Durbeyfield's death. This returns to the theme of Tess's inability to escape her past, yet darkens this theme by showing that Tess's actions have determined the fate of her family. This turn of events seems particularly tragic, for the dutiful Tess has always taken responsibility when her family has faced hardship, yet always blames herself. Here Tess actually is the reason for her family's hardship. The recurrence of past sins is also evident in this chapter in Tess's worry that Alec is her husband in a more physical sense than Angel, a worry that also illustrates the differences between the carnal, physical Alec and the spiritual, intellectual Angel. The explanation of the d'Urberville coach foreshadows a tragic end to Tess Durbeyfield and neatly parallels the events of Tess's seduction by Alec. The legend posits that a beautiful woman falls victim to a villainous d'Urberville while traveling, recalling Alec's repeated attempts to seduce Tess while traveling by coach. However, at this point the conflict between Alec and Tess has not yet reached the point of serious violence. The offer that Alec d'Urberville makes guaranteeing that he help the Durbeyfield family is perhaps the one act of charity that Tess finds difficult to reject, for in this situation she condemns her family to the same suffering she has felt. However, this does not necessarily indicate that Alec's offer is pure; rather, it remains tainted by its actual intent, for like the others it is merely a means for him to secure Tess as his own once more

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/06.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_5_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 6

chapter 6

{"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-6", "summary": "Back at the trial, we meet a Captain Brierly through the eyes of Marlow. Brierly was one of the three men sitting in judgment at the trial, and apparently he was quite the successful, well-regarded guy. Too bad, then, that he committed suicide right after the trial concluded. His suicide is a big mystery, but Marlow, for one, has his theories. He thinks Captain B killed himself because of Jim; Jim's case hit a little too close to home for the Captain, and he realized that he, too, could behave as badly as Jim. Or that's Marlow's theory, anyway. Marlow later meets up with Jones, who served with Brierly. He gives Marlow the lowdown on Brierly's suicide - what he knows about it, at least. He can't figure out why Brierly did it because Captain B was \"Young, healthy, well off, no cares... I sit here sometimes thinking, thinking, till my head fairly begins to buzz. There was some reason.\" Anyways, let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we? The crew of the Patna has shown up on land sans ship, which is a big old problem, and now Jim is on trial for whatever he did wrong. At the trial, Brierly and Marlow have a conversation about Jim. Horrified by the publicity the trial is getting, Captain B wishes Jim would just skip town so the naval community could stop being so embarrassed. At this, Marlow wanders outside, where a dude comments on a \"wretched cur,\" referring to a stray dog. Poor Jim overhears and thinks the \"cur\" jab was aimed at him. Uh oh. He gets mad and attacks Marlow, who calms him down and explains the misunderstanding. This Jim fellow is one awkward guy. In a moment of kindness, or perhaps just curiosity, Marlow invites Jim to dine with him at his hotel, and Jim agrees. This should be interesting...", "analysis": ""}

'The authorities were evidently of the same opinion. The inquiry was not adjourned. It was held on the appointed day to satisfy the law, and it was well attended because of its human interest, no doubt. There was no incertitude as to facts--as to the one material fact, I mean. How the Patna came by her hurt it was impossible to find out; the court did not expect to find out; and in the whole audience there was not a man who cared. Yet, as I've told you, all the sailors in the port attended, and the waterside business was fully represented. Whether they knew it or not, the interest that drew them here was purely psychological--the expectation of some essential disclosure as to the strength, the power, the horror, of human emotions. Naturally nothing of the kind could be disclosed. The examination of the only man able and willing to face it was beating futilely round the well-known fact, and the play of questions upon it was as instructive as the tapping with a hammer on an iron box, were the object to find out what's inside. However, an official inquiry could not be any other thing. Its object was not the fundamental why, but the superficial how, of this affair. 'The young chap could have told them, and, though that very thing was the thing that interested the audience, the questions put to him necessarily led him away from what to me, for instance, would have been the only truth worth knowing. You can't expect the constituted authorities to inquire into the state of a man's soul--or is it only of his liver? Their business was to come down upon the consequences, and frankly, a casual police magistrate and two nautical assessors are not much good for anything else. I don't mean to imply these fellows were stupid. The magistrate was very patient. One of the assessors was a sailing-ship skipper with a reddish beard, and of a pious disposition. Brierly was the other. Big Brierly. Some of you must have heard of Big Brierly--the captain of the crack ship of the Blue Star line. That's the man. 'He seemed consumedly bored by the honour thrust upon him. He had never in his life made a mistake, never had an accident, never a mishap, never a check in his steady rise, and he seemed to be one of those lucky fellows who know nothing of indecision, much less of self-mistrust. At thirty-two he had one of the best commands going in the Eastern trade--and, what's more, he thought a lot of what he had. There was nothing like it in the world, and I suppose if you had asked him point-blank he would have confessed that in his opinion there was not such another commander. The choice had fallen upon the right man. The rest of mankind that did not command the sixteen-knot steel steamer Ossa were rather poor creatures. He had saved lives at sea, had rescued ships in distress, had a gold chronometer presented to him by the underwriters, and a pair of binoculars with a suitable inscription from some foreign Government, in commemoration of these services. He was acutely aware of his merits and of his rewards. I liked him well enough, though some I know--meek, friendly men at that--couldn't stand him at any price. I haven't the slightest doubt he considered himself vastly my superior--indeed, had you been Emperor of East and West, you could not have ignored your inferiority in his presence--but I couldn't get up any real sentiment of offence. He did not despise me for anything I could help, for anything I was--don't you know? I was a negligible quantity simply because I was not _the_ fortunate man of the earth, not Montague Brierly in command of the Ossa, not the owner of an inscribed gold chronometer and of silver-mounted binoculars testifying to the excellence of my seamanship and to my indomitable pluck; not possessed of an acute sense of my merits and of my rewards, besides the love and worship of a black retriever, the most wonderful of its kind--for never was such a man loved thus by such a dog. No doubt, to have all this forced upon you was exasperating enough; but when I reflected that I was associated in these fatal disadvantages with twelve hundred millions of other more or less human beings, I found I could bear my share of his good-natured and contemptuous pity for the sake of something indefinite and attractive in the man. I have never defined to myself this attraction, but there were moments when I envied him. The sting of life could do no more to his complacent soul than the scratch of a pin to the smooth face of a rock. This was enviable. As I looked at him, flanking on one side the unassuming pale-faced magistrate who presided at the inquiry, his self-satisfaction presented to me and to the world a surface as hard as granite. He committed suicide very soon after. 'No wonder Jim's case bored him, and while I thought with something akin to fear of the immensity of his contempt for the young man under examination, he was probably holding silent inquiry into his own case. The verdict must have been of unmitigated guilt, and he took the secret of the evidence with him in that leap into the sea. If I understand anything of men, the matter was no doubt of the gravest import, one of those trifles that awaken ideas--start into life some thought with which a man unused to such a companionship finds it impossible to live. I am in a position to know that it wasn't money, and it wasn't drink, and it wasn't woman. He jumped overboard at sea barely a week after the end of the inquiry, and less than three days after leaving port on his outward passage; as though on that exact spot in the midst of waters he had suddenly perceived the gates of the other world flung open wide for his reception. 'Yet it was not a sudden impulse. His grey-headed mate, a first-rate sailor and a nice old chap with strangers, but in his relations with his commander the surliest chief officer I've ever seen, would tell the story with tears in his eyes. It appears that when he came on deck in the morning Brierly had been writing in the chart-room. "It was ten minutes to four," he said, "and the middle watch was not relieved yet of course. He heard my voice on the bridge speaking to the second mate, and called me in. I was loth to go, and that's the truth, Captain Marlow--I couldn't stand poor Captain Brierly, I tell you with shame; we never know what a man is made of. He had been promoted over too many heads, not counting my own, and he had a damnable trick of making you feel small, nothing but by the way he said 'Good morning.' I never addressed him, sir, but on matters of duty, and then it was as much as I could do to keep a civil tongue in my head." (He flattered himself there. I often wondered how Brierly could put up with his manners for more than half a voyage.) "I've a wife and children," he went on, "and I had been ten years in the Company, always expecting the next command--more fool I. Says he, just like this: 'Come in here, Mr. Jones,' in that swagger voice of his--'Come in here, Mr. Jones.' In I went. 'We'll lay down her position,' says he, stooping over the chart, a pair of dividers in hand. By the standing orders, the officer going off duty would have done that at the end of his watch. However, I said nothing, and looked on while he marked off the ship's position with a tiny cross and wrote the date and the time. I can see him this moment writing his neat figures: seventeen, eight, four A.M. The year would be written in red ink at the top of the chart. He never used his charts more than a year, Captain Brierly didn't. I've the chart now. When he had done he stands looking down at the mark he had made and smiling to himself, then looks up at me. 'Thirty-two miles more as she goes,' says he, 'and then we shall be clear, and you may alter the course twenty degrees to the southward.' '"We were passing to the north of the Hector Bank that voyage. I said, 'All right, sir,' wondering what he was fussing about, since I had to call him before altering the course anyhow. Just then eight bells were struck: we came out on the bridge, and the second mate before going off mentions in the usual way--'Seventy-one on the log.' Captain Brierly looks at the compass and then all round. It was dark and clear, and all the stars were out as plain as on a frosty night in high latitudes. Suddenly he says with a sort of a little sigh: 'I am going aft, and shall set the log at zero for you myself, so that there can be no mistake. Thirty-two miles more on this course and then you are safe. Let's see--the correction on the log is six per cent. additive; say, then, thirty by the dial to run, and you may come twenty degrees to starboard at once. No use losing any distance--is there?' I had never heard him talk so much at a stretch, and to no purpose as it seemed to me. I said nothing. He went down the ladder, and the dog, that was always at his heels whenever he moved, night or day, followed, sliding nose first, after him. I heard his boot-heels tap, tap on the after-deck, then he stopped and spoke to the dog--'Go back, Rover. On the bridge, boy! Go on--get.' Then he calls out to me from the dark, 'Shut that dog up in the chart-room, Mr. Jones--will you?' '"This was the last time I heard his voice, Captain Marlow. These are the last words he spoke in the hearing of any living human being, sir." At this point the old chap's voice got quite unsteady. "He was afraid the poor brute would jump after him, don't you see?" he pursued with a quaver. "Yes, Captain Marlow. He set the log for me; he--would you believe it?--he put a drop of oil in it too. There was the oil-feeder where he left it near by. The boat-swain's mate got the hose along aft to wash down at half-past five; by-and-by he knocks off and runs up on the bridge--'Will you please come aft, Mr. Jones,' he says. 'There's a funny thing. I don't like to touch it.' It was Captain Brierly's gold chronometer watch carefully hung under the rail by its chain. '"As soon as my eyes fell on it something struck me, and I knew, sir. My legs got soft under me. It was as if I had seen him go over; and I could tell how far behind he was left too. The taffrail-log marked eighteen miles and three-quarters, and four iron belaying-pins were missing round the mainmast. Put them in his pockets to help him down, I suppose; but, Lord! what's four iron pins to a powerful man like Captain Brierly. Maybe his confidence in himself was just shook a bit at the last. That's the only sign of fluster he gave in his whole life, I should think; but I am ready to answer for him, that once over he did not try to swim a stroke, the same as he would have had pluck enough to keep up all day long on the bare chance had he fallen overboard accidentally. Yes, sir. He was second to none--if he said so himself, as I heard him once. He had written two letters in the middle watch, one to the Company and the other to me. He gave me a lot of instructions as to the passage--I had been in the trade before he was out of his time--and no end of hints as to my conduct with our people in Shanghai, so that I should keep the command of the Ossa. He wrote like a father would to a favourite son, Captain Marlow, and I was five-and-twenty years his senior and had tasted salt water before he was fairly breeched. In his letter to the owners--it was left open for me to see--he said that he had always done his duty by them--up to that moment--and even now he was not betraying their confidence, since he was leaving the ship to as competent a seaman as could be found--meaning me, sir, meaning me! He told them that if the last act of his life didn't take away all his credit with them, they would give weight to my faithful service and to his warm recommendation, when about to fill the vacancy made by his death. And much more like this, sir. I couldn't believe my eyes. It made me feel queer all over," went on the old chap, in great perturbation, and squashing something in the corner of his eye with the end of a thumb as broad as a spatula. "You would think, sir, he had jumped overboard only to give an unlucky man a last show to get on. What with the shock of him going in this awful rash way, and thinking myself a made man by that chance, I was nearly off my chump for a week. But no fear. The captain of the Pelion was shifted into the Ossa--came aboard in Shanghai--a little popinjay, sir, in a grey check suit, with his hair parted in the middle. 'Aw--I am--aw--your new captain, Mister--Mister--aw--Jones.' He was drowned in scent--fairly stunk with it, Captain Marlow. I dare say it was the look I gave him that made him stammer. He mumbled something about my natural disappointment--I had better know at once that his chief officer got the promotion to the Pelion--he had nothing to do with it, of course--supposed the office knew best--sorry. . . . Says I, 'Don't you mind old Jones, sir; dam' his soul, he's used to it.' I could see directly I had shocked his delicate ear, and while we sat at our first tiffin together he began to find fault in a nasty manner with this and that in the ship. I never heard such a voice out of a Punch and Judy show. I set my teeth hard, and glued my eyes to my plate, and held my peace as long as I could; but at last I had to say something. Up he jumps tiptoeing, ruffling all his pretty plumes, like a little fighting-cock. 'You'll find you have a different person to deal with than the late Captain Brierly.' 'I've found it,' says I, very glum, but pretending to be mighty busy with my steak. 'You are an old ruffian, Mister--aw--Jones; and what's more, you are known for an old ruffian in the employ,' he squeaks at me. The damned bottle-washers stood about listening with their mouths stretched from ear to ear. 'I may be a hard case,' answers I, 'but I ain't so far gone as to put up with the sight of you sitting in Captain Brierly's chair.' With that I lay down my knife and fork. 'You would like to sit in it yourself--that's where the shoe pinches,' he sneers. I left the saloon, got my rags together, and was on the quay with all my dunnage about my feet before the stevedores had turned to again. Yes. Adrift--on shore--after ten years' service--and with a poor woman and four children six thousand miles off depending on my half-pay for every mouthful they ate. Yes, sir! I chucked it rather than hear Captain Brierly abused. He left me his night-glasses--here they are; and he wished me to take care of the dog--here he is. Hallo, Rover, poor boy. Where's the captain, Rover?" The dog looked up at us with mournful yellow eyes, gave one desolate bark, and crept under the table. 'All this was taking place, more than two years afterwards, on board that nautical ruin the Fire-Queen this Jones had got charge of--quite by a funny accident, too--from Matherson--mad Matherson they generally called him--the same who used to hang out in Hai-phong, you know, before the occupation days. The old chap snuffled on-- '"Ay, sir, Captain Brierly will be remembered here, if there's no other place on earth. I wrote fully to his father and did not get a word in reply--neither Thank you, nor Go to the devil!--nothing! Perhaps they did not want to know." 'The sight of that watery-eyed old Jones mopping his bald head with a red cotton handkerchief, the sorrowing yelp of the dog, the squalor of that fly-blown cuddy which was the only shrine of his memory, threw a veil of inexpressibly mean pathos over Brierly's remembered figure, the posthumous revenge of fate for that belief in his own splendour which had almost cheated his life of its legitimate terrors. Almost! Perhaps wholly. Who can tell what flattering view he had induced himself to take of his own suicide? '"Why did he commit the rash act, Captain Marlow--can you think?" asked Jones, pressing his palms together. "Why? It beats me! Why?" He slapped his low and wrinkled forehead. "If he had been poor and old and in debt--and never a show--or else mad. But he wasn't of the kind that goes mad, not he. You trust me. What a mate don't know about his skipper isn't worth knowing. Young, healthy, well off, no cares. . . . I sit here sometimes thinking, thinking, till my head fairly begins to buzz. There was some reason." '"You may depend on it, Captain Jones," said I, "it wasn't anything that would have disturbed much either of us two," I said; and then, as if a light had been flashed into the muddle of his brain, poor old Jones found a last word of amazing profundity. He blew his nose, nodding at me dolefully: "Ay, ay! neither you nor I, sir, had ever thought so much of ourselves." 'Of course the recollection of my last conversation with Brierly is tinged with the knowledge of his end that followed so close upon it. I spoke with him for the last time during the progress of the inquiry. It was after the first adjournment, and he came up with me in the street. He was in a state of irritation, which I noticed with surprise, his usual behaviour when he condescended to converse being perfectly cool, with a trace of amused tolerance, as if the existence of his interlocutor had been a rather good joke. "They caught me for that inquiry, you see," he began, and for a while enlarged complainingly upon the inconveniences of daily attendance in court. "And goodness knows how long it will last. Three days, I suppose." I heard him out in silence; in my then opinion it was a way as good as another of putting on side. "What's the use of it? It is the stupidest set-out you can imagine," he pursued hotly. I remarked that there was no option. He interrupted me with a sort of pent-up violence. "I feel like a fool all the time." I looked up at him. This was going very far--for Brierly--when talking of Brierly. He stopped short, and seizing the lapel of my coat, gave it a slight tug. "Why are we tormenting that young chap?" he asked. This question chimed in so well to the tolling of a certain thought of mine that, with the image of the absconding renegade in my eye, I answered at once, "Hanged if I know, unless it be that he lets you." I was astonished to see him fall into line, so to speak, with that utterance, which ought to have been tolerably cryptic. He said angrily, "Why, yes. Can't he see that wretched skipper of his has cleared out? What does he expect to happen? Nothing can save him. He's done for." We walked on in silence a few steps. "Why eat all that dirt?" he exclaimed, with an oriental energy of expression--about the only sort of energy you can find a trace of east of the fiftieth meridian. I wondered greatly at the direction of his thoughts, but now I strongly suspect it was strictly in character: at bottom poor Brierly must have been thinking of himself. I pointed out to him that the skipper of the Patna was known to have feathered his nest pretty well, and could procure almost anywhere the means of getting away. With Jim it was otherwise: the Government was keeping him in the Sailors' Home for the time being, and probably he hadn't a penny in his pocket to bless himself with. It costs some money to run away. "Does it? Not always," he said, with a bitter laugh, and to some further remark of mine--"Well, then, let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there! By heavens! _I_ would." I don't know why his tone provoked me, and I said, "There is a kind of courage in facing it out as he does, knowing very well that if he went away nobody would trouble to run after him." "Courage be hanged!" growled Brierly. "That sort of courage is of no use to keep a man straight, and I don't care a snap for such courage. If you were to say it was a kind of cowardice now--of softness. I tell you what, I will put up two hundred rupees if you put up another hundred and undertake to make the beggar clear out early to-morrow morning. The fellow's a gentleman if he ain't fit to be touched--he will understand. He must! This infernal publicity is too shocking: there he sits while all these confounded natives, serangs, lascars, quartermasters, are giving evidence that's enough to burn a man to ashes with shame. This is abominable. Why, Marlow, don't you think, don't you feel, that this is abominable; don't you now--come--as a seaman? If he went away all this would stop at once." Brierly said these words with a most unusual animation, and made as if to reach after his pocket-book. I restrained him, and declared coldly that the cowardice of these four men did not seem to me a matter of such great importance. "And you call yourself a seaman, I suppose," he pronounced angrily. I said that's what I called myself, and I hoped I was too. He heard me out, and made a gesture with his big arm that seemed to deprive me of my individuality, to push me away into the crowd. "The worst of it," he said, "is that all you fellows have no sense of dignity; you don't think enough of what you are supposed to be." 'We had been walking slowly meantime, and now stopped opposite the harbour office, in sight of the very spot from which the immense captain of the Patna had vanished as utterly as a tiny feather blown away in a hurricane. I smiled. Brierly went on: "This is a disgrace. We've got all kinds amongst us--some anointed scoundrels in the lot; but, hang it, we must preserve professional decency or we become no better than so many tinkers going about loose. We are trusted. Do you understand?--trusted! Frankly, I don't care a snap for all the pilgrims that ever came out of Asia, but a decent man would not have behaved like this to a full cargo of old rags in bales. We aren't an organised body of men, and the only thing that holds us together is just the name for that kind of decency. Such an affair destroys one's confidence. A man may go pretty near through his whole sea-life without any call to show a stiff upper lip. But when the call comes . . . Aha! . . . If I . . ." 'He broke off, and in a changed tone, "I'll give you two hundred rupees now, Marlow, and you just talk to that chap. Confound him! I wish he had never come out here. Fact is, I rather think some of my people know his. The old man's a parson, and I remember now I met him once when staying with my cousin in Essex last year. If I am not mistaken, the old chap seemed rather to fancy his sailor son. Horrible. I can't do it myself--but you . . ." 'Thus, apropos of Jim, I had a glimpse of the real Brierly a few days before he committed his reality and his sham together to the keeping of the sea. Of course I declined to meddle. The tone of this last "but you" (poor Brierly couldn't help it), that seemed to imply I was no more noticeable than an insect, caused me to look at the proposal with indignation, and on account of that provocation, or for some other reason, I became positive in my mind that the inquiry was a severe punishment to that Jim, and that his facing it--practically of his own free will--was a redeeming feature in his abominable case. I hadn't been so sure of it before. Brierly went off in a huff. At the time his state of mind was more of a mystery to me than it is now. 'Next day, coming into court late, I sat by myself. Of course I could not forget the conversation I had with Brierly, and now I had them both under my eyes. The demeanour of one suggested gloomy impudence and of the other a contemptuous boredom; yet one attitude might not have been truer than the other, and I was aware that one was not true. Brierly was not bored--he was exasperated; and if so, then Jim might not have been impudent. According to my theory he was not. I imagined he was hopeless. Then it was that our glances met. They met, and the look he gave me was discouraging of any intention I might have had to speak to him. Upon either hypothesis--insolence or despair--I felt I could be of no use to him. This was the second day of the proceedings. Very soon after that exchange of glances the inquiry was adjourned again to the next day. The white men began to troop out at once. Jim had been told to stand down some time before, and was able to leave amongst the first. I saw his broad shoulders and his head outlined in the light of the door, and while I made my way slowly out talking with some one--some stranger who had addressed me casually--I could see him from within the court-room resting both elbows on the balustrade of the verandah and turning his back on the small stream of people trickling down the few steps. There was a murmur of voices and a shuffle of boots. 'The next case was that of assault and battery committed upon a money-lender, I believe; and the defendant--a venerable villager with a straight white beard--sat on a mat just outside the door with his sons, daughters, sons-in-law, their wives, and, I should think, half the population of his village besides, squatting or standing around him. A slim dark woman, with part of her back and one black shoulder bared, and with a thin gold ring in her nose, suddenly began to talk in a high-pitched, shrewish tone. The man with me instinctively looked up at her. We were then just through the door, passing behind Jim's burly back. 'Whether those villagers had brought the yellow dog with them, I don't know. Anyhow, a dog was there, weaving himself in and out amongst people's legs in that mute stealthy way native dogs have, and my companion stumbled over him. The dog leaped away without a sound; the man, raising his voice a little, said with a slow laugh, "Look at that wretched cur," and directly afterwards we became separated by a lot of people pushing in. I stood back for a moment against the wall while the stranger managed to get down the steps and disappeared. I saw Jim spin round. He made a step forward and barred my way. We were alone; he glared at me with an air of stubborn resolution. I became aware I was being held up, so to speak, as if in a wood. The verandah was empty by then, the noise and movement in court had ceased: a great silence fell upon the building, in which, somewhere far within, an oriental voice began to whine abjectly. The dog, in the very act of trying to sneak in at the door, sat down hurriedly to hunt for fleas. '"Did you speak to me?" asked Jim very low, and bending forward, not so much towards me but at me, if you know what I mean. I said "No" at once. Something in the sound of that quiet tone of his warned me to be on my defence. I watched him. It was very much like a meeting in a wood, only more uncertain in its issue, since he could possibly want neither my money nor my life--nothing that I could simply give up or defend with a clear conscience. "You say you didn't," he said, very sombre. "But I heard." "Some mistake," I protested, utterly at a loss, and never taking my eyes off him. To watch his face was like watching a darkening sky before a clap of thunder, shade upon shade imperceptibly coming on, the doom growing mysteriously intense in the calm of maturing violence. '"As far as I know, I haven't opened my lips in your hearing," I affirmed with perfect truth. I was getting a little angry, too, at the absurdity of this encounter. It strikes me now I have never in my life been so near a beating--I mean it literally; a beating with fists. I suppose I had some hazy prescience of that eventuality being in the air. Not that he was actively threatening me. On the contrary, he was strangely passive--don't you know? but he was lowering, and, though not exceptionally big, he looked generally fit to demolish a wall. The most reassuring symptom I noticed was a kind of slow and ponderous hesitation, which I took as a tribute to the evident sincerity of my manner and of my tone. We faced each other. In the court the assault case was proceeding. I caught the words: "Well--buffalo--stick--in the greatness of my fear. . . ." '"What did you mean by staring at me all the morning?" said Jim at last. He looked up and looked down again. "Did you expect us all to sit with downcast eyes out of regard for your susceptibilities?" I retorted sharply. I was not going to submit meekly to any of his nonsense. He raised his eyes again, and this time continued to look me straight in the face. "No. That's all right," he pronounced with an air of deliberating with himself upon the truth of this statement--"that's all right. I am going through with that. Only"--and there he spoke a little faster--"I won't let any man call me names outside this court. There was a fellow with you. You spoke to him--oh yes--I know; 'tis all very fine. You spoke to him, but you meant me to hear. . . ." 'I assured him he was under some extraordinary delusion. I had no conception how it came about. "You thought I would be afraid to resent this," he said, with just a faint tinge of bitterness. I was interested enough to discern the slightest shades of expression, but I was not in the least enlightened; yet I don't know what in these words, or perhaps just the intonation of that phrase, induced me suddenly to make all possible allowances for him. I ceased to be annoyed at my unexpected predicament. It was some mistake on his part; he was blundering, and I had an intuition that the blunder was of an odious, of an unfortunate nature. I was anxious to end this scene on grounds of decency, just as one is anxious to cut short some unprovoked and abominable confidence. The funniest part was, that in the midst of all these considerations of the higher order I was conscious of a certain trepidation as to the possibility--nay, likelihood--of this encounter ending in some disreputable brawl which could not possibly be explained, and would make me ridiculous. I did not hanker after a three days' celebrity as the man who got a black eye or something of the sort from the mate of the Patna. He, in all probability, did not care what he did, or at any rate would be fully justified in his own eyes. It took no magician to see he was amazingly angry about something, for all his quiet and even torpid demeanour. I don't deny I was extremely desirous to pacify him at all costs, had I only known what to do. But I didn't know, as you may well imagine. It was a blackness without a single gleam. We confronted each other in silence. He hung fire for about fifteen seconds, then made a step nearer, and I made ready to ward off a blow, though I don't think I moved a muscle. "If you were as big as two men and as strong as six," he said very softly, "I would tell you what I think of you. You . . ." "Stop!" I exclaimed. This checked him for a second. "Before you tell me what you think of me," I went on quickly, "will you kindly tell me what it is I've said or done?" During the pause that ensued he surveyed me with indignation, while I made supernatural efforts of memory, in which I was hindered by the oriental voice within the court-room expostulating with impassioned volubility against a charge of falsehood. Then we spoke almost together. "I will soon show you I am not," he said, in a tone suggestive of a crisis. "I declare I don't know," I protested earnestly at the same time. He tried to crush me by the scorn of his glance. "Now that you see I am not afraid you try to crawl out of it," he said. "Who's a cur now--hey?" Then, at last, I understood. 'He had been scanning my features as though looking for a place where he would plant his fist. "I will allow no man," . . . he mumbled threateningly. It was, indeed, a hideous mistake; he had given himself away utterly. I can't give you an idea how shocked I was. I suppose he saw some reflection of my feelings in my face, because his expression changed just a little. "Good God!" I stammered, "you don't think I . . ." "But I am sure I've heard," he persisted, raising his voice for the first time since the beginning of this deplorable scene. Then with a shade of disdain he added, "It wasn't you, then? Very well; I'll find the other." "Don't be a fool," I cried in exasperation; "it wasn't that at all." "I've heard," he said again with an unshaken and sombre perseverance. 'There may be those who could have laughed at his pertinacity; I didn't. Oh, I didn't! There had never been a man so mercilessly shown up by his own natural impulse. A single word had stripped him of his discretion--of that discretion which is more necessary to the decencies of our inner being than clothing is to the decorum of our body. "Don't be a fool," I repeated. "But the other man said it, you don't deny that?" he pronounced distinctly, and looking in my face without flinching. "No, I don't deny," said I, returning his gaze. At last his eyes followed downwards the direction of my pointing finger. He appeared at first uncomprehending, then confounded, and at last amazed and scared as though a dog had been a monster and he had never seen a dog before. "Nobody dreamt of insulting you," I said. 'He contemplated the wretched animal, that moved no more than an effigy: it sat with ears pricked and its sharp muzzle pointed into the doorway, and suddenly snapped at a fly like a piece of mechanism. 'I looked at him. The red of his fair sunburnt complexion deepened suddenly under the down of his cheeks, invaded his forehead, spread to the roots of his curly hair. His ears became intensely crimson, and even the clear blue of his eyes was darkened many shades by the rush of blood to his head. His lips pouted a little, trembling as though he had been on the point of bursting into tears. I perceived he was incapable of pronouncing a word from the excess of his humiliation. From disappointment too--who knows? Perhaps he looked forward to that hammering he was going to give me for rehabilitation, for appeasement? Who can tell what relief he expected from this chance of a row? He was naive enough to expect anything; but he had given himself away for nothing in this case. He had been frank with himself--let alone with me--in the wild hope of arriving in that way at some effective refutation, and the stars had been ironically unpropitious. He made an inarticulate noise in his throat like a man imperfectly stunned by a blow on the head. It was pitiful. 'I didn't catch up again with him till well outside the gate. I had even to trot a bit at the last, but when, out of breath at his elbow, I taxed him with running away, he said, "Never!" and at once turned at bay. I explained I never meant to say he was running away from _me_. "From no man--from not a single man on earth," he affirmed with a stubborn mien. I forbore to point out the one obvious exception which would hold good for the bravest of us; I thought he would find out by himself very soon. He looked at me patiently while I was thinking of something to say, but I could find nothing on the spur of the moment, and he began to walk on. I kept up, and anxious not to lose him, I said hurriedly that I couldn't think of leaving him under a false impression of my--of my--I stammered. The stupidity of the phrase appalled me while I was trying to finish it, but the power of sentences has nothing to do with their sense or the logic of their construction. My idiotic mumble seemed to please him. He cut it short by saying, with courteous placidity that argued an immense power of self-control or else a wonderful elasticity of spirits--"Altogether my mistake." I marvelled greatly at this expression: he might have been alluding to some trifling occurrence. Hadn't he understood its deplorable meaning? "You may well forgive me," he continued, and went on a little moodily, "All these staring people in court seemed such fools that--that it might have been as I supposed." 'This opened suddenly a new view of him to my wonder. I looked at him curiously and met his unabashed and impenetrable eyes. "I can't put up with this kind of thing," he said, very simply, "and I don't mean to. In court it's different; I've got to stand that--and I can do it too." 'I don't pretend I understood him. The views he let me have of himself were like those glimpses through the shifting rents in a thick fog--bits of vivid and vanishing detail, giving no connected idea of the general aspect of a country. They fed one's curiosity without satisfying it; they were no good for purposes of orientation. Upon the whole he was misleading. That's how I summed him up to myself after he left me late in the evening. I had been staying at the Malabar House for a few days, and on my pressing invitation he dined with me there.'

Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-6

Back at the trial, we meet a Captain Brierly through the eyes of Marlow. Brierly was one of the three men sitting in judgment at the trial, and apparently he was quite the successful, well-regarded guy. Too bad, then, that he committed suicide right after the trial concluded. His suicide is a big mystery, but Marlow, for one, has his theories. He thinks Captain B killed himself because of Jim; Jim's case hit a little too close to home for the Captain, and he realized that he, too, could behave as badly as Jim. Or that's Marlow's theory, anyway. Marlow later meets up with Jones, who served with Brierly. He gives Marlow the lowdown on Brierly's suicide - what he knows about it, at least. He can't figure out why Brierly did it because Captain B was "Young, healthy, well off, no cares... I sit here sometimes thinking, thinking, till my head fairly begins to buzz. There was some reason." Anyways, let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we? The crew of the Patna has shown up on land sans ship, which is a big old problem, and now Jim is on trial for whatever he did wrong. At the trial, Brierly and Marlow have a conversation about Jim. Horrified by the publicity the trial is getting, Captain B wishes Jim would just skip town so the naval community could stop being so embarrassed. At this, Marlow wanders outside, where a dude comments on a "wretched cur," referring to a stray dog. Poor Jim overhears and thinks the "cur" jab was aimed at him. Uh oh. He gets mad and attacks Marlow, who calms him down and explains the misunderstanding. This Jim fellow is one awkward guy. In a moment of kindness, or perhaps just curiosity, Marlow invites Jim to dine with him at his hotel, and Jim agrees. This should be interesting...

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_8_part_2.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 6.chapter 1

book 6, chapter 1

{"name": "book 6, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section9/", "summary": "The Elder Zosima and His Visitors When Alyosha returns to the monastery, he finds Zosima sitting in bed with a group of his students and followers around him. Zosima asks how Dmitri is doing and tells Alyosha that he bowed to Dmitri as he did because he foresees that Dmitri will soon undergo a great trial of pain and suffering. Zosima says that Dmitri's destiny is not Alyosha's, and encourages Alyosha again to leave the monastery and do good in the world", "analysis": ""}

Book VI. The Russian Monk Chapter I. Father Zossima And His Visitors When with an anxious and aching heart Alyosha went into his elder's cell, he stood still almost astonished. Instead of a sick man at his last gasp, perhaps unconscious, as he had feared to find him, he saw him sitting up in his chair and, though weak and exhausted, his face was bright and cheerful, he was surrounded by visitors and engaged in a quiet and joyful conversation. But he had only got up from his bed a quarter of an hour before Alyosha's arrival; his visitors had gathered together in his cell earlier, waiting for him to wake, having received a most confident assurance from Father Paissy that "the teacher would get up, and as he had himself promised in the morning, converse once more with those dear to his heart." This promise and indeed every word of the dying elder Father Paissy put implicit trust in. If he had seen him unconscious, if he had seen him breathe his last, and yet had his promise that he would rise up and say good-by to him, he would not have believed perhaps even in death, but would still have expected the dead man to recover and fulfill his promise. In the morning as he lay down to sleep, Father Zossima had told him positively: "I shall not die without the delight of another conversation with you, beloved of my heart. I shall look once more on your dear face and pour out my heart to you once again." The monks, who had gathered for this probably last conversation with Father Zossima, had all been his devoted friends for many years. There were four of them: Father Iosif and Father Paissy, Father Mihail, the warden of the hermitage, a man not very old and far from being learned. He was of humble origin, of strong will and steadfast faith, of austere appearance, but of deep tenderness, though he obviously concealed it as though he were almost ashamed of it. The fourth, Father Anfim, was a very old and humble little monk of the poorest peasant class. He was almost illiterate, and very quiet, scarcely speaking to any one. He was the humblest of the humble, and looked as though he had been frightened by something great and awful beyond the scope of his intelligence. Father Zossima had a great affection for this timorous man, and always treated him with marked respect, though perhaps there was no one he had known to whom he had said less, in spite of the fact that he had spent years wandering about holy Russia with him. That was very long ago, forty years before, when Father Zossima first began his life as a monk in a poor and little monastery at Kostroma, and when, shortly after, he had accompanied Father Anfim on his pilgrimage to collect alms for their poor monastery. The whole party were in the bedroom which, as we mentioned before, was very small, so that there was scarcely room for the four of them (in addition to Porfiry, the novice, who stood) to sit round Father Zossima on chairs brought from the sitting-room. It was already beginning to get dark, the room was lighted up by the lamps and the candles before the ikons. Seeing Alyosha standing embarrassed in the doorway, Father Zossima smiled at him joyfully and held out his hand. "Welcome, my quiet one, welcome, my dear, here you are too. I knew you would come." Alyosha went up to him, bowed down before him to the ground and wept. Something surged up from his heart, his soul was quivering, he wanted to sob. "Come, don't weep over me yet," Father Zossima smiled, laying his right hand on his head. "You see I am sitting up talking; maybe I shall live another twenty years yet, as that dear good woman from Vishegorye, with her little Lizaveta in her arms, wished me yesterday. God bless the mother and the little girl Lizaveta," he crossed himself. "Porfiry, did you take her offering where I told you?" He meant the sixty copecks brought him the day before by the good-humored woman to be given "to some one poorer than me." Such offerings, always of money gained by personal toil, are made by way of penance voluntarily undertaken. The elder had sent Porfiry the evening before to a widow, whose house had been burnt down lately, and who after the fire had gone with her children begging alms. Porfiry hastened to reply that he had given the money, as he had been instructed, "from an unknown benefactress." "Get up, my dear boy," the elder went on to Alyosha. "Let me look at you. Have you been home and seen your brother?" It seemed strange to Alyosha that he asked so confidently and precisely, about one of his brothers only--but which one? Then perhaps he had sent him out both yesterday and to-day for the sake of that brother. "I have seen one of my brothers," answered Alyosha. "I mean the elder one, to whom I bowed down." "I only saw him yesterday and could not find him to-day," said Alyosha. "Make haste to find him, go again to-morrow and make haste, leave everything and make haste. Perhaps you may still have time to prevent something terrible. I bowed down yesterday to the great suffering in store for him." He was suddenly silent and seemed to be pondering. The words were strange. Father Iosif, who had witnessed the scene yesterday, exchanged glances with Father Paissy. Alyosha could not resist asking: "Father and teacher," he began with extreme emotion, "your words are too obscure.... What is this suffering in store for him?" "Don't inquire. I seemed to see something terrible yesterday ... as though his whole future were expressed in his eyes. A look came into his eyes--so that I was instantly horror-stricken at what that man is preparing for himself. Once or twice in my life I've seen such a look in a man's face ... reflecting as it were his future fate, and that fate, alas, came to pass. I sent you to him, Alexey, for I thought your brotherly face would help him. But everything and all our fates are from the Lord. 'Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.' Remember that. You, Alexey, I've many times silently blessed for your face, know that," added the elder with a gentle smile. "This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these walls, but will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies, but even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes, but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will make others bless it--which is what matters most. Well, that is your character. Fathers and teachers," he addressed his friends with a tender smile, "I have never till to-day told even him why the face of this youth is so dear to me. Now I will tell you. His face has been as it were a remembrance and a prophecy for me. At the dawn of my life when I was a child I had an elder brother who died before my eyes at seventeen. And later on in the course of my life I gradually became convinced that that brother had been for a guidance and a sign from on high for me. For had he not come into my life, I should never perhaps, so I fancy at least, have become a monk and entered on this precious path. He appeared first to me in my childhood, and here, at the end of my pilgrimage, he seems to have come to me over again. It is marvelous, fathers and teachers, that Alexey, who has some, though not a great, resemblance in face, seems to me so like him spiritually, that many times I have taken him for that young man, my brother, mysteriously come back to me at the end of my pilgrimage, as a reminder and an inspiration. So that I positively wondered at so strange a dream in myself. Do you hear this, Porfiry?" he turned to the novice who waited on him. "Many times I've seen in your face as it were a look of mortification that I love Alexey more than you. Now you know why that was so, but I love you too, know that, and many times I grieved at your mortification. I should like to tell you, dear friends, of that youth, my brother, for there has been no presence in my life more precious, more significant and touching. My heart is full of tenderness, and I look at my whole life at this moment as though living through it again." ------------------------------------- Here I must observe that this last conversation of Father Zossima with the friends who visited him on the last day of his life has been partly preserved in writing. Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov wrote it down from memory, some time after his elder's death. But whether this was only the conversation that took place then, or whether he added to it his notes of parts of former conversations with his teacher, I cannot determine. In his account, Father Zossima's talk goes on without interruption, as though he told his life to his friends in the form of a story, though there is no doubt, from other accounts of it, that the conversation that evening was general. Though the guests did not interrupt Father Zossima much, yet they too talked, perhaps even told something themselves. Besides, Father Zossima could not have carried on an uninterrupted narrative, for he was sometimes gasping for breath, his voice failed him, and he even lay down to rest on his bed, though he did not fall asleep and his visitors did not leave their seats. Once or twice the conversation was interrupted by Father Paissy's reading the Gospel. It is worthy of note, too, that no one of them supposed that he would die that night, for on that evening of his life after his deep sleep in the day he seemed suddenly to have found new strength, which kept him up through this long conversation. It was like a last effort of love which gave him marvelous energy; only for a little time, however, for his life was cut short immediately.... But of that later. I will only add now that I have preferred to confine myself to the account given by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov. It will be shorter and not so fatiguing, though of course, as I must repeat, Alyosha took a great deal from previous conversations and added them to it. ------------------------------------- Notes of the Life of the deceased Priest and Monk, the Elder Zossima, taken from his own words by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES _(a)_ _Father Zossima's Brother_ Beloved fathers and teachers, I was born in a distant province in the north, in the town of V. My father was a gentleman by birth, but of no great consequence or position. He died when I was only two years old, and I don't remember him at all. He left my mother a small house built of wood, and a fortune, not large, but sufficient to keep her and her children in comfort. There were two of us, my elder brother Markel and I. He was eight years older than I was, of hasty irritable temperament, but kind-hearted and never ironical. He was remarkably silent, especially at home with me, his mother, and the servants. He did well at school, but did not get on with his schoolfellows, though he never quarreled, at least so my mother has told me. Six months before his death, when he was seventeen, he made friends with a political exile who had been banished from Moscow to our town for freethinking, and led a solitary existence there. He was a good scholar who had gained distinction in philosophy in the university. Something made him take a fancy to Markel, and he used to ask him to see him. The young man would spend whole evenings with him during that winter, till the exile was summoned to Petersburg to take up his post again at his own request, as he had powerful friends. It was the beginning of Lent, and Markel would not fast, he was rude and laughed at it. "That's all silly twaddle, and there is no God," he said, horrifying my mother, the servants, and me too. For though I was only nine, I too was aghast at hearing such words. We had four servants, all serfs. I remember my mother selling one of the four, the cook Afimya, who was lame and elderly, for sixty paper roubles, and hiring a free servant to take her place. In the sixth week in Lent, my brother, who was never strong and had a tendency to consumption, was taken ill. He was tall but thin and delicate- looking, and of very pleasing countenance. I suppose he caught cold, anyway the doctor, who came, soon whispered to my mother that it was galloping consumption, that he would not live through the spring. My mother began weeping, and, careful not to alarm my brother, she entreated him to go to church, to confess and take the sacrament, as he was still able to move about. This made him angry, and he said something profane about the church. He grew thoughtful, however; he guessed at once that he was seriously ill, and that that was why his mother was begging him to confess and take the sacrament. He had been aware, indeed, for a long time past, that he was far from well, and had a year before coolly observed at dinner to our mother and me, "My life won't be long among you, I may not live another year," which seemed now like a prophecy. Three days passed and Holy Week had come. And on Tuesday morning my brother began going to church. "I am doing this simply for your sake, mother, to please and comfort you," he said. My mother wept with joy and grief. "His end must be near," she thought, "if there's such a change in him." But he was not able to go to church long, he took to his bed, so he had to confess and take the sacrament at home. It was a late Easter, and the days were bright, fine, and full of fragrance. I remember he used to cough all night and sleep badly, but in the morning he dressed and tried to sit up in an arm-chair. That's how I remember him sitting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and joyous, in spite of his illness. A marvelous change passed over him, his spirit seemed transformed. The old nurse would come in and say, "Let me light the lamp before the holy image, my dear." And once he would not have allowed it and would have blown it out. "Light it, light it, dear, I was a wretch to have prevented you doing it. You are praying when you light the lamp, and I am praying when I rejoice seeing you. So we are praying to the same God." Those words seemed strange to us, and mother would go to her room and weep, but when she went in to him she wiped her eyes and looked cheerful. "Mother, don't weep, darling," he would say, "I've long to live yet, long to rejoice with you, and life is glad and joyful." "Ah, dear boy, how can you talk of joy when you lie feverish at night, coughing as though you would tear yourself to pieces." "Don't cry, mother," he would answer, "life is paradise, and we are all in paradise, but we won't see it, if we would, we should have heaven on earth the next day." Every one wondered at his words, he spoke so strangely and positively; we were all touched and wept. Friends came to see us. "Dear ones," he would say to them, "what have I done that you should love me so, how can you love any one like me, and how was it I did not know, I did not appreciate it before?" When the servants came in to him he would say continually, "Dear, kind people, why are you doing so much for me, do I deserve to be waited on? If it were God's will for me to live, I would wait on you, for all men should wait on one another." Mother shook her head as she listened. "My darling, it's your illness makes you talk like that." "Mother, darling," he would say, "there must be servants and masters, but if so I will be the servant of my servants, the same as they are to me. And another thing, mother, every one of us has sinned against all men, and I more than any." Mother positively smiled at that, smiled through her tears. "Why, how could you have sinned against all men, more than all? Robbers and murderers have done that, but what sin have you committed yet, that you hold yourself more guilty than all?" "Mother, little heart of mine," he said (he had begun using such strange caressing words at that time), "little heart of mine, my joy, believe me, every one is really responsible to all men for all men and for everything. I don't know how to explain it to you, but I feel it is so, painfully even. And how is it we went on then living, getting angry and not knowing?" So he would get up every day, more and more sweet and joyous and full of love. When the doctor, an old German called Eisenschmidt, came: "Well, doctor, have I another day in this world?" he would ask, joking. "You'll live many days yet," the doctor would answer, "and months and years too." "Months and years!" he would exclaim. "Why reckon the days? One day is enough for a man to know all happiness. My dear ones, why do we quarrel, try to outshine each other and keep grudges against each other? Let's go straight into the garden, walk and play there, love, appreciate, and kiss each other, and glorify life." "Your son cannot last long," the doctor told my mother, as she accompanied him to the door. "The disease is affecting his brain." The windows of his room looked out into the garden, and our garden was a shady one, with old trees in it which were coming into bud. The first birds of spring were flitting in the branches, chirruping and singing at the windows. And looking at them and admiring them, he began suddenly begging their forgiveness too: "Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me, for I have sinned against you too." None of us could understand that at the time, but he shed tears of joy. "Yes," he said, "there was such a glory of God all about me: birds, trees, meadows, sky; only I lived in shame and dishonored it all and did not notice the beauty and glory." "You take too many sins on yourself," mother used to say, weeping. "Mother, darling, it's for joy, not for grief I am crying. Though I can't explain it to you, I like to humble myself before them, for I don't know how to love them enough. If I have sinned against every one, yet all forgive me, too, and that's heaven. Am I not in heaven now?" And there was a great deal more I don't remember. I remember I went once into his room when there was no one else there. It was a bright evening, the sun was setting, and the whole room was lighted up. He beckoned me, and I went up to him. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face tenderly, lovingly; he said nothing for a minute, only looked at me like that. "Well," he said, "run and play now, enjoy life for me too." I went out then and ran to play. And many times in my life afterwards I remembered even with tears how he told me to enjoy life for him too. There were many other marvelous and beautiful sayings of his, though we did not understand them at the time. He died the third week after Easter. He was fully conscious though he could not talk; up to his last hour he did not change. He looked happy, his eyes beamed and sought us, he smiled at us, beckoned us. There was a great deal of talk even in the town about his death. I was impressed by all this at the time, but not too much so, though I cried a good deal at his funeral. I was young then, a child, but a lasting impression, a hidden feeling of it all, remained in my heart, ready to rise up and respond when the time came. So indeed it happened. _(b) Of the Holy Scriptures in the Life of Father Zossima_ I was left alone with my mother. Her friends began advising her to send me to Petersburg as other parents did. "You have only one son now," they said, "and have a fair income, and you will be depriving him perhaps of a brilliant career if you keep him here." They suggested I should be sent to Petersburg to the Cadet Corps, that I might afterwards enter the Imperial Guard. My mother hesitated for a long time, it was awful to part with her only child, but she made up her mind to it at last, though not without many tears, believing she was acting for my happiness. She brought me to Petersburg and put me into the Cadet Corps, and I never saw her again. For she too died three years afterwards. She spent those three years mourning and grieving for both of us. From the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious memories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early childhood in one's first home. And that is almost always so if there is any love and harmony in the family at all. Indeed, precious memories may remain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is precious. With my memories of home I count, too, my memories of the Bible, which, child as I was, I was very eager to read at home. I had a book of Scripture history then with excellent pictures, called _A Hundred and Four Stories from the Old and New Testament_, and I learned to read from it. I have it lying on my shelf now, I keep it as a precious relic of the past. But even before I learned to read, I remember first being moved to devotional feeling at eight years old. My mother took me alone to mass (I don't remember where my brother was at the time) on the Monday before Easter. It was a fine day, and I remember to-day, as though I saw it now, how the incense rose from the censer and softly floated upwards and, overhead in the cupola, mingled in rising waves with the sunlight that streamed in at the little window. I was stirred by the sight, and for the first time in my life I consciously received the seed of God's word in my heart. A youth came out into the middle of the church carrying a big book, so large that at the time I fancied he could scarcely carry it. He laid it on the reading desk, opened it, and began reading, and suddenly for the first time I understood something read in the church of God. In the land of Uz, there lived a man, righteous and God-fearing, and he had great wealth, so many camels, so many sheep and asses, and his children feasted, and he loved them very much and prayed for them. "It may be that my sons have sinned in their feasting." Now the devil came before the Lord together with the sons of God, and said to the Lord that he had gone up and down the earth and under the earth. "And hast thou considered my servant Job?" God asked of him. And God boasted to the devil, pointing to his great and holy servant. And the devil laughed at God's words. "Give him over to me and Thou wilt see that Thy servant will murmur against Thee and curse Thy name." And God gave up the just man He loved so, to the devil. And the devil smote his children and his cattle and scattered his wealth, all of a sudden like a thunderbolt from heaven. And Job rent his mantle and fell down upon the ground and cried aloud, "Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return into the earth; the Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord for ever and ever." Fathers and teachers, forgive my tears now, for all my childhood rises up again before me, and I breathe now as I breathed then, with the breast of a little child of eight, and I feel as I did then, awe and wonder and gladness. The camels at that time caught my imagination, and Satan, who talked like that with God, and God who gave His servant up to destruction, and His servant crying out: "Blessed be Thy name although Thou dost punish me," and then the soft and sweet singing in the church: "Let my prayer rise up before Thee," and again incense from the priest's censer and the kneeling and the prayer. Ever since then--only yesterday I took it up--I've never been able to read that sacred tale without tears. And how much that is great, mysterious and unfathomable there is in it! Afterwards I heard the words of mockery and blame, proud words, "How could God give up the most loved of His saints for the diversion of the devil, take from him his children, smite him with sore boils so that he cleansed the corruption from his sores with a pot-sherd--and for no object except to boast to the devil! 'See what My saint can suffer for My sake.' " But the greatness of it lies just in the fact that it is a mystery--that the passing earthly show and the eternal verity are brought together in it. In the face of the earthly truth, the eternal truth is accomplished. The Creator, just as on the first days of creation He ended each day with praise: "That is good that I have created," looks upon Job and again praises His creation. And Job, praising the Lord, serves not only Him but all His creation for generations and generations, and for ever and ever, since for that he was ordained. Good heavens, what a book it is, and what lessons there are in it! What a book the Bible is, what a miracle, what strength is given with it to man! It is like a mold cast of the world and man and human nature, everything is there, and a law for everything for all the ages. And what mysteries are solved and revealed! God raises Job again, gives him wealth again. Many years pass by, and he has other children and loves them. But how could he love those new ones when those first children are no more, when he has lost them? Remembering them, how could he be fully happy with those new ones, however dear the new ones might be? But he could, he could. It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet, tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place of the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising sun each day, and, as before, my hearts sings to meet it, but now I love even more its setting, its long slanting rays and the soft, tender, gentle memories that come with them, the dear images from the whole of my long, happy life--and over all the Divine Truth, softening, reconciling, forgiving! My life is ending, I know that well, but every day that is left me I feel how my earthly life is in touch with a new infinite, unknown, that approaching life, the nearness of which sets my soul quivering with rapture, my mind glowing and my heart weeping with joy. Friends and teachers, I have heard more than once, and of late one may hear it more often, that the priests, and above all the village priests, are complaining on all sides of their miserable income and their humiliating lot. They plainly state, even in print--I've read it myself--that they are unable to teach the Scriptures to the people because of the smallness of their means, and if Lutherans and heretics come and lead the flock astray, they let them lead them astray because they have so little to live upon. May the Lord increase the sustenance that is so precious to them, for their complaint is just, too. But of a truth I say, if any one is to blame in the matter, half the fault is ours. For he may be short of time, he may say truly that he is overwhelmed all the while with work and services, but still it's not all the time, even he has an hour a week to remember God. And he does not work the whole year round. Let him gather round him once a week, some hour in the evening, if only the children at first--the fathers will hear of it and they too will begin to come. There's no need to build halls for this, let him take them into his own cottage. They won't spoil his cottage, they would only be there one hour. Let him open that book and begin reading it without grand words or superciliousness, without condescension to them, but gently and kindly, being glad that he is reading to them and that they are listening with attention, loving the words himself, only stopping from time to time to explain words that are not understood by the peasants. Don't be anxious, they will understand everything, the orthodox heart will understand all! Let him read them about Abraham and Sarah, about Isaac and Rebecca, of how Jacob went to Laban and wrestled with the Lord in his dream and said, "This place is holy"--and he will impress the devout mind of the peasant. Let him read, especially to the children, how the brothers sold Joseph, the tender boy, the dreamer and prophet, into bondage, and told their father that a wild beast had devoured him, and showed him his blood- stained clothes. Let him read them how the brothers afterwards journeyed into Egypt for corn, and Joseph, already a great ruler, unrecognized by them, tormented them, accused them, kept his brother Benjamin, and all through love: "I love you, and loving you I torment you." For he remembered all his life how they had sold him to the merchants in the burning desert by the well, and how, wringing his hands, he had wept and besought his brothers not to sell him as a slave in a strange land. And how, seeing them again after many years, he loved them beyond measure, but he harassed and tormented them in love. He left them at last not able to bear the suffering of his heart, flung himself on his bed and wept. Then, wiping his tears away, he went out to them joyful and told them, "Brothers, I am your brother Joseph!" Let him read them further how happy old Jacob was on learning that his darling boy was still alive, and how he went to Egypt leaving his own country, and died in a foreign land, bequeathing his great prophecy that had lain mysteriously hidden in his meek and timid heart all his life, that from his offspring, from Judah, will come the great hope of the world, the Messiah and Saviour. Fathers and teachers, forgive me and don't be angry, that like a little child I've been babbling of what you know long ago, and can teach me a hundred times more skillfully. I only speak from rapture, and forgive my tears, for I love the Bible. Let him too weep, the priest of God, and be sure that the hearts of his listeners will throb in response. Only a little tiny seed is needed--drop it into the heart of the peasant and it won't die, it will live in his soul all his life, it will be hidden in the midst of his darkness and sin, like a bright spot, like a great reminder. And there's no need of much teaching or explanation, he will understand it all simply. Do you suppose that the peasants don't understand? Try reading them the touching story of the fair Esther and the haughty Vashti; or the miraculous story of Jonah in the whale. Don't forget either the parables of Our Lord, choose especially from the Gospel of St. Luke (that is what I did), and then from the Acts of the Apostles the conversion of St. Paul (that you mustn't leave out on any account), and from the _Lives of the Saints_, for instance, the life of Alexey, the man of God and, greatest of all, the happy martyr and the seer of God, Mary of Egypt--and you will penetrate their hearts with these simple tales. Give one hour a week to it in spite of your poverty, only one little hour. And you will see for yourselves that our people is gracious and grateful, and will repay you a hundred-fold. Mindful of the kindness of their priest and the moving words they have heard from him, they will of their own accord help him in his fields and in his house, and will treat him with more respect than before--so that it will even increase his worldly well-being too. The thing is so simple that sometimes one is even afraid to put it into words, for fear of being laughed at, and yet how true it is! One who does not believe in God will not believe in God's people. He who believes in God's people will see His Holiness too, even though he had not believed in it till then. Only the people and their future spiritual power will convert our atheists, who have torn themselves away from their native soil. And what is the use of Christ's words, unless we set an example? The people is lost without the Word of God, for its soul is athirst for the Word and for all that is good. In my youth, long ago, nearly forty years ago, I traveled all over Russia with Father Anfim, collecting funds for our monastery, and we stayed one night on the bank of a great navigable river with some fishermen. A good- looking peasant lad, about eighteen, joined us; he had to hurry back next morning to pull a merchant's barge along the bank. I noticed him looking straight before him with clear and tender eyes. It was a bright, warm, still, July night, a cool mist rose from the broad river, we could hear the plash of a fish, the birds were still, all was hushed and beautiful, everything praying to God. Only we two were not sleeping, the lad and I, and we talked of the beauty of this world of God's and of the great mystery of it. Every blade of grass, every insect, ant, and golden bee, all so marvelously know their path, though they have not intelligence, they bear witness to the mystery of God and continually accomplish it themselves. I saw the dear lad's heart was moved. He told me that he loved the forest and the forest birds. He was a bird-catcher, knew the note of each of them, could call each bird. "I know nothing better than to be in the forest," said he, "though all things are good." "Truly," I answered him, "all things are good and fair, because all is truth. Look," said I, "at the horse, that great beast that is so near to man; or the lowly, pensive ox, which feeds him and works for him; look at their faces, what meekness, what devotion to man, who often beats them mercilessly. What gentleness, what confidence and what beauty! It's touching to know that there's no sin in them, for all, all except man, is sinless, and Christ has been with them before us." "Why," asked the boy, "is Christ with them too?" "It cannot but be so," said I, "since the Word is for all. All creation and all creatures, every leaf is striving to the Word, singing glory to God, weeping to Christ, unconsciously accomplishing this by the mystery of their sinless life. Yonder," said I, "in the forest wanders the dreadful bear, fierce and menacing, and yet innocent in it." And I told him how once a bear came to a great saint who had taken refuge in a tiny cell in the wood. And the great saint pitied him, went up to him without fear and gave him a piece of bread. "Go along," said he, "Christ be with you," and the savage beast walked away meekly and obediently, doing no harm. And the lad was delighted that the bear had walked away without hurting the saint, and that Christ was with him too. "Ah," said he, "how good that is, how good and beautiful is all God's work!" He sat musing softly and sweetly. I saw he understood. And he slept beside me a light and sinless sleep. May God bless youth! And I prayed for him as I went to sleep. Lord, send peace and light to Thy people!

book 6, Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section9/

The Elder Zosima and His Visitors When Alyosha returns to the monastery, he finds Zosima sitting in bed with a group of his students and followers around him. Zosima asks how Dmitri is doing and tells Alyosha that he bowed to Dmitri as he did because he foresees that Dmitri will soon undergo a great trial of pain and suffering. Zosima says that Dmitri's destiny is not Alyosha's, and encourages Alyosha again to leave the monastery and do good in the world

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1756-chapters/act_1.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Uncle Vanya/section_0_part_0.txt

Uncle Vanya.act 1

act 1

{"name": "Act 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200714032621/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/uncle-vanya/summary/act-1", "summary": "Marina and Astrov drink tea in the garden of Serebryakov's country house. They talk about how they've known each other for at least eleven years. Astrov thinks that he has become old and eccentric. Voynitsky, aka Vanya, comes out of the house after his nap. He complains that ever since Professor Serebryakov and his wife have come to the house to live his schedule has been interrupted. Marina also notices that the Professor has screwed up the house's eating schedule, and Vanya worries that they'll stay for a hundred years. Serebryakov, his wife Yelena, his daughter Sonya, and their neighbor Telegin come into the garden from their walk. Only Telegin joins Marina for tea. Vanya gets in some jabs about how old the Professor is and also moons over how beautiful the Professor's wife is. Vanya thinks that Yelena should betray her old husband so that she can be true to herself and enjoy her youth. Telegin thinks that's not such a great idea. Sonya and Yelena come out into the garden, and Mariya, the mother of Vanya and of the Professor's first wife, joins them. Mariya tries to start talking about a philosophical or political debate that she's been reading, but Vanya cuts her off rudely. He's jealous of how much his mother admires the Professor and makes vaguely suicidal references. Astrov, a doctor, is called away to the factory and as he goes Sonya starts bragging about what a great guy he is. It turns out he has earned medals for planting new trees and campaigning against the destruction of old forests. This really gets Astrov going and he starts on a tirade against the people who are cutting down the trees instead of using peat to burn and building their houses of stone instead of wood. Sonya leaves to see Astrov to the door, and while they're gone, Yelena scolds Vanya for the way he acted toward his mother and her husband. Vanya confesses his love to Yelena, and she begs him to stop before someone hears.", "analysis": ""}

ACT I A country house on a terrace. In front of it a garden. In an avenue of trees, under an old poplar, stands a table set for tea, with a samovar, etc. Some benches and chairs stand near the table. On one of them is lying a guitar. A hammock is swung near the table. It is three o'clock in the afternoon of a cloudy day. MARINA, a quiet, grey-haired, little old woman, is sitting at the table knitting a stocking. ASTROFF is walking up and down near her. MARINA. [Pouring some tea into a glass] Take a little tea, my son. ASTROFF. [Takes the glass from her unwillingly] Somehow, I don't seem to want any. MARINA. Then will you have a little vodka instead? ASTROFF. No, I don't drink vodka every day, and besides, it is too hot now. [A pause] Tell me, nurse, how long have we known each other? MARINA. [Thoughtfully] Let me see, how long is it? Lord--help me to remember. You first came here, into our parts--let me think--when was it? Sonia's mother was still alive--it was two winters before she died; that was eleven years ago--[thoughtfully] perhaps more. ASTROFF. Have I changed much since then? MARINA. Oh, yes. You were handsome and young then, and now you are an old man and not handsome any more. You drink, too. ASTROFF. Yes, ten years have made me another man. And why? Because I am overworked. Nurse, I am on my feet from dawn till dusk. I know no rest; at night I tremble under my blankets for fear of being dragged out to visit some one who is sick; I have toiled without repose or a day's freedom since I have known you; could I help growing old? And then, existence is tedious, anyway; it is a senseless, dirty business, this life, and goes heavily. Every one about here is silly, and after living with them for two or three years one grows silly oneself. It is inevitable. [Twisting his moustache] See what a long moustache I have grown. A foolish, long moustache. Yes, I am as silly as the rest, nurse, but not as stupid; no, I have not grown stupid. Thank God, my brain is not addled yet, though my feelings have grown numb. I ask nothing, I need nothing, I love no one, unless it is yourself alone. [He kisses her head] I had a nurse just like you when I was a child. MARINA. Don't you want a bite of something to eat? ASTROFF. No. During the third week of Lent I went to the epidemic at Malitskoi. It was eruptive typhoid. The peasants were all lying side by side in their huts, and the calves and pigs were running about the floor among the sick. Such dirt there was, and smoke! Unspeakable! I slaved among those people all day, not a crumb passed my lips, but when I got home there was still no rest for me; a switchman was carried in from the railroad; I laid him on the operating table and he went and died in my arms under chloroform, and then my feelings that should have been deadened awoke again, my conscience tortured me as if I had killed the man. I sat down and closed my eyes--like this--and thought: will our descendants two hundred years from now, for whom we are breaking the road, remember to give us a kind word? No, nurse, they will forget. MARINA. Man is forgetful, but God remembers. ASTROFF. Thank you for that. You have spoken the truth. Enter VOITSKI from the house. He has been asleep after dinner and looks rather dishevelled. He sits down on the bench and straightens his collar. VOITSKI. H'm. Yes. [A pause] Yes. ASTROFF. Have you been asleep? VOITSKI. Yes, very much so. [He yawns] Ever since the Professor and his wife have come, our daily life seems to have jumped the track. I sleep at the wrong time, drink wine, and eat all sorts of messes for luncheon and dinner. It isn't wholesome. Sonia and I used to work together and never had an idle moment, but now Sonia works alone and I only eat and drink and sleep. Something is wrong. MARINA. [Shaking her head] Such a confusion in the house! The Professor gets up at twelve, the samovar is kept boiling all the morning, and everything has to wait for him. Before they came we used to have dinner at one o'clock, like everybody else, but now we have it at seven. The Professor sits up all night writing and reading, and suddenly, at two o'clock, there goes the bell! Heavens, what is that? The Professor wants some tea! Wake the servants, light the samovar! Lord, what disorder! ASTROFF. Will they be here long? VOITSKI. A hundred years! The Professor has decided to make his home here. MARINA. Look at this now! The samovar has been on the table for two hours, and they are all out walking! VOITSKI. All right, don't get excited; here they come. Voices are heard approaching. SEREBRAKOFF, HELENA, SONIA, and TELEGIN come in from the depths of the garden, returning from their walk. SEREBRAKOFF. Superb! Superb! What beautiful views! TELEGIN. They are wonderful, your Excellency. SONIA. To-morrow we shall go into the woods, shall we, papa? VOITSKI. Ladies and gentlemen, tea is ready. SEREBRAKOFF. Won't you please be good enough to send my tea into the library? I still have some work to finish. SONIA. I am sure you will love the woods. HELENA, SEREBRAKOFF, and SONIA go into the house. TELEGIN sits down at the table beside MARINA. VOITSKI. There goes our learned scholar on a hot, sultry day like this, in his overcoat and goloshes and carrying an umbrella! ASTROFF. He is trying to take good care of his health. VOITSKI. How lovely she is! How lovely! I have never in my life seen a more beautiful woman. TELEGIN. Do you know, Marina, that as I walk in the fields or in the shady garden, as I look at this table here, my heart swells with unbounded happiness. The weather is enchanting, the birds are singing, we are all living in peace and contentment--what more could the soul desire? [Takes a glass of tea.] VOITSKI. [Dreaming] Such eyes--a glorious woman! ASTROFF. Come, Ivan, tell us something. VOITSKI. [Indolently] What shall I tell you? ASTROFF. Haven't you any news for us? VOITSKI. No, it is all stale. I am just the same as usual, or perhaps worse, because I have become lazy. I don't do anything now but croak like an old raven. My mother, the old magpie, is still chattering about the emancipation of woman, with one eye on her grave and the other on her learned books, in which she is always looking for the dawn of a new life. ASTROFF. And the Professor? VOITSKI. The Professor sits in his library from morning till night, as usual-- "Straining the mind, wrinkling the brow, We write, write, write, Without respite Or hope of praise in the future or now." Poor paper! He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a really splendid subject for a book! Imagine it, the life of a retired professor, as stale as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches, and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy and envy, living on the estate of his first wife, although he hates it, because he can't afford to live in town. He is everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though, as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. He is the son of a common deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the son-in-law of a senator, is called "your Excellency," and so on. But I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for twenty-five years, and he doesn't know the very first thing about it. For twenty-five years he has been chewing on other men's thoughts about realism, naturalism, and all such foolishness; for twenty-five years he has been reading and writing things that clever men have long known and stupid ones are not interested in; for twenty-five years he has been making his imaginary mountains out of molehills. And just think of the man's self-conceit and presumption all this time! For twenty-five years he has been masquerading in false clothes and has now retired absolutely unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking across the earth like a demi-god! ASTROFF. I believe you envy him. VOITSKI. Yes, I do. Look at the success he has had with women! Don Juan himself was not more favoured. His first wife, who was my sister, was a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue heaven there above us, noble, great-hearted, with more admirers than he has pupils, and she loved him as only beings of angelic purity can love those who are as pure and beautiful as themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother, adores him to this day, and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe in her. His second wife is, as you see, a brilliant beauty; she married him in his old age and has surrendered all the glory of her beauty and freedom to him. Why? What for? ASTROFF. Is she faithful to him? VOITSKI. Yes, unfortunately she is. ASTROFF. Why unfortunately? VOITSKI. Because such fidelity is false and unnatural, root and branch. It sounds well, but there is no logic in it. It is thought immoral for a woman to deceive an old husband whom she hates, but quite moral for her to strangle her poor youth in her breast and banish every vital desire from her heart. TELEGIN. [In a tearful voice] Vanya, I don't like to hear you talk so. Listen, Vanya; every one who betrays husband or wife is faithless, and could also betray his country. VOITSKI. [Crossly] Turn off the tap, Waffles. TELEGIN. No, allow me, Vanya. My wife ran away with a lover on the day after our wedding, because my exterior was unprepossessing. I have never failed in my duty since then. I love her and am true to her to this day. I help her all I can and have given my fortune to educate the daughter of herself and her lover. I have forfeited my happiness, but I have kept my pride. And she? Her youth has fled, her beauty has faded according to the laws of nature, and her lover is dead. What has she kept? HELENA and SONIA come in; after them comes MME. VOITSKAYA carrying a book. She sits down and begins to read. Some one hands her a glass of tea which she drinks without looking up. SONIA. [Hurriedly, to the nurse] There are some peasants waiting out there. Go and see what they want. I shall pour the tea. [Pours out some glasses of tea.] MARINA goes out. HELENA takes a glass and sits drinking in the hammock. ASTROFF. I have come to see your husband. You wrote me that he had rheumatism and I know not what else, and that he was very ill, but he appears to be as lively as a cricket. HELENA. He had a fit of the blues yesterday evening and complained of pains in his legs, but he seems all right again to-day. ASTROFF. And I galloped over here twenty miles at break-neck speed! No matter, though, it is not the first time. Once here, however, I am going to stay until to-morrow, and at any rate sleep _quantum satis._ SONIA. Oh, splendid! You so seldom spend the night with us. Have you had dinner yet? ASTROFF. No. SONIA. Good. So you will have it with us. We dine at seven now. [Drinks her tea] This tea is cold! TELEGIN. Yes, the samovar has grown cold. HELENA. Don't mind, Monsieur Ivan, we will drink cold tea, then. TELEGIN. I beg your pardon, my name is not Ivan, but Ilia, ma'am--Ilia Telegin, or Waffles, as I am sometimes called on account of my pock-marked face. I am Sonia's godfather, and his Excellency, your husband, knows me very well. I now live with you, ma'am, on this estate, and perhaps you will be so good as to notice that I dine with you every day. SONIA. He is our great help, our right-hand man. [Tenderly] Dear godfather, let me pour you some tea. MME. VOITSKAYA. Oh! Oh! SONIA. What is it, grandmother? MME. VOITSKAYA. I forgot to tell Alexander--I have lost my memory--I received a letter to-day from Paul Alexevitch in Kharkoff. He has sent me a new pamphlet. ASTROFF. Is it interesting? MME. VOITSKAYA. Yes, but strange. He refutes the very theories which he defended seven years ago. It is appalling! VOITSKI. There is nothing appalling about it. Drink your tea, mamma. MME. VOITSKAYA. It seems you never want to listen to what I have to say. Pardon me, Jean, but you have changed so in the last year that I hardly know you. You used to be a man of settled convictions and had an illuminating personality---- VOITSKI. Oh, yes. I had an illuminating personality, which illuminated no one. [A pause] I had an illuminating personality! You couldn't say anything more biting. I am forty-seven years old. Until last year I endeavoured, as you do now, to blind my eyes by your pedantry to the truths of life. But now--Oh, if you only knew! If you knew how I lie awake at night, heartsick and angry, to think how stupidly I have wasted my time when I might have been winning from life everything which my old age now forbids. SONIA. Uncle Vanya, how dreary! MME. VOITSKAYA. [To her son] You speak as if your former convictions were somehow to blame, but you yourself, not they, were at fault. You have forgotten that a conviction, in itself, is nothing but a dead letter. You should have done something. VOITSKI. Done something! Not every man is capable of being a writer _perpetuum mobile_ like your Herr Professor. MME. VOITSKAYA. What do you mean by that? SONIA. [Imploringly] Mother! Uncle Vanya! I entreat you! VOITSKI. I am silent. I apologise and am silent. [A pause.] HELENA. What a fine day! Not too hot. [A pause.] VOITSKI. A fine day to hang oneself. TELEGIN tunes the guitar. MARINA appears near the house, calling the chickens. MARINA. Chick, chick, chick! SONIA. What did the peasants want, nurse? MARINA. The same old thing, the same old nonsense. Chick, chick, chick! SONIA. Why are you calling the chickens? MARINA. The speckled hen has disappeared with her chicks. I am afraid the crows have got her. TELEGIN plays a polka. All listen in silence. Enter WORKMAN. WORKMAN. Is the doctor here? [To ASTROFF] Excuse me, sir, but I have been sent to fetch you. ASTROFF. Where are you from? WORKMAN. The factory. ASTROFF. [Annoyed] Thank you. There is nothing for it, then, but to go. [Looking around him for his cap] Damn it, this is annoying! SONIA. Yes, it is too bad, really. You must come back to dinner from the factory. ASTROFF. No, I won't be able to do that. It will be too late. Now where, where--[To the WORKMAN] Look here, my man, get me a glass of vodka, will you? [The WORKMAN goes out] Where--where--[Finds his cap] One of the characters in Ostroff's plays is a man with a long moustache and short wits, like me. However, let me bid you good-bye, ladies and gentlemen. [To HELENA] I should be really delighted if you would come to see me some day with Miss Sonia. My estate is small, but if you are interested in such things I should like to show you a nursery and seed-bed whose like you will not find within a thousand miles of here. My place is surrounded by government forests. The forester is old and always ailing, so I superintend almost all the work myself. HELENA. I have always heard that you were very fond of the woods. Of course one can do a great deal of good by helping to preserve them, but does not that work interfere with your real calling? ASTROFF. God alone knows what a man's real calling is. HELENA. And do you find it interesting? ASTROFF. Yes, very. VOITSKI. [Sarcastically] Oh, extremely! HELENA. You are still young, not over thirty-six or seven, I should say, and I suspect that the woods do not interest you as much as you say they do. I should think you would find them monotonous. SONIA. No, the work is thrilling. Dr. Astroff watches over the old woods and sets out new plantations every year, and he has already received a diploma and a bronze medal. If you will listen to what he can tell you, you will agree with him entirely. He says that forests are the ornaments of the earth, that they teach mankind to understand beauty and attune his mind to lofty sentiments. Forests temper a stern climate, and in countries where the climate is milder, less strength is wasted in the battle with nature, and the people are kind and gentle. The inhabitants of such countries are handsome, tractable, sensitive, graceful in speech and gesture. Their philosophy is joyous, art and science blossom among them, their treatment of women is full of exquisite nobility---- VOITSKI. [Laughing] Bravo! Bravo! All that is very pretty, but it is also unconvincing. So, my friend [To ASTROFF] you must let me go on burning firewood in my stoves and building my sheds of planks. ASTROFF. You can burn peat in your stoves and build your sheds of stone. Oh, I don't object, of course, to cutting wood from necessity, but why destroy the forests? The woods of Russia are trembling under the blows of the axe. Millions of trees have perished. The homes of the wild animals and birds have been desolated; the rivers are shrinking, and many beautiful landscapes are gone forever. And why? Because men are too lazy and stupid to stoop down and pick up their fuel from the ground. [To HELENA] Am I not right, Madame? Who but a stupid barbarian could burn so much beauty in his stove and destroy that which he cannot make? Man is endowed with reason and the power to create, so that he may increase that which has been given him, but until now he has not created, but demolished. The forests are disappearing, the rivers are running dry, the game is exterminated, the climate is spoiled, and the earth becomes poorer and uglier every day. [To VOITSKI] I read irony in your eye; you do not take what I am saying seriously, and--and--after all, it may very well be nonsense. But when I pass peasant-forests that I have preserved from the axe, or hear the rustling of the young plantations set out with my own hands, I feel as if I had had some small share in improving the climate, and that if mankind is happy a thousand years from now I will have been a little bit responsible for their happiness. When I plant a little birch tree and then see it budding into young green and swaying in the wind, my heart swells with pride and I--[Sees the WORKMAN, who is bringing him a glass of vodka on a tray] however--[He drinks] I must be off. Probably it is all nonsense, anyway. Good-bye. He goes toward the house. SONIA takes his arm and goes with him. SONIA. When are you coming to see us again? ASTROFF. I can't say. SONIA. In a month? ASTROFF and SONIA go into the house. HELENA and VOITSKI walk over to the terrace. HELENA. You have behaved shockingly again. Ivan, what sense was there in teasing your mother and talking about _perpetuum mobile?_ And at breakfast you quarreled with Alexander again. Really, your behaviour is too petty. VOITSKI. But if I hate him? HELENA. You hate Alexander without reason; he is like every one else, and no worse than you are. VOITSKI. If you could only see your face, your gestures! Oh, how tedious your life must be. HELENA. It is tedious, yes, and dreary! You all abuse my husband and look on me with compassion; you think, "Poor woman, she is married to an old man." How well I understand your compassion! As Astroff said just now, see how you thoughtlessly destroy the forests, so that there will soon be none left. So you also destroy mankind, and soon fidelity and purity and self-sacrifice will have vanished with the woods. Why cannot you look calmly at a woman unless she is yours? Because, the doctor was right, you are all possessed by a devil of destruction; you have no mercy on the woods or the birds or on women or on one another. VOITSKI. I don't like your philosophy. HELENA. That doctor has a sensitive, weary face--an interesting face. Sonia evidently likes him, and she is in love with him, and I can understand it. This is the third time he has been here since I have come, and I have not had a real talk with him yet or made much of him. He thinks I am disagreeable. Do you know, Ivan, the reason you and I are such friends? I think it is because we are both lonely and unfortunate. Yes, unfortunate. Don't look at me in that way, I don't like it. VOITSKI. How can I look at you otherwise when I love you? You are my joy, my life, and my youth. I know that my chances of being loved in return are infinitely small, do not exist, but I ask nothing of you. Only let me look at you, listen to your voice-- HELENA. Hush, some one will overhear you. [They go toward the house.] VOITSKI. [Following her] Let me speak to you of my love, do not drive me away, and this alone will be my greatest happiness! HELENA. Ah! This is agony! TELEGIN strikes the strings of his guitar and plays a polka. MME. VOITSKAYA writes something on the leaves of her pamphlet. The curtain falls.

Act 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20200714032621/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/uncle-vanya/summary/act-1

Marina and Astrov drink tea in the garden of Serebryakov's country house. They talk about how they've known each other for at least eleven years. Astrov thinks that he has become old and eccentric. Voynitsky, aka Vanya, comes out of the house after his nap. He complains that ever since Professor Serebryakov and his wife have come to the house to live his schedule has been interrupted. Marina also notices that the Professor has screwed up the house's eating schedule, and Vanya worries that they'll stay for a hundred years. Serebryakov, his wife Yelena, his daughter Sonya, and their neighbor Telegin come into the garden from their walk. Only Telegin joins Marina for tea. Vanya gets in some jabs about how old the Professor is and also moons over how beautiful the Professor's wife is. Vanya thinks that Yelena should betray her old husband so that she can be true to herself and enjoy her youth. Telegin thinks that's not such a great idea. Sonya and Yelena come out into the garden, and Mariya, the mother of Vanya and of the Professor's first wife, joins them. Mariya tries to start talking about a philosophical or political debate that she's been reading, but Vanya cuts her off rudely. He's jealous of how much his mother admires the Professor and makes vaguely suicidal references. Astrov, a doctor, is called away to the factory and as he goes Sonya starts bragging about what a great guy he is. It turns out he has earned medals for planting new trees and campaigning against the destruction of old forests. This really gets Astrov going and he starts on a tirade against the people who are cutting down the trees instead of using peat to burn and building their houses of stone instead of wood. Sonya leaves to see Astrov to the door, and while they're gone, Yelena scolds Vanya for the way he acted toward his mother and her husband. Vanya confesses his love to Yelena, and she begs him to stop before someone hears.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_11_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 12

chapter 12

{"name": "Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-12", "summary": "Trouble arrives at the Dashwood household in equine form when Marianne announces that Willoughby has given her an extravagant gift: a horse. Yes, that's right, you read right - flowers and chocolates just won't suffice for this guy. Horse it is. Elinor can't believe that Marianne has accepted such a ridiculous gift - after all, the Dashwoods can't afford all the things required to house a new horse . Marianne dismisses her sister's complaints about both the horse and Willoughby. However, Elinor manages to convince Marianne to turn down the horse, after reminder her of how much trouble it will be to their mother. The next day, Marianne regretfully informs Willoughby that the horse is impossible. He assures her that the horse will be waiting for her, until the Dashwoods are able to take care of it. Elinor overhears this exchange, and becomes convinced from Willoughby's concern and intimacy with Marianne that the two are engaged. Margaret, the youngest sister, is also convinced of the same thing. She tells Elinor excitedly that Willoughby even has a lock of Marianne's hair . Margaret, apparently, is kind of a ditz - she almost reveals the secret identity of Elinor's favorite gentleman to the curious Mrs. Jennings one day. Basically, she's a normal, gossip-loving preteen. Margaret reveals to everyone that Elinor's mystery man's name starts with an \"F.\" Fortunately, everyone is distracted by a combination of things, and Elinor is left mercifully alone . The party plans to go on an adventure to visit a beautiful estate nearby, owned by Colonel Brandon's brother-in-law, despite the bad weather.", "analysis": ""}

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.

Chapter 12

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-12

Trouble arrives at the Dashwood household in equine form when Marianne announces that Willoughby has given her an extravagant gift: a horse. Yes, that's right, you read right - flowers and chocolates just won't suffice for this guy. Horse it is. Elinor can't believe that Marianne has accepted such a ridiculous gift - after all, the Dashwoods can't afford all the things required to house a new horse . Marianne dismisses her sister's complaints about both the horse and Willoughby. However, Elinor manages to convince Marianne to turn down the horse, after reminder her of how much trouble it will be to their mother. The next day, Marianne regretfully informs Willoughby that the horse is impossible. He assures her that the horse will be waiting for her, until the Dashwoods are able to take care of it. Elinor overhears this exchange, and becomes convinced from Willoughby's concern and intimacy with Marianne that the two are engaged. Margaret, the youngest sister, is also convinced of the same thing. She tells Elinor excitedly that Willoughby even has a lock of Marianne's hair . Margaret, apparently, is kind of a ditz - she almost reveals the secret identity of Elinor's favorite gentleman to the curious Mrs. Jennings one day. Basically, she's a normal, gossip-loving preteen. Margaret reveals to everyone that Elinor's mystery man's name starts with an "F." Fortunately, everyone is distracted by a combination of things, and Elinor is left mercifully alone . The party plans to go on an adventure to visit a beautiful estate nearby, owned by Colonel Brandon's brother-in-law, despite the bad weather.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/chapters_8_to_9.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Prince/section_2_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapters 8-9

section 3: chapters 8-9

{"name": "Section 3: Chapters VIII-IX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210417004655/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-prince/study-guide/summary-section-3-chapters-viii-ix", "summary": "\"On Those Who Have Become Princes By Crime,\" is one of the key chapters of The Prince. In it, Machiavelli seems to distinguish between outright cruelty and the kind of clever ruthlessness he describes earlier in the work . He makes use of two examples: the first ancient, and the second modern. Agathocles massacred all the senators and richest citizens of Syracuse, and thereby became prince. Oliverotto da Fermo murdered his uncle and other citizens, and forced Fermo to make him its prince. An interesting side-note: Oliverotto was later killed by Cesare Borgia at Sinigaglia, having fallen victim to another statesman's trickery. How, Machiavelli asks, did these two men \"live long, secure lives in their native cities, defend themselves from foreign enemies, and never be conspired against by their fellow citizens?\" His answer: because their cruelty was put to good use. Cruelty can be considered well-used if carried out in one stab, the wicked deeds executed all at once, and if it can be interpreted as necessary for self-preservation. This distinction leads Machiavelli to the following argument: \"We may add this note that when a prince takes a new state, he should calculate the sum of all the injuries he will have to do, and do them all at once, so as not to have to do new ones every day; simply by not repeating them, he will then be able to reassure people, and win them over to his side with benefits.\" The next chapter, \"On the Civil Principate,\" concerns another kind of prince: one who gains power \"not through crimes or other intolerable violence, but by the choice of his fellow citizens .\" A prince can rise in this fashion in one of two ways: either by the will of the people, or by the will of the nobles. \"In every city,\" Machiavelli goes on to argue, \"there are two different humors, one rising from the people's desire not to be ordered and commanded by the nobles, and the other from the desire of the nobles to command and oppress the people.\" If nobles see they are having trouble with the people, they make one of their own a prince; he becomes their puppet, and therefore they get what they want on a larger scale. If the people feel that the nobles are oppressing them, they will try to make one of their own a prince; he then becomes their shield against the nobles. As nobles are particularly difficult to deal with, a prince of any kind should try to win the favor of the populace and keep it dependent on the state. Machiavelli rejects the notion that \"The man who counts on the people builds his house on mud,\" though he does concede that a prince should not let \"himself think that the people will come to his aid when he is in trouble.\" As with so much else, it is all about balance.", "analysis": "Machiavelli has a reputation, largely based on The Prince, for a cold-hearted worldview, political cynicism, and philosophical ruthlessness. However, this reputation is largely exaggerated. As influential as Machiavelli's ideas may have been on future generations of totalitarians, realpolitik maestros, and Kissinger think-alikes, his own approach is far more complex: it reflects a taste for expediency and an emphasis on ends over means, but is muted by a concern for human needs and a genuine interest in human nature. Consider the following sentence, from Chapter IX: \"In fact the aim of the common people is more honest than that of the nobles, since the nobles want to oppress others, while the people simply want not to be oppressed.\" Machiavelli adopts an altogether bitter tone when describing the nobles - their greed, their power-lust, their selfishness - and seems to argue that a good prince should rise above such petty wants and lowly attributes. If anything, a prince should pay more attention to the people than to the nobles. While such a formulation may seem to be common sense, it reflects an almost democratic view: the will of the many over the will of the few, protection for the powerless against the threats of the powerful. That this chapter follows a chapter exclusively devoted to criminal princes is telling. Machiavelli seems unsure whether to condone what he labels as \"cruelty\" or to condemn it. He seems to take a certain pleasure in recounting the wicked deeds of an Agathocles or an Oliverotto da Fermo; what these men did is indefensible, and yet it worked. Machiavelli, ever the theoretician, proceeds to meditate on why it worked. He nearly traps himself in a philosophical cul-de-sac when, about to explain what he means by well-used cruelty, he writes: \"if it's permissible to say good words about something which is evil in itself.\" Why are the actions of Agathocles and Oliverotto evil, while those of Cesare Borgia are not? We are reminded of Borgia, since it was he who lured Oliverotto to his death. Never would Machiavelli refer to Borgia as a criminal prince, yet he murdered the leaders of rival factions to clear the way for his own ascent, much as did Agathocles and Oliverotto, and he made an example of his lieutenant general after using him to pacify his kingdom, just to save face. To Machiavelli, this is cleverness at its best: actions justified by their very brilliance. It's not hard to see why everyone from Macbeth to the Corleone family to Stalin have been labeled Machiavellian at various junctures. But would Machiavelli approve? It seems that because the deeds of Agathocles and Oliverotto reflected not so much urgent necessity as a kind of deep-seated bloodlust, they are distinguishable from Borgia's moves. Whatever the reasoning, Machiavelli's distinction is notable. Machiavelli has not touched the bottom of this particular well, in later chapters continues to examine the line between justifiable and unjustifiable cruelty. Nonetheless, what emerges at this juncture in The Prince is the simple assertion, fundamental to the book's argument, that some cruelty is good and some is not. This rejection of the categorical in favor of the relative or comparative is an important one: there is a sense in which the contradictions in Machiavelli's theorizing may reflect his own uncertainty as to when cruelty can be excused. It is worth remembering that he was imprisoned and tortured prior to writing The Prince; without lashing out at the Medici family, he does, in his introductory letter, suggest that the cruelty he experienced was unjustified: \"you will recognize how unjustly I suffer the bitter and sustained malignity of fortune.\" The exile rails against the cruelty carried out against him while defending the cruelty of past princes. At the same time, he refers to historical figures such as Agathocles as wicked men; he writes that people should either be \"caressed or destroyed,\" and then later turns around and argues that the common people are honest and more noble in their sentiments than the nobles. None of these various positions constitutes a complete about-face vis-a-vis an earlier position, but the shifting of rhetoric and the slipperiness of Machiavelli's tone does suggest that he himself has not finished grappling with what is perhaps the most fundamental question of all: when do the ends no longer justify the means?"}

Although a prince may rise from a private station in two ways, neither of which can be entirely attributed to fortune or genius, yet it is manifest to me that I must not be silent on them, although one could be more copiously treated when I discuss republics. These methods are when, either by some wicked or nefarious ways, one ascends to the principality, or when by the favour of his fellow-citizens a private person becomes the prince of his country. And speaking of the first method, it will be illustrated by two examples--one ancient, the other modern--and without entering further into the subject, I consider these two examples will suffice those who may be compelled to follow them. Agathocles, the Sicilian,(*) became King of Syracuse not only from a private but from a low and abject position. This man, the son of a potter, through all the changes in his fortunes always led an infamous life. Nevertheless, he accompanied his infamies with so much ability of mind and body that, having devoted himself to the military profession, he rose through its ranks to be Praetor of Syracuse. Being established in that position, and having deliberately resolved to make himself prince and to seize by violence, without obligation to others, that which had been conceded to him by assent, he came to an understanding for this purpose with Amilcar, the Carthaginian, who, with his army, was fighting in Sicily. One morning he assembled the people and the senate of Syracuse, as if he had to discuss with them things relating to the Republic, and at a given signal the soldiers killed all the senators and the richest of the people; these dead, he seized and held the princedom of that city without any civil commotion. And although he was twice routed by the Carthaginians, and ultimately besieged, yet not only was he able to defend his city, but leaving part of his men for its defence, with the others he attacked Africa, and in a short time raised the siege of Syracuse. The Carthaginians, reduced to extreme necessity, were compelled to come to terms with Agathocles, and, leaving Sicily to him, had to be content with the possession of Africa. (*) Agathocles the Sicilian, born 361 B.C., died 289 B.C. Therefore, he who considers the actions and the genius of this man will see nothing, or little, which can be attributed to fortune, inasmuch as he attained pre-eminence, as is shown above, not by the favour of any one, but step by step in the military profession, which steps were gained with a thousand troubles and perils, and were afterwards boldly held by him with many hazardous dangers. Yet it cannot be called talent to slay fellow-citizens, to deceive friends, to be without faith, without mercy, without religion; such methods may gain empire, but not glory. Still, if the courage of Agathocles in entering into and extricating himself from dangers be considered, together with his greatness of mind in enduring and overcoming hardships, it cannot be seen why he should be esteemed less than the most notable captain. Nevertheless, his barbarous cruelty and inhumanity with infinite wickedness do not permit him to be celebrated among the most excellent men. What he achieved cannot be attributed either to fortune or genius. In our times, during the rule of Alexander the Sixth, Oliverotto da Fermo, having been left an orphan many years before, was brought up by his maternal uncle, Giovanni Fogliani, and in the early days of his youth sent to fight under Pagolo Vitelli, that, being trained under his discipline, he might attain some high position in the military profession. After Pagolo died, he fought under his brother Vitellozzo, and in a very short time, being endowed with wit and a vigorous body and mind, he became the first man in his profession. But it appearing a paltry thing to serve under others, he resolved, with the aid of some citizens of Fermo, to whom the slavery of their country was dearer than its liberty, and with the help of the Vitelleschi, to seize Fermo. So he wrote to Giovanni Fogliani that, having been away from home for many years, he wished to visit him and his city, and in some measure to look upon his patrimony; and although he had not laboured to acquire anything except honour, yet, in order that the citizens should see he had not spent his time in vain, he desired to come honourably, so would be accompanied by one hundred horsemen, his friends and retainers; and he entreated Giovanni to arrange that he should be received honourably by the Fermians, all of which would be not only to his honour, but also to that of Giovanni himself, who had brought him up. Giovanni, therefore, did not fail in any attentions due to his nephew, and he caused him to be honourably received by the Fermians, and he lodged him in his own house, where, having passed some days, and having arranged what was necessary for his wicked designs, Oliverotto gave a solemn banquet to which he invited Giovanni Fogliani and the chiefs of Fermo. When the viands and all the other entertainments that are usual in such banquets were finished, Oliverotto artfully began certain grave discourses, speaking of the greatness of Pope Alexander and his son Cesare, and of their enterprises, to which discourse Giovanni and others answered; but he rose at once, saying that such matters ought to be discussed in a more private place, and he betook himself to a chamber, whither Giovanni and the rest of the citizens went in after him. No sooner were they seated than soldiers issued from secret places and slaughtered Giovanni and the rest. After these murders Oliverotto, mounted on horseback, rode up and down the town and besieged the chief magistrate in the palace, so that in fear the people were forced to obey him, and to form a government, of which he made himself the prince. He killed all the malcontents who were able to injure him, and strengthened himself with new civil and military ordinances, in such a way that, in the year during which he held the principality, not only was he secure in the city of Fermo, but he had become formidable to all his neighbours. And his destruction would have been as difficult as that of Agathocles if he had not allowed himself to be overreached by Cesare Borgia, who took him with the Orsini and Vitelli at Sinigalia, as was stated above. Thus one year after he had committed this parricide, he was strangled, together with Vitellozzo, whom he had made his leader in valour and wickedness. Some may wonder how it can happen that Agathocles, and his like, after infinite treacheries and cruelties, should live for long secure in his country, and defend himself from external enemies, and never be conspired against by his own citizens; seeing that many others, by means of cruelty, have never been able even in peaceful times to hold the state, still less in the doubtful times of war. I believe that this follows from severities(*) being badly or properly used. Those may be called properly used, if of evil it is possible to speak well, that are applied at one blow and are necessary to one's security, and that are not persisted in afterwards unless they can be turned to the advantage of the subjects. The badly employed are those which, notwithstanding they may be few in the commencement, multiply with time rather than decrease. Those who practise the first system are able, by aid of God or man, to mitigate in some degree their rule, as Agathocles did. It is impossible for those who follow the other to maintain themselves. (*) Mr Burd suggests that this word probably comes near the modern equivalent of Machiavelli's thought when he speaks of "crudelta" than the more obvious "cruelties." Hence it is to be remarked that, in seizing a state, the usurper ought to examine closely into all those injuries which it is necessary for him to inflict, and to do them all at one stroke so as not to have to repeat them daily; and thus by not unsettling men he will be able to reassure them, and win them to himself by benefits. He who does otherwise, either from timidity or evil advice, is always compelled to keep the knife in his hand; neither can he rely on his subjects, nor can they attach themselves to him, owing to their continued and repeated wrongs. For injuries ought to be done all at one time, so that, being tasted less, they offend less; benefits ought to be given little by little, so that the flavour of them may last longer. And above all things, a prince ought to live amongst his people in such a way that no unexpected circumstances, whether of good or evil, shall make him change; because if the necessity for this comes in troubled times, you are too late for harsh measures; and mild ones will not help you, for they will be considered as forced from you, and no one will be under any obligation to you for them. But coming to the other point--where a leading citizen becomes the prince of his country, not by wickedness or any intolerable violence, but by the favour of his fellow citizens--this may be called a civil principality: nor is genius or fortune altogether necessary to attain to it, but rather a happy shrewdness. I say then that such a principality is obtained either by the favour of the people or by the favour of the nobles. Because in all cities these two distinct parties are found, and from this it arises that the people do not wish to be ruled nor oppressed by the nobles, and the nobles wish to rule and oppress the people; and from these two opposite desires there arises in cities one of three results, either a principality, self-government, or anarchy. A principality is created either by the people or by the nobles, accordingly as one or other of them has the opportunity; for the nobles, seeing they cannot withstand the people, begin to cry up the reputation of one of themselves, and they make him a prince, so that under his shadow they can give vent to their ambitions. The people, finding they cannot resist the nobles, also cry up the reputation of one of themselves, and make him a prince so as to be defended by his authority. He who obtains sovereignty by the assistance of the nobles maintains himself with more difficulty than he who comes to it by the aid of the people, because the former finds himself with many around him who consider themselves his equals, and because of this he can neither rule nor manage them to his liking. But he who reaches sovereignty by popular favour finds himself alone, and has none around him, or few, who are not prepared to obey him. Besides this, one cannot by fair dealing, and without injury to others, satisfy the nobles, but you can satisfy the people, for their object is more righteous than that of the nobles, the latter wishing to oppress, while the former only desire not to be oppressed. It is to be added also that a prince can never secure himself against a hostile people, because of there being too many, whilst from the nobles he can secure himself, as they are few in number. The worst that a prince may expect from a hostile people is to be abandoned by them; but from hostile nobles he has not only to fear abandonment, but also that they will rise against him; for they, being in these affairs more far-seeing and astute, always come forward in time to save themselves, and to obtain favours from him whom they expect to prevail. Further, the prince is compelled to live always with the same people, but he can do well without the same nobles, being able to make and unmake them daily, and to give or take away authority when it pleases him. Therefore, to make this point clearer, I say that the nobles ought to be looked at mainly in two ways: that is to say, they either shape their course in such a way as binds them entirely to your fortune, or they do not. Those who so bind themselves, and are not rapacious, ought to be honoured and loved; those who do not bind themselves may be dealt with in two ways; they may fail to do this through pusillanimity and a natural want of courage, in which case you ought to make use of them, especially of those who are of good counsel; and thus, whilst in prosperity you honour them, in adversity you do not have to fear them. But when for their own ambitious ends they shun binding themselves, it is a token that they are giving more thought to themselves than to you, and a prince ought to guard against such, and to fear them as if they were open enemies, because in adversity they always help to ruin him. Therefore, one who becomes a prince through the favour of the people ought to keep them friendly, and this he can easily do seeing they only ask not to be oppressed by him. But one who, in opposition to the people, becomes a prince by the favour of the nobles, ought, above everything, to seek to win the people over to himself, and this he may easily do if he takes them under his protection. Because men, when they receive good from him of whom they were expecting evil, are bound more closely to their benefactor; thus the people quickly become more devoted to him than if he had been raised to the principality by their favours; and the prince can win their affections in many ways, but as these vary according to the circumstances one cannot give fixed rules, so I omit them; but, I repeat, it is necessary for a prince to have the people friendly, otherwise he has no security in adversity. Nabis,(*) Prince of the Spartans, sustained the attack of all Greece, and of a victorious Roman army, and against them he defended his country and his government; and for the overcoming of this peril it was only necessary for him to make himself secure against a few, but this would not have been sufficient had the people been hostile. And do not let any one impugn this statement with the trite proverb that "He who builds on the people, builds on the mud," for this is true when a private citizen makes a foundation there, and persuades himself that the people will free him when he is oppressed by his enemies or by the magistrates; wherein he would find himself very often deceived, as happened to the Gracchi in Rome and to Messer Giorgio Scali(+) in Florence. But granted a prince who has established himself as above, who can command, and is a man of courage, undismayed in adversity, who does not fail in other qualifications, and who, by his resolution and energy, keeps the whole people encouraged--such a one will never find himself deceived in them, and it will be shown that he has laid his foundations well. (*) Nabis, tyrant of Sparta, conquered by the Romans under Flamininus in 195 B.C.; killed 192 B.C. (+) Messer Giorgio Scali. This event is to be found in Machiavelli's "Florentine History," Book III. These principalities are liable to danger when they are passing from the civil to the absolute order of government, for such princes either rule personally or through magistrates. In the latter case their government is weaker and more insecure, because it rests entirely on the goodwill of those citizens who are raised to the magistracy, and who, especially in troubled times, can destroy the government with great ease, either by intrigue or open defiance; and the prince has not the chance amid tumults to exercise absolute authority, because the citizens and subjects, accustomed to receive orders from magistrates, are not of a mind to obey him amid these confusions, and there will always be in doubtful times a scarcity of men whom he can trust. For such a prince cannot rely upon what he observes in quiet times, when citizens have need of the state, because then every one agrees with him; they all promise, and when death is far distant they all wish to die for him; but in troubled times, when the state has need of its citizens, then he finds but few. And so much the more is this experiment dangerous, inasmuch as it can only be tried once. Therefore a wise prince ought to adopt such a course that his citizens will always in every sort and kind of circumstance have need of the state and of him, and then he will always find them faithful.

Section 3: Chapters VIII-IX

https://web.archive.org/web/20210417004655/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-prince/study-guide/summary-section-3-chapters-viii-ix

"On Those Who Have Become Princes By Crime," is one of the key chapters of The Prince. In it, Machiavelli seems to distinguish between outright cruelty and the kind of clever ruthlessness he describes earlier in the work . He makes use of two examples: the first ancient, and the second modern. Agathocles massacred all the senators and richest citizens of Syracuse, and thereby became prince. Oliverotto da Fermo murdered his uncle and other citizens, and forced Fermo to make him its prince. An interesting side-note: Oliverotto was later killed by Cesare Borgia at Sinigaglia, having fallen victim to another statesman's trickery. How, Machiavelli asks, did these two men "live long, secure lives in their native cities, defend themselves from foreign enemies, and never be conspired against by their fellow citizens?" His answer: because their cruelty was put to good use. Cruelty can be considered well-used if carried out in one stab, the wicked deeds executed all at once, and if it can be interpreted as necessary for self-preservation. This distinction leads Machiavelli to the following argument: "We may add this note that when a prince takes a new state, he should calculate the sum of all the injuries he will have to do, and do them all at once, so as not to have to do new ones every day; simply by not repeating them, he will then be able to reassure people, and win them over to his side with benefits." The next chapter, "On the Civil Principate," concerns another kind of prince: one who gains power "not through crimes or other intolerable violence, but by the choice of his fellow citizens ." A prince can rise in this fashion in one of two ways: either by the will of the people, or by the will of the nobles. "In every city," Machiavelli goes on to argue, "there are two different humors, one rising from the people's desire not to be ordered and commanded by the nobles, and the other from the desire of the nobles to command and oppress the people." If nobles see they are having trouble with the people, they make one of their own a prince; he becomes their puppet, and therefore they get what they want on a larger scale. If the people feel that the nobles are oppressing them, they will try to make one of their own a prince; he then becomes their shield against the nobles. As nobles are particularly difficult to deal with, a prince of any kind should try to win the favor of the populace and keep it dependent on the state. Machiavelli rejects the notion that "The man who counts on the people builds his house on mud," though he does concede that a prince should not let "himself think that the people will come to his aid when he is in trouble." As with so much else, it is all about balance.

Machiavelli has a reputation, largely based on The Prince, for a cold-hearted worldview, political cynicism, and philosophical ruthlessness. However, this reputation is largely exaggerated. As influential as Machiavelli's ideas may have been on future generations of totalitarians, realpolitik maestros, and Kissinger think-alikes, his own approach is far more complex: it reflects a taste for expediency and an emphasis on ends over means, but is muted by a concern for human needs and a genuine interest in human nature. Consider the following sentence, from Chapter IX: "In fact the aim of the common people is more honest than that of the nobles, since the nobles want to oppress others, while the people simply want not to be oppressed." Machiavelli adopts an altogether bitter tone when describing the nobles - their greed, their power-lust, their selfishness - and seems to argue that a good prince should rise above such petty wants and lowly attributes. If anything, a prince should pay more attention to the people than to the nobles. While such a formulation may seem to be common sense, it reflects an almost democratic view: the will of the many over the will of the few, protection for the powerless against the threats of the powerful. That this chapter follows a chapter exclusively devoted to criminal princes is telling. Machiavelli seems unsure whether to condone what he labels as "cruelty" or to condemn it. He seems to take a certain pleasure in recounting the wicked deeds of an Agathocles or an Oliverotto da Fermo; what these men did is indefensible, and yet it worked. Machiavelli, ever the theoretician, proceeds to meditate on why it worked. He nearly traps himself in a philosophical cul-de-sac when, about to explain what he means by well-used cruelty, he writes: "if it's permissible to say good words about something which is evil in itself." Why are the actions of Agathocles and Oliverotto evil, while those of Cesare Borgia are not? We are reminded of Borgia, since it was he who lured Oliverotto to his death. Never would Machiavelli refer to Borgia as a criminal prince, yet he murdered the leaders of rival factions to clear the way for his own ascent, much as did Agathocles and Oliverotto, and he made an example of his lieutenant general after using him to pacify his kingdom, just to save face. To Machiavelli, this is cleverness at its best: actions justified by their very brilliance. It's not hard to see why everyone from Macbeth to the Corleone family to Stalin have been labeled Machiavellian at various junctures. But would Machiavelli approve? It seems that because the deeds of Agathocles and Oliverotto reflected not so much urgent necessity as a kind of deep-seated bloodlust, they are distinguishable from Borgia's moves. Whatever the reasoning, Machiavelli's distinction is notable. Machiavelli has not touched the bottom of this particular well, in later chapters continues to examine the line between justifiable and unjustifiable cruelty. Nonetheless, what emerges at this juncture in The Prince is the simple assertion, fundamental to the book's argument, that some cruelty is good and some is not. This rejection of the categorical in favor of the relative or comparative is an important one: there is a sense in which the contradictions in Machiavelli's theorizing may reflect his own uncertainty as to when cruelty can be excused. It is worth remembering that he was imprisoned and tortured prior to writing The Prince; without lashing out at the Medici family, he does, in his introductory letter, suggest that the cruelty he experienced was unjustified: "you will recognize how unjustly I suffer the bitter and sustained malignity of fortune." The exile rails against the cruelty carried out against him while defending the cruelty of past princes. At the same time, he refers to historical figures such as Agathocles as wicked men; he writes that people should either be "caressed or destroyed," and then later turns around and argues that the common people are honest and more noble in their sentiments than the nobles. None of these various positions constitutes a complete about-face vis-a-vis an earlier position, but the shifting of rhetoric and the slipperiness of Machiavelli's tone does suggest that he himself has not finished grappling with what is perhaps the most fundamental question of all: when do the ends no longer justify the means?

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_21_part_0.txt

The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra.act iii.scene x

act iii, scene x

{"name": "Act III, Scene x", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-x", "summary": "Stage directions show Taurus with Caesar's army and Canidius with Antony's army as they both cross paths. We can hear the battle off-stage, but Enobarbus comes in to deliver the horrifying news: in the middle of the battle, just when fortune could have gone one way or the other, Cleopatra's ship turned sail and ran away. Antony, seeing her flee, also turned his sails and followed her, leaving the battle to ruins and his honor to mockery. Canidius enters, announcing that this defeat was due to Antony not being remotely noble. Canidius decides to defect to Caesar's side with his troops, and Enobarbus leans toward defecting also, though he's not too happy about it.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE X. Another part of the plain CANIDIUS marcheth with his land army one way over the stage, and TAURUS, the Lieutenant of CAESAR, the other way. After their going in is heard the noise of a sea-fight Alarum. Enter ENOBARBUS ENOBARBUS. Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer. Th' Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral, With all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder. To see't mine eyes are blasted. Enter SCARUS SCARUS. Gods and goddesses, All the whole synod of them! ENOBARBUS. What's thy passion? SCARUS. The greater cantle of the world is lost With very ignorance; we have kiss'd away Kingdoms and provinces. ENOBARBUS. How appears the fight? SCARUS. On our side like the token'd pestilence, Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt- Whom leprosy o'ertake!- i' th' midst o' th' fight, When vantage like a pair of twins appear'd, Both as the same, or rather ours the elder- The breese upon her, like a cow in June- Hoists sails and flies. ENOBARBUS. That I beheld; Mine eyes did sicken at the sight and could not Endure a further view. SCARUS. She once being loof'd, The noble ruin of her magic, Antony, Claps on his sea-wing, and, like a doting mallard, Leaving the fight in height, flies after her. I never saw an action of such shame; Experience, manhood, honour, ne'er before Did violate so itself. ENOBARBUS. Alack, alack! Enter CANIDIUS CANIDIUS. Our fortune on the sea is out of breath, And sinks most lamentably. Had our general Been what he knew himself, it had gone well. O, he has given example for our flight Most grossly by his own! ENOBARBUS. Ay, are you thereabouts? Why then, good night indeed. CANIDIUS. Toward Peloponnesus are they fled. SCARUS. 'Tis easy to't; and there I will attend What further comes. CANIDIUS. To Caesar will I render My legions and my horse; six kings already Show me the way of yielding. ENOBARBUS. I'll yet follow The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason Sits in the wind against me. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_11

Act III, Scene x

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

Stage directions show Taurus with Caesar's army and Canidius with Antony's army as they both cross paths. We can hear the battle off-stage, but Enobarbus comes in to deliver the horrifying news: in the middle of the battle, just when fortune could have gone one way or the other, Cleopatra's ship turned sail and ran away. Antony, seeing her flee, also turned his sails and followed her, leaving the battle to ruins and his honor to mockery. Canidius enters, announcing that this defeat was due to Antony not being remotely noble. Canidius decides to defect to Caesar's side with his troops, and Enobarbus leans toward defecting also, though he's not too happy about it.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_1_to_3.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_0_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 1-3

chapters 1-3

{"name": "Chapters 1-3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-3", "summary": "Lord Jim begins with the powerful physical description of a man \"an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built.\" He has a deep voice and immaculate dress, being white \"from shoes to hat,\" and he makes his living as a water-clerk in \"various Eastern ports.\" He is \"very popular.\" This image is layered with attributes that arise in a consideration of what is required to be a water-clerk of quality. Thus the reader learns that the man has \"Ability in the abstract\" and that he is able to apply it \"practically.\" The man is called \"Jim.\" Jim comes to be known as \"Tuan Jim\" or \"Lord Jim\" among the Malays of the jungle village where he lives \"incognito.\" Answering just how he becomes \"Lord Jim\" and just why he is \"incognito\" is the project of the tale. Jim is rootless, moving farther and farther east, escaping whatever fact of his history that seems to be following him. Born the son of a parson, he is answering the call of the sea. He is smart, physically fit, and a dreamer of danger and success. The reader, however, now learns of a collision at sea where Jim leapt to his feet but was beaten. \"Too late, youngster,\" the captain of the ship tells him, as the glory of the rescue falls like a wreath over the bowman, who jumped first, \"a boy with a face like a girl's and big grey eyes.\" Jim is angry and frustrated with his missed opportunity to be a hero. Two years of training and life on the sea pass, and Jim feels let down by the humdrum nature of his experiences. The sea, he feels, is not so full of the adventures he once imagined. Jim is \"chief mate of a fine ship, without ever having been tested\" . He spends some time on his back because of an injury and is left at a hospital in an \"Eastern port.\" When able, Jim descends into the nearby port town and studies the nature of men and life around him, all sharing the same calling of the sea. In time, he discards the idea of returning to England and chooses, instead, to become chief mate of the Patna, an old local steamer, manned by a vastly overweight New South Wales German captain. The steamer is headed for Mecca with eight hundred pilgrims led by an Arab leader in white, who offers a prayer. There are only five white men on board. At night, as Jim contemplates the Arabian Sea from the bridge of the steamer, the speed steady, and the human landscape of passengers asleep, fathers and sons, beneath him, he considers his romantic dreams--\"the success of his imaginary achievements\" . The German captain appears with too little clothing; the second engineer complains. A conversation takes place regarding drink and being drunk, and then fear and courage, but \"those men did not belong to the world of heroic adventure\" . Suddenly, the three of them are lurched by the force of a disturbance beneath the boat. The sound is like the \"faint noise of thunder ... hardly more than a vibration\" .", "analysis": "Lord Jim begins with a direct, close-up view of its subject: Jim. His physical description is at first powerfully impressed upon the reader, and then the reader encounters the mysterious manner in which he drifts through the world. He is a clean-cut, well-liked young man, but the mystery is that he is constantly trying to outrun or escape a fact of his past. The reader is brought into a state of curiosity. Who is this young man? Why is he trying to maintain himself incognito? Why is he a water-clerk, when he appears to be gifted with intelligence and talent? And, most importantly, what is the fact from which he is so energetically trying to escape? The reference to Jim as having \"Ability in the abstract\" is crucial to the construction of his character in the novel. He is gifted with a kind of genius, but it only exists in an abstract way. The effort is then to realize this \"ability\" in the real world, to take action, to create change, and to realize the potential of such an \"ability.\" It is further important to note that Jim is never given a surname throughout the narrative. In this way, the lone \"Jim\" strikes the reader as intimately present yet anonymous, illustrating precisely the kind of ambiguity for which Conrad is famous. When the reader is then told that Jim becomes \"Tuan Jim\" or \"Lord Jim,\" Conrad drives the dramatic motion of the novel by causing curiosity regarding how Jim will attain this title. The view in the narrative then cuts to a significant moment in his personal history, the occasion when he was too late in seizing the opportunity to rescue a person at sea. Angry with the lost opportunity, Jim expresses his romantic temperament; this part of the tale also allows us to see his motivations for pursuing a life at sea in the first place. He is a dreamer, and he seems to be confident of some aspect of his self as being more than capable of achieving his dreams. This dreaming quality is characteristic of much of the driving force for young men to pursue a life at sea, and in this way Jim becomes a quintessential example of youthful aspiration. A question is then immediately suggested: how will Jim mature? How will he move from being a dreaming young man to the man running from his past and then a man with the title \"Lord Jim\"? One night, Jim observes his fellow crew members, thinking that they are not part of the world of \"heroic adventure.\" Thus Jim differentiates himself: \"he shared the air they breathed, but he was different\" . Now, as the sudden and strange vibration occurs beneath the ship, the situation leads us to ask: will Jim be able to prove his difference?"}

He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging bull. His voice was deep, loud, and his manner displayed a kind of dogged self-assertion which had nothing aggressive in it. It seemed a necessity, and it was directed apparently as much at himself as at anybody else. He was spotlessly neat, apparelled in immaculate white from shoes to hat, and in the various Eastern ports where he got his living as ship-chandler's water-clerk he was very popular. A water-clerk need not pass an examination in anything under the sun, but he must have Ability in the abstract and demonstrate it practically. His work consists in racing under sail, steam, or oars against other water-clerks for any ship about to anchor, greeting her captain cheerily, forcing upon him a card--the business card of the ship-chandler--and on his first visit on shore piloting him firmly but without ostentation to a vast, cavern-like shop which is full of things that are eaten and drunk on board ship; where you can get everything to make her seaworthy and beautiful, from a set of chain-hooks for her cable to a book of gold-leaf for the carvings of her stern; and where her commander is received like a brother by a ship-chandler he has never seen before. There is a cool parlour, easy-chairs, bottles, cigars, writing implements, a copy of harbour regulations, and a warmth of welcome that melts the salt of a three months' passage out of a seaman's heart. The connection thus begun is kept up, as long as the ship remains in harbour, by the daily visits of the water-clerk. To the captain he is faithful like a friend and attentive like a son, with the patience of Job, the unselfish devotion of a woman, and the jollity of a boon companion. Later on the bill is sent in. It is a beautiful and humane occupation. Therefore good water-clerks are scarce. When a water-clerk who possesses Ability in the abstract has also the advantage of having been brought up to the sea, he is worth to his employer a lot of money and some humouring. Jim had always good wages and as much humouring as would have bought the fidelity of a fiend. Nevertheless, with black ingratitude he would throw up the job suddenly and depart. To his employers the reasons he gave were obviously inadequate. They said 'Confounded fool!' as soon as his back was turned. This was their criticism on his exquisite sensibility. To the white men in the waterside business and to the captains of ships he was just Jim--nothing more. He had, of course, another name, but he was anxious that it should not be pronounced. His incognito, which had as many holes as a sieve, was not meant to hide a personality but a fact. When the fact broke through the incognito he would leave suddenly the seaport where he happened to be at the time and go to another--generally farther east. He kept to seaports because he was a seaman in exile from the sea, and had Ability in the abstract, which is good for no other work but that of a water-clerk. He retreated in good order towards the rising sun, and the fact followed him casually but inevitably. Thus in the course of years he was known successively in Bombay, in Calcutta, in Rangoon, in Penang, in Batavia--and in each of these halting-places was just Jim the water-clerk. Afterwards, when his keen perception of the Intolerable drove him away for good from seaports and white men, even into the virgin forest, the Malays of the jungle village, where he had elected to conceal his deplorable faculty, added a word to the monosyllable of his incognito. They called him Tuan Jim: as one might say--Lord Jim. Originally he came from a parsonage. Many commanders of fine merchant-ships come from these abodes of piety and peace. Jim's father possessed such certain knowledge of the Unknowable as made for the righteousness of people in cottages without disturbing the ease of mind of those whom an unerring Providence enables to live in mansions. The little church on a hill had the mossy greyness of a rock seen through a ragged screen of leaves. It had stood there for centuries, but the trees around probably remembered the laying of the first stone. Below, the red front of the rectory gleamed with a warm tint in the midst of grass-plots, flower-beds, and fir-trees, with an orchard at the back, a paved stable-yard to the left, and the sloping glass of greenhouses tacked along a wall of bricks. The living had belonged to the family for generations; but Jim was one of five sons, and when after a course of light holiday literature his vocation for the sea had declared itself, he was sent at once to a 'training-ship for officers of the mercantile marine.' He learned there a little trigonometry and how to cross top-gallant yards. He was generally liked. He had the third place in navigation and pulled stroke in the first cutter. Having a steady head with an excellent physique, he was very smart aloft. His station was in the fore-top, and often from there he looked down, with the contempt of a man destined to shine in the midst of dangers, at the peaceful multitude of roofs cut in two by the brown tide of the stream, while scattered on the outskirts of the surrounding plain the factory chimneys rose perpendicular against a grimy sky, each slender like a pencil, and belching out smoke like a volcano. He could see the big ships departing, the broad-beamed ferries constantly on the move, the little boats floating far below his feet, with the hazy splendour of the sea in the distance, and the hope of a stirring life in the world of adventure. On the lower deck in the babel of two hundred voices he would forget himself, and beforehand live in his mind the sea-life of light literature. He saw himself saving people from sinking ships, cutting away masts in a hurricane, swimming through a surf with a line; or as a lonely castaway, barefooted and half naked, walking on uncovered reefs in search of shellfish to stave off starvation. He confronted savages on tropical shores, quelled mutinies on the high seas, and in a small boat upon the ocean kept up the hearts of despairing men--always an example of devotion to duty, and as unflinching as a hero in a book. 'Something's up. Come along.' He leaped to his feet. The boys were streaming up the ladders. Above could be heard a great scurrying about and shouting, and when he got through the hatchway he stood still--as if confounded. It was the dusk of a winter's day. The gale had freshened since noon, stopping the traffic on the river, and now blew with the strength of a hurricane in fitful bursts that boomed like salvoes of great guns firing over the ocean. The rain slanted in sheets that flicked and subsided, and between whiles Jim had threatening glimpses of the tumbling tide, the small craft jumbled and tossing along the shore, the motionless buildings in the driving mist, the broad ferry-boats pitching ponderously at anchor, the vast landing-stages heaving up and down and smothered in sprays. The next gust seemed to blow all this away. The air was full of flying water. There was a fierce purpose in the gale, a furious earnestness in the screech of the wind, in the brutal tumult of earth and sky, that seemed directed at him, and made him hold his breath in awe. He stood still. It seemed to him he was whirled around. He was jostled. 'Man the cutter!' Boys rushed past him. A coaster running in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one of the ship's instructors had seen the accident. A mob of boys clambered on the rails, clustered round the davits. 'Collision. Just ahead of us. Mr. Symons saw it.' A push made him stagger against the mizzen-mast, and he caught hold of a rope. The old training-ship chained to her moorings quivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty rigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea. 'Lower away!' He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail, and rushed after her. He heard a splash. 'Let go; clear the falls!' He leaned over. The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks. The cutter could be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind, that for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship. A yelling voice in her reached him faintly: 'Keep stroke, you young whelps, if you want to save anybody! Keep stroke!' And suddenly she lifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke the spell cast upon her by the wind and tide. Jim felt his shoulder gripped firmly. 'Too late, youngster.' The captain of the ship laid a restraining hand on that boy, who seemed on the point of leaping overboard, and Jim looked up with the pain of conscious defeat in his eyes. The captain smiled sympathetically. 'Better luck next time. This will teach you to be smart.' A shrill cheer greeted the cutter. She came dancing back half full of water, and with two exhausted men washing about on her bottom boards. The tumult and the menace of wind and sea now appeared very contemptible to Jim, increasing the regret of his awe at their inefficient menace. Now he knew what to think of it. It seemed to him he cared nothing for the gale. He could affront greater perils. He would do so--better than anybody. Not a particle of fear was left. Nevertheless he brooded apart that evening while the bowman of the cutter--a boy with a face like a girl's and big grey eyes--was the hero of the lower deck. Eager questioners crowded round him. He narrated: 'I just saw his head bobbing, and I dashed my boat-hook in the water. It caught in his breeches and I nearly went overboard, as I thought I would, only old Symons let go the tiller and grabbed my legs--the boat nearly swamped. Old Symons is a fine old chap. I don't mind a bit him being grumpy with us. He swore at me all the time he held my leg, but that was only his way of telling me to stick to the boat-hook. Old Symons is awfully excitable--isn't he? No--not the little fair chap--the other, the big one with a beard. When we pulled him in he groaned, "Oh, my leg! oh, my leg!" and turned up his eyes. Fancy such a big chap fainting like a girl. Would any of you fellows faint for a jab with a boat-hook?--I wouldn't. It went into his leg so far.' He showed the boat-hook, which he had carried below for the purpose, and produced a sensation. 'No, silly! It was not his flesh that held him--his breeches did. Lots of blood, of course.' Jim thought it a pitiful display of vanity. The gale had ministered to a heroism as spurious as its own pretence of terror. He felt angry with the brutal tumult of earth and sky for taking him unawares and checking unfairly a generous readiness for narrow escapes. Otherwise he was rather glad he had not gone into the cutter, since a lower achievement had served the turn. He had enlarged his knowledge more than those who had done the work. When all men flinched, then--he felt sure--he alone would know how to deal with the spurious menace of wind and seas. He knew what to think of it. Seen dispassionately, it seemed contemptible. He could detect no trace of emotion in himself, and the final effect of a staggering event was that, unnoticed and apart from the noisy crowd of boys, he exulted with fresh certitude in his avidity for adventure, and in a sense of many-sided courage. After two years of training he went to sea, and entering the regions so well known to his imagination, found them strangely barren of adventure. He made many voyages. He knew the magic monotony of existence between sky and water: he had to bear the criticism of men, the exactions of the sea, and the prosaic severity of the daily task that gives bread--but whose only reward is in the perfect love of the work. This reward eluded him. Yet he could not go back, because there is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea. Besides, his prospects were good. He was gentlemanly, steady, tractable, with a thorough knowledge of his duties; and in time, when yet very young, he became chief mate of a fine ship, without ever having been tested by those events of the sea that show in the light of day the inner worth of a man, the edge of his temper, and the fibre of his stuff; that reveal the quality of his resistance and the secret truth of his pretences, not only to others but also to himself. Only once in all that time he had again a glimpse of the earnestness in the anger of the sea. That truth is not so often made apparent as people might think. There are many shades in the danger of adventures and gales, and it is only now and then that there appears on the face of facts a sinister violence of intention--that indefinable something which forces it upon the mind and the heart of a man, that this complication of accidents or these elemental furies are coming at him with a purpose of malice, with a strength beyond control, with an unbridled cruelty that means to tear out of him his hope and his fear, the pain of his fatigue and his longing for rest: which means to smash, to destroy, to annihilate all he has seen, known, loved, enjoyed, or hated; all that is priceless and necessary--the sunshine, the memories, the future; which means to sweep the whole precious world utterly away from his sight by the simple and appalling act of taking his life. Jim, disabled by a falling spar at the beginning of a week of which his Scottish captain used to say afterwards, 'Man! it's a pairfect meeracle to me how she lived through it!' spent many days stretched on his back, dazed, battered, hopeless, and tormented as if at the bottom of an abyss of unrest. He did not care what the end would be, and in his lucid moments overvalued his indifference. The danger, when not seen, has the imperfect vagueness of human thought. The fear grows shadowy; and Imagination, the enemy of men, the father of all terrors, unstimulated, sinks to rest in the dullness of exhausted emotion. Jim saw nothing but the disorder of his tossed cabin. He lay there battened down in the midst of a small devastation, and felt secretly glad he had not to go on deck. But now and again an uncontrollable rush of anguish would grip him bodily, make him gasp and writhe under the blankets, and then the unintelligent brutality of an existence liable to the agony of such sensations filled him with a despairing desire to escape at any cost. Then fine weather returned, and he thought no more about It. His lameness, however, persisted, and when the ship arrived at an Eastern port he had to go to the hospital. His recovery was slow, and he was left behind. There were only two other patients in the white men's ward: the purser of a gunboat, who had broken his leg falling down a hatchway; and a kind of railway contractor from a neighbouring province, afflicted by some mysterious tropical disease, who held the doctor for an ass, and indulged in secret debaucheries of patent medicine which his Tamil servant used to smuggle in with unwearied devotion. They told each other the story of their lives, played cards a little, or, yawning and in pyjamas, lounged through the day in easy-chairs without saying a word. The hospital stood on a hill, and a gentle breeze entering through the windows, always flung wide open, brought into the bare room the softness of the sky, the languor of the earth, the bewitching breath of the Eastern waters. There were perfumes in it, suggestions of infinite repose, the gift of endless dreams. Jim looked every day over the thickets of gardens, beyond the roofs of the town, over the fronds of palms growing on the shore, at that roadstead which is a thoroughfare to the East,--at the roadstead dotted by garlanded islets, lighted by festal sunshine, its ships like toys, its brilliant activity resembling a holiday pageant, with the eternal serenity of the Eastern sky overhead and the smiling peace of the Eastern seas possessing the space as far as the horizon. Directly he could walk without a stick, he descended into the town to look for some opportunity to get home. Nothing offered just then, and, while waiting, he associated naturally with the men of his calling in the port. These were of two kinds. Some, very few and seen there but seldom, led mysterious lives, had preserved an undefaced energy with the temper of buccaneers and the eyes of dreamers. They appeared to live in a crazy maze of plans, hopes, dangers, enterprises, ahead of civilisation, in the dark places of the sea; and their death was the only event of their fantastic existence that seemed to have a reasonable certitude of achievement. The majority were men who, like himself, thrown there by some accident, had remained as officers of country ships. They had now a horror of the home service, with its harder conditions, severer view of duty, and the hazard of stormy oceans. They were attuned to the eternal peace of Eastern sky and sea. They loved short passages, good deck-chairs, large native crews, and the distinction of being white. They shuddered at the thought of hard work, and led precariously easy lives, always on the verge of dismissal, always on the verge of engagement, serving Chinamen, Arabs, half-castes--would have served the devil himself had he made it easy enough. They talked everlastingly of turns of luck: how So-and-so got charge of a boat on the coast of China--a soft thing; how this one had an easy billet in Japan somewhere, and that one was doing well in the Siamese navy; and in all they said--in their actions, in their looks, in their persons--could be detected the soft spot, the place of decay, the determination to lounge safely through existence. To Jim that gossiping crowd, viewed as seamen, seemed at first more unsubstantial than so many shadows. But at length he found a fascination in the sight of those men, in their appearance of doing so well on such a small allowance of danger and toil. In time, beside the original disdain there grew up slowly another sentiment; and suddenly, giving up the idea of going home, he took a berth as chief mate of the Patna. The Patna was a local steamer as old as the hills, lean like a greyhound, and eaten up with rust worse than a condemned water-tank. She was owned by a Chinaman, chartered by an Arab, and commanded by a sort of renegade New South Wales German, very anxious to curse publicly his native country, but who, apparently on the strength of Bismarck's victorious policy, brutalised all those he was not afraid of, and wore a 'blood-and-iron' air,' combined with a purple nose and a red moustache. After she had been painted outside and whitewashed inside, eight hundred pilgrims (more or less) were driven on board of her as she lay with steam up alongside a wooden jetty. They streamed aboard over three gangways, they streamed in urged by faith and the hope of paradise, they streamed in with a continuous tramp and shuffle of bare feet, without a word, a murmur, or a look back; and when clear of confining rails spread on all sides over the deck, flowed forward and aft, overflowed down the yawning hatchways, filled the inner recesses of the ship--like water filling a cistern, like water flowing into crevices and crannies, like water rising silently even with the rim. Eight hundred men and women with faith and hopes, with affections and memories, they had collected there, coming from north and south and from the outskirts of the East, after treading the jungle paths, descending the rivers, coasting in praus along the shallows, crossing in small canoes from island to island, passing through suffering, meeting strange sights, beset by strange fears, upheld by one desire. They came from solitary huts in the wilderness, from populous campongs, from villages by the sea. At the call of an idea they had left their forests, their clearings, the protection of their rulers, their prosperity, their poverty, the surroundings of their youth and the graves of their fathers. They came covered with dust, with sweat, with grime, with rags--the strong men at the head of family parties, the lean old men pressing forward without hope of return; young boys with fearless eyes glancing curiously, shy little girls with tumbled long hair; the timid women muffled up and clasping to their breasts, wrapped in loose ends of soiled head-cloths, their sleeping babies, the unconscious pilgrims of an exacting belief. 'Look at dese cattle,' said the German skipper to his new chief mate. An Arab, the leader of that pious voyage, came last. He walked slowly aboard, handsome and grave in his white gown and large turban. A string of servants followed, loaded with his luggage; the Patna cast off and backed away from the wharf. She was headed between two small islets, crossed obliquely the anchoring-ground of sailing-ships, swung through half a circle in the shadow of a hill, then ranged close to a ledge of foaming reefs. The Arab, standing up aft, recited aloud the prayer of travellers by sea. He invoked the favour of the Most High upon that journey, implored His blessing on men's toil and on the secret purposes of their hearts; the steamer pounded in the dusk the calm water of the Strait; and far astern of the pilgrim ship a screw-pile lighthouse, planted by unbelievers on a treacherous shoal, seemed to wink at her its eye of flame, as if in derision of her errand of faith. She cleared the Strait, crossed the bay, continued on her way through the 'One-degree' passage. She held on straight for the Red Sea under a serene sky, under a sky scorching and unclouded, enveloped in a fulgor of sunshine that killed all thought, oppressed the heart, withered all impulses of strength and energy. And under the sinister splendour of that sky the sea, blue and profound, remained still, without a stir, without a ripple, without a wrinkle--viscous, stagnant, dead. The Patna, with a slight hiss, passed over that plain, luminous and smooth, unrolled a black ribbon of smoke across the sky, left behind her on the water a white ribbon of foam that vanished at once, like the phantom of a track drawn upon a lifeless sea by the phantom of a steamer. Every morning the sun, as if keeping pace in his revolutions with the progress of the pilgrimage, emerged with a silent burst of light exactly at the same distance astern of the ship, caught up with her at noon, pouring the concentrated fire of his rays on the pious purposes of the men, glided past on his descent, and sank mysteriously into the sea evening after evening, preserving the same distance ahead of her advancing bows. The five whites on board lived amidships, isolated from the human cargo. The awnings covered the deck with a white roof from stem to stern, and a faint hum, a low murmur of sad voices, alone revealed the presence of a crowd of people upon the great blaze of the ocean. Such were the days, still, hot, heavy, disappearing one by one into the past, as if falling into an abyss for ever open in the wake of the ship; and the ship, lonely under a wisp of smoke, held on her steadfast way black and smouldering in a luminous immensity, as if scorched by a flame flicked at her from a heaven without pity. The nights descended on her like a benediction.A marvellous stillness pervaded the world, and the stars, together with the serenity of their rays, seemed to shed upon the earth the assurance of everlasting security. The young moon recurved, and shining low in the west, was like a slender shaving thrown up from a bar of gold, and the Arabian Sea, smooth and cool to the eye like a sheet of ice, extended its perfect level to the perfect circle of a dark horizon. The propeller turned without a check, as though its beat had been part of the scheme of a safe universe; and on each side of the Patna two deep folds of water, permanent and sombre on the unwrinkled shimmer, enclosed within their straight and diverging ridges a few white swirls of foam bursting in a low hiss, a few wavelets, a few ripples, a few undulations that, left behind, agitated the surface of the sea for an instant after the passage of the ship, subsided splashing gently, calmed down at last into the circular stillness of water and sky with the black speck of the moving hull remaining everlastingly in its centre. Jim on the bridge was penetrated by the great certitude of unbounded safety and peace that could be read on the silent aspect of nature like the certitude of fostering love upon the placid tenderness of a mother's face. Below the roof of awnings, surrendered to the wisdom of white men and to their courage, trusting the power of their unbelief and the iron shell of their fire-ship, the pilgrims of an exacting faith slept on mats, on blankets, on bare planks, on every deck, in all the dark corners, wrapped in dyed cloths, muffled in soiled rags, with their heads resting on small bundles, with their faces pressed to bent forearms: the men, the women, the children; the old with the young, the decrepit with the lusty--all equal before sleep, death's brother. A draught of air, fanned from forward by the speed of the ship, passed steadily through the long gloom between the high bulwarks, swept over the rows of prone bodies; a few dim flames in globe-lamps were hung short here and there under the ridge-poles, and in the blurred circles of light thrown down and trembling slightly to the unceasing vibration of the ship appeared a chin upturned, two closed eyelids, a dark hand with silver rings, a meagre limb draped in a torn covering, a head bent back, a naked foot, a throat bared and stretched as if offering itself to the knife. The well-to-do had made for their families shelters with heavy boxes and dusty mats; the poor reposed side by side with all they had on earth tied up in a rag under their heads; the lone old men slept, with drawn-up legs, upon their prayer-carpets, with their hands over their ears and one elbow on each side of the face; a father, his shoulders up and his knees under his forehead, dozed dejectedly by a boy who slept on his back with tousled hair and one arm commandingly extended; a woman covered from head to foot, like a corpse, with a piece of white sheeting, had a naked child in the hollow of each arm; the Arab's belongings, piled right aft, made a heavy mound of broken outlines, with a cargo-lamp swung above, and a great confusion of vague forms behind: gleams of paunchy brass pots, the foot-rest of a deck-chair, blades of spears, the straight scabbard of an old sword leaning against a heap of pillows, the spout of a tin coffee-pot. The patent log on the taffrail periodically rang a single tinkling stroke for every mile traversed on an errand of faith. Above the mass of sleepers a faint and patient sigh at times floated, the exhalation of a troubled dream; and short metallic clangs bursting out suddenly in the depths of the ship, the harsh scrape of a shovel, the violent slam of a furnace-door, exploded brutally, as if the men handling the mysterious things below had their breasts full of fierce anger: while the slim high hull of the steamer went on evenly ahead, without a sway of her bare masts, cleaving continuously the great calm of the waters under the inaccessible serenity of the sky. Jim paced athwart, and his footsteps in the vast silence were loud to his own ears, as if echoed by the watchful stars: his eyes, roaming about the line of the horizon, seemed to gaze hungrily into the unattainable, and did not see the shadow of the coming event. The only shadow on the sea was the shadow of the black smoke pouring heavily from the funnel its immense streamer, whose end was constantly dissolving in the air. Two Malays, silent and almost motionless, steered, one on each side of the wheel, whose brass rim shone fragmentarily in the oval of light thrown out by the binnacle. Now and then a hand, with black fingers alternately letting go and catching hold of revolving spokes, appeared in the illumined part; the links of wheel-chains ground heavily in the grooves of the barrel. Jim would glance at the compass, would glance around the unattainable horizon, would stretch himself till his joints cracked, with a leisurely twist of the body, in the very excess of well-being; and, as if made audacious by the invincible aspect of the peace, he felt he cared for nothing that could happen to him to the end of his days. From time to time he glanced idly at a chart pegged out with four drawing-pins on a low three-legged table abaft the steering-gear case. The sheet of paper portraying the depths of the sea presented a shiny surface under the light of a bull's-eye lamp lashed to a stanchion, a surface as level and smooth as the glimmering surface of the waters. Parallel rulers with a pair of dividers reposed on it; the ship's position at last noon was marked with a small black cross, and the straight pencil-line drawn firmly as far as Perim figured the course of the ship--the path of souls towards the holy place, the promise of salvation, the reward of eternal life--while the pencil with its sharp end touching the Somali coast lay round and still like a naked ship's spar floating in the pool of a sheltered dock. 'How steady she goes,' thought Jim with wonder, with something like gratitude for this high peace of sea and sky. At such times his thoughts would be full of valorous deeds: he loved these dreams and the success of his imaginary achievements. They were the best parts of life, its secret truth, its hidden reality. They had a gorgeous virility, the charm of vagueness, they passed before him with an heroic tread; they carried his soul away with them and made it drunk with the divine philtre of an unbounded confidence in itself. There was nothing he could not face. He was so pleased with the idea that he smiled, keeping perfunctorily his eyes ahead; and when he happened to glance back he saw the white streak of the wake drawn as straight by the ship's keel upon the sea as the black line drawn by the pencil upon the chart. The ash-buckets racketed, clanking up and down the stoke-hold ventilators, and this tin-pot clatter warned him the end of his watch was near. He sighed with content, with regret as well at having to part from that serenity which fostered the adventurous freedom of his thoughts. He was a little sleepy too, and felt a pleasurable languor running through every limb as though all the blood in his body had turned to warm milk. His skipper had come up noiselessly, in pyjamas and with his sleeping-jacket flung wide open. Red of face, only half awake, the left eye partly closed, the right staring stupid and glassy, he hung his big head over the chart and scratched his ribs sleepily. There was something obscene in the sight of his naked flesh. His bared breast glistened soft and greasy as though he had sweated out his fat in his sleep. He pronounced a professional remark in a voice harsh and dead, resembling the rasping sound of a wood-file on the edge of a plank; the fold of his double chin hung like a bag triced up close under the hinge of his jaw. Jim started, and his answer was full of deference; but the odious and fleshy figure, as though seen for the first time in a revealing moment, fixed itself in his memory for ever as the incarnation of everything vile and base that lurks in the world we love: in our own hearts we trust for our salvation, in the men that surround us, in the sights that fill our eyes, in the sounds that fill our ears, and in the air that fills our lungs. The thin gold shaving of the moon floating slowly downwards had lost itself on the darkened surface of the waters, and the eternity beyond the sky seemed to come down nearer to the earth, with the augmented glitter of the stars, with the more profound sombreness in the lustre of the half-transparent dome covering the flat disc of an opaque sea. The ship moved so smoothly that her onward motion was imperceptible to the senses of men, as though she had been a crowded planet speeding through the dark spaces of ether behind the swarm of suns, in the appalling and calm solitudes awaiting the breath of future creations. 'Hot is no name for it down below,' said a voice. Jim smiled without looking round. The skipper presented an unmoved breadth of back: it was the renegade's trick to appear pointedly unaware of your existence unless it suited his purpose to turn at you with a devouring glare before he let loose a torrent of foamy, abusive jargon that came like a gush from a sewer. Now he emitted only a sulky grunt; the second engineer at the head of the bridge-ladder, kneading with damp palms a dirty sweat-rag, unabashed, continued the tale of his complaints. The sailors had a good time of it up here, and what was the use of them in the world he would be blowed if he could see. The poor devils of engineers had to get the ship along anyhow, and they could very well do the rest too; by gosh they--'Shut up!' growled the German stolidly. 'Oh yes! Shut up--and when anything goes wrong you fly to us, don't you?' went on the other. He was more than half cooked, he expected; but anyway, now, he did not mind how much he sinned, because these last three days he had passed through a fine course of training for the place where the bad boys go when they die--b'gosh, he had--besides being made jolly well deaf by the blasted racket below. The durned, compound, surface-condensing, rotten scrap-heap rattled and banged down there like an old deck-winch, only more so; and what made him risk his life every night and day that God made amongst the refuse of a breaking-up yard flying round at fifty-seven revolutions, was more than _he_ could tell. He must have been born reckless, b'gosh. He . . . 'Where did you get drink?' inquired the German, very savage; but motionless in the light of the binnacle, like a clumsy effigy of a man cut out of a block of fat. Jim went on smiling at the retreating horizon; his heart was full of generous impulses, and his thought was contemplating his own superiority. 'Drink!' repeated the engineer with amiable scorn: he was hanging on with both hands to the rail, a shadowy figure with flexible legs. 'Not from you, captain. You're far too mean, b'gosh. You would let a good man die sooner than give him a drop of schnapps. That's what you Germans call economy. Penny wise, pound foolish.' He became sentimental. The chief had given him a four-finger nip about ten o'clock--'only one, s'elp me!'--good old chief; but as to getting the old fraud out of his bunk--a five-ton crane couldn't do it. Not it. Not to-night anyhow. He was sleeping sweetly like a little child, with a bottle of prime brandy under his pillow. From the thick throat of the commander of the Patna came a low rumble, on which the sound of the word schwein fluttered high and low like a capricious feather in a faint stir of air. He and the chief engineer had been cronies for a good few years--serving the same jovial, crafty, old Chinaman, with horn-rimmed goggles and strings of red silk plaited into the venerable grey hairs of his pigtail. The quay-side opinion in the Patna's home-port was that these two in the way of brazen peculation 'had done together pretty well everything you can think of.' Outwardly they were badly matched: one dull-eyed, malevolent, and of soft fleshy curves; the other lean, all hollows, with a head long and bony like the head of an old horse, with sunken cheeks, with sunken temples, with an indifferent glazed glance of sunken eyes. He had been stranded out East somewhere--in Canton, in Shanghai, or perhaps in Yokohama; he probably did not care to remember himself the exact locality, nor yet the cause of his shipwreck. He had been, in mercy to his youth, kicked quietly out of his ship twenty years ago or more, and it might have been so much worse for him that the memory of the episode had in it hardly a trace of misfortune. Then, steam navigation expanding in these seas and men of his craft being scarce at first, he had 'got on' after a sort. He was eager to let strangers know in a dismal mumble that he was 'an old stager out here.' When he moved, a skeleton seemed to sway loose in his clothes; his walk was mere wandering, and he was given to wander thus around the engine-room skylight, smoking, without relish, doctored tobacco in a brass bowl at the end of a cherrywood stem four feet long, with the imbecile gravity of a thinker evolving a system of philosophy from the hazy glimpse of a truth. He was usually anything but free with his private store of liquor; but on that night he had departed from his principles, so that his second, a weak-headed child of Wapping, what with the unexpectedness of the treat and the strength of the stuff, had become very happy, cheeky, and talkative. The fury of the New South Wales German was extreme; he puffed like an exhaust-pipe, and Jim, faintly amused by the scene, was impatient for the time when he could get below: the last ten minutes of the watch were irritating like a gun that hangs fire; those men did not belong to the world of heroic adventure; they weren't bad chaps though. Even the skipper himself . . . His gorge rose at the mass of panting flesh from which issued gurgling mutters, a cloudy trickle of filthy expressions; but he was too pleasurably languid to dislike actively this or any other thing. The quality of these men did not matter; he rubbed shoulders with them, but they could not touch him; he shared the air they breathed, but he was different. . . . Would the skipper go for the engineer? . . . The life was easy and he was too sure of himself--too sure of himself to . . . The line dividing his meditation from a surreptitious doze on his feet was thinner than a thread in a spider's web. The second engineer was coming by easy transitions to the consideration of his finances and of his courage. 'Who's drunk? I? No, no, captain! That won't do. You ought to know by this time the chief ain't free-hearted enough to make a sparrow drunk, b'gosh. I've never been the worse for liquor in my life; the stuff ain't made yet that would make _me_ drunk. I could drink liquid fire against your whisky peg for peg, b'gosh, and keep as cool as a cucumber. If I thought I was drunk I would jump overboard--do away with myself, b'gosh. I would! Straight! And I won't go off the bridge. Where do you expect me to take the air on a night like this, eh? On deck amongst that vermin down there? Likely--ain't it! And I am not afraid of anything you can do.' The German lifted two heavy fists to heaven and shook them a little without a word. 'I don't know what fear is,' pursued the engineer, with the enthusiasm of sincere conviction. 'I am not afraid of doing all the bloomin' work in this rotten hooker, b'gosh! And a jolly good thing for you that there are some of us about the world that aren't afraid of their lives, or where would you be--you and this old thing here with her plates like brown paper--brown paper, s'elp me? It's all very fine for you--you get a power of pieces out of her one way and another; but what about me--what do I get? A measly hundred and fifty dollars a month and find yourself. I wish to ask you respectfully--respectfully, mind--who wouldn't chuck a dratted job like this? 'Tain't safe, s'elp me, it ain't! Only I am one of them fearless fellows . . .' He let go the rail and made ample gestures as if demonstrating in the air the shape and extent of his valour; his thin voice darted in prolonged squeaks upon the sea, he tiptoed back and forth for the better emphasis of utterance, and suddenly pitched down head-first as though he had been clubbed from behind. He said 'Damn!' as he tumbled; an instant of silence followed upon his screeching: Jim and the skipper staggered forward by common accord, and catching themselves up, stood very stiff and still gazing, amazed, at the undisturbed level of the sea. Then they looked upwards at the stars. What had happened? The wheezy thump of the engines went on. Had the earth been checked in her course? They could not understand; and suddenly the calm sea, the sky without a cloud, appeared formidably insecure in their immobility, as if poised on the brow of yawning destruction. The engineer rebounded vertically full length and collapsed again into a vague heap. This heap said 'What's that?' in the muffled accents of profound grief. A faint noise as of thunder, of thunder infinitely remote, less than a sound, hardly more than a vibration, passed slowly, and the ship quivered in response, as if the thunder had growled deep down in the water. The eyes of the two Malays at the wheel glittered towards the white men, but their dark hands remained closed on the spokes. The sharp hull driving on its way seemed to rise a few inches in succession through its whole length, as though it had become pliable, and settled down again rigidly to its work of cleaving the smooth surface of the sea. Its quivering stopped, and the faint noise of thunder ceased all at once, as though the ship had steamed across a narrow belt of vibrating water and of humming air.

Chapters 1-3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-3

Lord Jim begins with the powerful physical description of a man "an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built." He has a deep voice and immaculate dress, being white "from shoes to hat," and he makes his living as a water-clerk in "various Eastern ports." He is "very popular." This image is layered with attributes that arise in a consideration of what is required to be a water-clerk of quality. Thus the reader learns that the man has "Ability in the abstract" and that he is able to apply it "practically." The man is called "Jim." Jim comes to be known as "Tuan Jim" or "Lord Jim" among the Malays of the jungle village where he lives "incognito." Answering just how he becomes "Lord Jim" and just why he is "incognito" is the project of the tale. Jim is rootless, moving farther and farther east, escaping whatever fact of his history that seems to be following him. Born the son of a parson, he is answering the call of the sea. He is smart, physically fit, and a dreamer of danger and success. The reader, however, now learns of a collision at sea where Jim leapt to his feet but was beaten. "Too late, youngster," the captain of the ship tells him, as the glory of the rescue falls like a wreath over the bowman, who jumped first, "a boy with a face like a girl's and big grey eyes." Jim is angry and frustrated with his missed opportunity to be a hero. Two years of training and life on the sea pass, and Jim feels let down by the humdrum nature of his experiences. The sea, he feels, is not so full of the adventures he once imagined. Jim is "chief mate of a fine ship, without ever having been tested" . He spends some time on his back because of an injury and is left at a hospital in an "Eastern port." When able, Jim descends into the nearby port town and studies the nature of men and life around him, all sharing the same calling of the sea. In time, he discards the idea of returning to England and chooses, instead, to become chief mate of the Patna, an old local steamer, manned by a vastly overweight New South Wales German captain. The steamer is headed for Mecca with eight hundred pilgrims led by an Arab leader in white, who offers a prayer. There are only five white men on board. At night, as Jim contemplates the Arabian Sea from the bridge of the steamer, the speed steady, and the human landscape of passengers asleep, fathers and sons, beneath him, he considers his romantic dreams--"the success of his imaginary achievements" . The German captain appears with too little clothing; the second engineer complains. A conversation takes place regarding drink and being drunk, and then fear and courage, but "those men did not belong to the world of heroic adventure" . Suddenly, the three of them are lurched by the force of a disturbance beneath the boat. The sound is like the "faint noise of thunder ... hardly more than a vibration" .

Lord Jim begins with a direct, close-up view of its subject: Jim. His physical description is at first powerfully impressed upon the reader, and then the reader encounters the mysterious manner in which he drifts through the world. He is a clean-cut, well-liked young man, but the mystery is that he is constantly trying to outrun or escape a fact of his past. The reader is brought into a state of curiosity. Who is this young man? Why is he trying to maintain himself incognito? Why is he a water-clerk, when he appears to be gifted with intelligence and talent? And, most importantly, what is the fact from which he is so energetically trying to escape? The reference to Jim as having "Ability in the abstract" is crucial to the construction of his character in the novel. He is gifted with a kind of genius, but it only exists in an abstract way. The effort is then to realize this "ability" in the real world, to take action, to create change, and to realize the potential of such an "ability." It is further important to note that Jim is never given a surname throughout the narrative. In this way, the lone "Jim" strikes the reader as intimately present yet anonymous, illustrating precisely the kind of ambiguity for which Conrad is famous. When the reader is then told that Jim becomes "Tuan Jim" or "Lord Jim," Conrad drives the dramatic motion of the novel by causing curiosity regarding how Jim will attain this title. The view in the narrative then cuts to a significant moment in his personal history, the occasion when he was too late in seizing the opportunity to rescue a person at sea. Angry with the lost opportunity, Jim expresses his romantic temperament; this part of the tale also allows us to see his motivations for pursuing a life at sea in the first place. He is a dreamer, and he seems to be confident of some aspect of his self as being more than capable of achieving his dreams. This dreaming quality is characteristic of much of the driving force for young men to pursue a life at sea, and in this way Jim becomes a quintessential example of youthful aspiration. A question is then immediately suggested: how will Jim mature? How will he move from being a dreaming young man to the man running from his past and then a man with the title "Lord Jim"? One night, Jim observes his fellow crew members, thinking that they are not part of the world of "heroic adventure." Thus Jim differentiates himself: "he shared the air they breathed, but he was different" . Now, as the sudden and strange vibration occurs beneath the ship, the situation leads us to ask: will Jim be able to prove his difference?

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/24.txt

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

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 24

chapter 24

{"name": "Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapter-24", "summary": "Julien visits the military installation in Besancon before reporting to the seminary. He stops at a cafe, and his fancy is taken by the barmaid, Armanda, who recognizes his obvious embarrassment at the strangeness of this large city. The arrival of one of her lovers nearly incites Julien to challenge him to a duel, but on the insistence of Armanda, Julien leaves the cafe. He stops at an inn to leave his clothes in the safekeeping of the landlady, then courageously starts out for the seminary.", "analysis": "This transitional chapter introduces Julien to the city of Besancon, where the next stage of his education will take place. The cafe scene will reappear in the second part of the novel in a slightly different form but will produce the same effect. Here, the young, inexperienced country boy ventures into a big city cafe. Stendhal creates for him an almost quixotic episode, where Julien may give heroic proportions to a trivial incident: Drawing from his experience as lover, Julien places himself abruptly in the role of Don Juan with Armanda, and his sudden declaration of love to the barmaid is reminiscent of a previous one, pronounced with less sureness but with as much hypocrisy to Mme. de Renal. After his brief and audacious visit to the fortress overlooking Besancon, where he has again evoked an imaginary military career, it is here in a cafe that he almost spontaneously gives form to his aggressiveness in an imagined amorous adventure. The arrival of Armanda's lover is but a part of this mock-heroic adventure, immediately awakening in Julien the sense of honor of the knight errant, who, without the intervention of Armanda, would have challenged his supposed \"rival.\" The scenes preliminary to Julien's arrival at the seminary should recall to the reader Julien's visit to the church prior to his entrance at the home of the Renals. In both, Julien is play-acting, rehearsing, in a sense, for his big scene. He musters up his courage, measures it, or rather \"takes its temperature,\" to assure himself in advance that he will not fall short of the ideal performance required in a new and challenging situation. Note that the \"glance\" is the basis of the real and imagined adventure that Stendhal narrates, and he gives Julien almost magical powers of self-extrication. Communication by the \"glance\" seems to be one of the secretive codes designed to protect the integrity of the superior being. As was predicted by the priest Chelan, Julien's merit will endanger him because of the envy it inspires in others. Therefore, it is not surprising that Julien seeks protection in women from his enemies. In this short chapter, the two incidents present women as a defense against the world. Lover and Mother are irresistibly attracted to Julien and would protect him. Even though his method is improvisational, Stendhal relies on \"preparation\" for the development of plot: This interlude will have served also as the basis of a subsequent plot devised by Julien's enemies to destroy him in the seminary."}

CHAPTER XXIV A CAPITAL What a noise, what busy people! What ideas for the future in a brain of twenty! What distraction offered by love.--_Barnave_. Finally he saw some black walls near a distant mountain. It was the citadel of Besancon. "How different it would be for me," he said with a sigh, "if I were arriving at this noble military town to be sub-lieutenant in one of the regiments entrusted with its defence." Besancon is not only one of the prettiest towns in France, it abounds in people of spirit and brains. But Julien was only a little peasant, and had no means of approaching distinguished people. He had taken a civilian suit at Fouque's, and it was in this dress that he passed the drawbridge. Steeped as he was in the history of the siege of 1674, he wished to see the ramparts of the citadel before shutting himself up in the seminary. He was within an ace two or three times of getting himself arrested by the sentinel. He was penetrating into places which military genius forbids the public to enter, in order to sell twelve or fifteen francs worth of corn every year. The height of the walls, the depth of the ditches, the terrible aspect of the cannons had been engrossing him for several hours when he passed before the great cafe on the boulevard. He was motionless with wonder; it was in vain that he read the word _cafe_, written in big characters above the two immense doors. He could not believe his eyes. He made an effort to overcome his timidity. He dared to enter, and found himself in a hall twenty or thirty yards long, and with a ceiling at least twenty feet high. To-day, everything had a fascination for him. Two games of billiards were in progress. The waiters were crying out the scores. The players ran round the tables encumbered by spectators. Clouds of tobacco smoke came from everybody's mouth, and enveloped them in a blue haze. The high stature of these men, their rounded shoulders, their heavy gait, their enormous whiskers, the long tailed coats which covered them, everything combined to attract Julien's attention. These noble children of the antique Bisontium only spoke at the top of their voice. They gave themselves terrible martial airs. Julien stood still and admired them. He kept thinking of the immensity and magnificence of a great capital like Besancon. He felt absolutely devoid of the requisite courage to ask one of those haughty looking gentlemen, who were crying out the billiard scores, for a cup of coffee. But the young lady at the bar had noticed the charming face of this young civilian from the country, who had stopped three feet from the stove with his little parcel under his arm, and was looking at the fine white plaster bust of the king. This young lady, a big _Franc-comtoise_, very well made, and dressed with the elegance suitable to the prestige of the cafe, had already said two or three times in a little voice not intended to be heard by any one except Julien, "Monsieur, Monsieur." Julien's eyes encountered big blue eyes full of tenderness, and saw that he was the person who was being spoken to. He sharply approached the bar and the pretty girl, as though he had been marching towards the enemy. In this great manoeuvre the parcel fell. What pity will not our provincial inspire in the young lycee scholars of Paris, who, at the early age of fifteen, know already how to enter a cafe with so distinguished an air? But these children who have such style at fifteen turn commonplace at eighteen. The impassioned timidity which is met with in the provinces, sometimes manages to master its own nervousness, and thus trains the will. "I must tell her the truth," thought Julien, who was becoming courageous by dint of conquering his timidity as he approached this pretty girl, who deigned to address him. "Madame, this is the first time in my life that I have come to Besancon. I should like to have some bread and a cup of coffee in return for payment." The young lady smiled a little, and then blushed. She feared the ironic attention and the jests of the billiard players might be turned against this pretty young man. He would be frightened and would not appear there again. "Sit here near me," she said to him, showing him a marble table almost completely hidden by the enormous mahogany counter which extended into the hall. The young lady leant over the counter, and had thus an opportunity of displaying a superb figure. Julien noticed it. All his ideas changed. The pretty young lady had just placed before him a cup, some sugar, and a little roll. She hesitated to call a waiter for the coffee, as she realised that his arrival would put an end to her _tete-a-tete_ with Julien. Julien was pensively comparing this blonde and merry beauty with certain memories which would often thrill him. The thought of the passion of which he had been the object, nearly freed him from all his timidity. The pretty young woman had only one moment to save the situation. She read it in Julien's looks. "This pipe smoke makes you cough; come and have breakfast to-morrow before eight o'clock in the morning. I am practically alone then." "What is your name?" said Julien, with the caressing smile of happy timidity. "Amanda Binet." "Will you allow me to send you within an hour's time a little parcel about as big as this?" The beautiful Amanda reflected a little. "I am watched. What you ask may compromise me. All the same, I will write my address on a card, which you will put on your parcel. Send it boldly to me." "My name is Julien Sorel," said the young man. "I have neither relatives nor acquaintances at Besancon." "Ah, I understand," she said joyfully. "You come to study law." "Alas, no," answered Julien, "I am being sent to the Seminary." The most complete discouragement damped Amanda's features. She called a waiter. She had courage now. The waiter poured out some coffee for Julien without looking at him. Amanda was receiving money at the counter. Julien was proud of having dared to speak: a dispute was going on at one of the billiard tables. The cries and the protests of the players resounded over the immense hall, and made a din which astonished Julien. Amanda was dreamy, and kept her eyes lowered. "If you like, Mademoiselle," he said to her suddenly with assurance, "I will say that I am your cousin." This little air of authority pleased Amanda. "He's not a mere nobody," she thought. She spoke to him very quickly, without looking at him, because her eye was occupied in seeing if anybody was coming near the counter. "I come from Genlis, near Dijon. Say that you are also from Genlis and are my mother's cousin." "I shall not fail to do so." "All the gentlemen who go to the Seminary pass here before the cafe every Thursday in the summer at five o'clock." "If you think of me when I am passing, have a bunch of violets in your hand." Amanda looked at him with an astonished air. This look changed Julien's courage into audacity. Nevertheless, he reddened considerably, as he said to her. "I feel that I love you with the most violent love." "Speak in lower tones," she said to him with a frightened air. Julien was trying to recollect phrases out of a volume of the _Nouvelle Heloise_ which he had found at Vergy. His memory served him in good stead. For ten minutes he recited the _Nouvelle Heloise_ to the delighted Mademoiselle Amanda. He was happy on the strength of his own bravery, when suddenly the beautiful Franc-contoise assumed an icy air. One of her lovers had appeared at the cafe door. He approached the bar, whistling, and swaggering his shoulders. He looked at Julien. The latter's imagination, which always indulged in extremes, suddenly brimmed over with ideas of a duel. He paled greatly, put down his cup, assumed an assured demeanour, and considered his rival very attentively. As this rival lowered his head, while he familiarly poured out on the counter a glass of brandy for himself, Amanda ordered Julien with a look to lower his eyes. He obeyed, and for two minutes kept motionless in his place, pale, resolute, and only thinking of what was going to happen. He was truly happy at this moment. The rival had been astonished by Julien's eyes. Gulping down his glass of brandy, he said a few words to Amanda, placed his two hands in the pockets of his big tail coat, and approached the billiard table, whistling, and looking at Julien. The latter got up transported with rage, but he did not know what to do in order to be offensive. He put down his little parcel, and walked towards the billiard table with all the swagger he could muster. It was in vain that prudence said to him, "but your ecclesiastical career will be ruined by a duel immediately on top of your arrival at Besancon." "What does it matter. It shall never be said that I let an insolent fellow go scot free." Amanda saw his courage. It contrasted prettily with the simplicity of his manners. She instantly preferred him to the big young man with the tail coat. She got up, and while appearing to be following with her eye somebody who was passing in the street, she went and quickly placed herself between him and the billiard table. "Take care not to look askance at that gentleman. He is my brother-in-law." "What does it matter? He looked at me." "Do you want to make me unhappy? No doubt he looked at you, why it may be he is going to speak to you. I told him that you were a relative of my mother, and that you had arrived from Genlis. He is a Franc-contois, and has never gone beyond Doleon the Burgundy Road, so say what you like and fear nothing." Julien was still hesitating. Her barmaid's imagination furnished her with an abundance of lies, and she quickly added. "No doubt he looked at you, but it was at a moment when he was asking me who you were. He is a man who is boorish with everyone. He did not mean to insult you." Julien's eye followed the pretended brother-in-law. He saw him buy a ticket for the pool, which they were playing at the further of the two billiard tables. Julien heard his loud voice shouting out in a threatening tone, "My turn to play." He passed sharply before Madame Amanda, and took a step towards the billiard table. Amanda seized him by the arm. "Come and pay me first," she said to him. "That is right," thought Julien. "She is frightened that I shall leave without paying." Amanda was as agitated as he was, and very red. She gave him the change as slowly as she could, while she repeated to him, in a low voice, "Leave the cafe this instant, or I shall love you no more, and yet I do love you very much." Julien did go out, but slowly. "Am I not in duty bound," he repeated to himself, "to go and stare at that coarse person in my turn?" This uncertainty kept him on the boulevard in the front of the cafe for an hour; he kept looking if his man was coming out. He did not come out, and Julien went away. He had only been at Besancon some hours, and already he had overcome one pang of remorse. The old surgeon-major had formerly given him some fencing lessons, in spite of his gout. That was all the science which Julien could enlist in the service of his anger. But this embarrassment would have been nothing if he had only known how to vent his temper otherwise than by the giving of a blow, for if it had come to a matter of fisticuffs, his enormous rival would have beaten him and then cleared out. "There is not much difference between a seminary and a prison," said Julien to himself, "for a poor devil like me, without protectors and without money. I must leave my civilian clothes in some inn, where I can put my black suit on again. If I ever manage to get out of the seminary for a few hours, I shall be able to see Mdlle. Amanda again in my lay clothes." This reasoning was all very fine. Though Julien passed in front of all the inns, he did not dare to enter a single one. Finally, as he was passing again before the Hotel des Ambassadeurs, his anxious eyes encountered those of a big woman, still fairly young, with a high colour, and a gay and happy air. He approached her and told his story. "Certainly, my pretty little abbe," said the hostess of the Ambassadeurs to him, "I will keep your lay clothes for you, and I will even have them regularly brushed. In weather like this, it is not good to leave a suit of cloth without touching it." She took a key, and conducted him herself to a room, and advised him to make out a note of what he was leaving. "Good heavens. How well you look like that, M. the abbe Sorel," said the big woman to him when he came down to the kitchen. I will go and get a good dinner served up to you, and she added in a low voice, "It will only cost twenty sous instead of the fifty which everybody else pays, for one must really take care of your little purse strings." "I have ten louis," Julien replied with certain pride. "Oh, great heavens," answered the good hostess in alarm. "Don't talk so loud, there are quite a lot of bad characters in Besancon. They'll steal all that from you in less than no time, and above all, never go into the cafe s, they are filled with bad characters." "Indeed," said Julien, to whom those words gave food for thought. "Don't go anywhere else, except to my place. I will make coffee for you. Remember that you will always find a friend here, and a good dinner for twenty sous. So now you understand, I hope. Go and sit down at table, I will serve you myself." "I shan't be able to eat," said Julien to her. "I am too upset. I am going to enter the seminary, as I leave you." The good woman, would not allow him to leave before she had filled his pockets with provisions. Finally Julien took his road towards the terrible place. The hostess was standing at the threshold, and showed him the way.

Chapter 24

https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapter-24

Julien visits the military installation in Besancon before reporting to the seminary. He stops at a cafe, and his fancy is taken by the barmaid, Armanda, who recognizes his obvious embarrassment at the strangeness of this large city. The arrival of one of her lovers nearly incites Julien to challenge him to a duel, but on the insistence of Armanda, Julien leaves the cafe. He stops at an inn to leave his clothes in the safekeeping of the landlady, then courageously starts out for the seminary.

This transitional chapter introduces Julien to the city of Besancon, where the next stage of his education will take place. The cafe scene will reappear in the second part of the novel in a slightly different form but will produce the same effect. Here, the young, inexperienced country boy ventures into a big city cafe. Stendhal creates for him an almost quixotic episode, where Julien may give heroic proportions to a trivial incident: Drawing from his experience as lover, Julien places himself abruptly in the role of Don Juan with Armanda, and his sudden declaration of love to the barmaid is reminiscent of a previous one, pronounced with less sureness but with as much hypocrisy to Mme. de Renal. After his brief and audacious visit to the fortress overlooking Besancon, where he has again evoked an imaginary military career, it is here in a cafe that he almost spontaneously gives form to his aggressiveness in an imagined amorous adventure. The arrival of Armanda's lover is but a part of this mock-heroic adventure, immediately awakening in Julien the sense of honor of the knight errant, who, without the intervention of Armanda, would have challenged his supposed "rival." The scenes preliminary to Julien's arrival at the seminary should recall to the reader Julien's visit to the church prior to his entrance at the home of the Renals. In both, Julien is play-acting, rehearsing, in a sense, for his big scene. He musters up his courage, measures it, or rather "takes its temperature," to assure himself in advance that he will not fall short of the ideal performance required in a new and challenging situation. Note that the "glance" is the basis of the real and imagined adventure that Stendhal narrates, and he gives Julien almost magical powers of self-extrication. Communication by the "glance" seems to be one of the secretive codes designed to protect the integrity of the superior being. As was predicted by the priest Chelan, Julien's merit will endanger him because of the envy it inspires in others. Therefore, it is not surprising that Julien seeks protection in women from his enemies. In this short chapter, the two incidents present women as a defense against the world. Lover and Mother are irresistibly attracted to Julien and would protect him. Even though his method is improvisational, Stendhal relies on "preparation" for the development of plot: This interlude will have served also as the basis of a subsequent plot devised by Julien's enemies to destroy him in the seminary.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/chapters_28_to_31.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_4_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapters 28-31

chapters 28-31

{"name": "Chapters 28-31", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210108004047/https://www.gradesaver.com/far-from-the-madding-crowd/study-guide/summary-chapters-28-31", "summary": "Bathsheba is increasingly distracted by her feelings for Troy, and Gabriel notices what is going on. He finds an opportunity to join her on an evening walk, and mentions the possibility of her marrying Boldwood. Bathsheba now asserts that she is not going to marry him, and that she will tell him so when he returns at harvest time. Gabriel expresses concern that she is toying with Boldwood's feelings, and his dislike of her relationship with Troy. He tells her that he does not think Troy is a good or trustworthy person, but Bathsheba defends him. Becoming more desperate, Gabriel tells her that he loves her, and that while he knows he has no chance of marrying her, he would much rather see her with Boldwood or anyone else other than Troy. Bathsheba becomes angry and tells Gabriel he cannot work for her any longer. He tells her that she needs him if the farm is going to continue to run successfully, and that he will only consent to leave if she agrees to hire another man as a bailiff. Since she refuses to do so, he insists on staying and she reluctantly agrees. She then asks Gabriel to leave her alone, and as he slips away, he sees that she is meeting up with Troy. Bathsheba returns from the meeting with Troy and writes a letter to Boldwood saying that she has decided she cannot marry him. She then overhears Liddy and other female servants gossiping about the possibility of her marrying Troy. She becomes very angry and swears that she hates Troy, but then becomes very emotional and confides to Liddy that she is in love with Troy and agitated by all the bad things people seem to say about him. She behaves so erratically that Liddy is hurt and says she does not want to work for Bathsheba anymore, but Bathsheba quickly persuades her to stay. After Bathsheba sends her letter to Boldwood, she is worried that he might try and come to discuss it with her, so she arranges to go away for a few days to visit Liddy's sister. However, as she is walking on her journey, she runs into Boldwood. He tells her how upset he is, and begs her to reconsider. Bathsheba pleads that she never truly had feelings for him, and that she has done nothing wrong. Boldwood becomes angry about the fact that she loves Troy and not him, and accuses her of letting Troy kiss her. Bathsheba defiantly refuses to deny this. Boldwood storms into a jealous rage, claiming Troy has seduced and manipulated her, and that he will punish him if he ever catches him. After Boldwood leaves, Bathsheba is very anxious, because while Boldwood and most of the other townspeople think Troy has returned to his regiment permanently, she knows that he is only away on a brief visit to Bath and is going to be returning the next day. She is fearful of what might happen if Boldwood runs into her lover. Bathsheba is unsure about whether she should tell Troy to remain in Bath but decides she needs to get there to tell him not to return before he sets out. The only way to accomplish this is for her to drive through the night. She decides to go home, get the horse, drive to Bath, end the relationship with Troy, and then continue on to visit Liddy's sister as she had originally planned. That night, Bathsheba's servant Mary-Ann wakes up to the sound of someone taking one of the horses and driving away with it. Believing that a theft has happened, she wakes up the men and Gabriel determines that he and Jan Coggan should pursue the thief on horseback. They go after the thief and eventually are shocked to find that it is Bathsheba herself with the horse and wagon. She explains that she suddenly needed to go to Bath. She continues on her journey, and Gabriel and Coggan go home after agreeing not to discuss what they saw.", "analysis": "Up until beginning her relationship with Troy, Bathsheba has largely operated from a rational and balanced perspective. She is capable of making good decisions about business and the future of the farm, and has shown herself to be a good manager and supervisor. But as her feelings for Troy deepen, Bathsheba behaves more irrationally and erratically. In some ways, as Bathsheba becomes more feminized by her first genuine experience of attraction and desire, she also moves away from the emphasis on logic that had previously characterized her. As Joanna Devereux observes, \"the narrator typically attributes the qualities of logic and thoughtfulness to men, and then notes the unusual circumstance of a woman possessing these traits\" . One sign that her relationship with Troy is not on a good track is that it alienates her from people she cares about. Her volatile moods disrupt her relationship with Liddy, who is essentially Bathsheba's only friend. More seriously, it leads to a confrontation with Gabriel. In both cases, these conflicts end with the risk of Bathsheba's employee leaving her service. While Bathsheba's elevated social and economic position gives her status and power, it is also a lonely situation for her. The only people she is close to still work for her, and that makes this emotional relationships even more complicated. The way in which her friendship with Gabriel has become atypical is made clear when, after she tries to fire him, he simply tells her that he won't leave because he knows she needs him in order for the farm to run. While the possibility that Bathsheba would marry Boldwood was clearly personally painful to Gabriel, he never attempted to interfere with the courtship because he respected and trusted Boldwood to be a good husband. Gabriel's concerns about the fact that Troy does not seem to attend church show that he is a traditional, even conservative, character; for a character like Troy who is not used to being part of tightly-knit community, it would not seem important to publicly demonstrate his integrity and values in this way. What is more significant than Troy not attending church is the fact that he lies about it. When Gabriel suspiciously goes to investigate Troy's story that he enters by the back door, he becomes clear that Troy has not been telling truth Bathsheba the truth, but instead telling her what she wants to hear. This relatively small deception foreshadows the bigger secrets he will turn out to be keeping. Bathsheba's confrontation with Boldwood echoes these themes of other characters mistrusting Troy and trying to protect her. However, while Gabriel and Liddy both seemed genuinely concerned about Bathsheba's welfare, Boldwood is primarily motivated by his jealousy and desire to possess and control her. While it might not seem provocative to modern readers, Boldwood's accusation that Bathsheba has allowed Troy to kiss her, and her refusal to deny this, would have been quite striking in the Victorian era. Boldwood interprets this as evidence that Troy is not a gentleman, and that he will manipulate women to get whatever he can without caring about the consequences to their reputation. Boldwood will turn out to be partially correct, but he overlooks the significant factor of Bathsheba's own desire and agency. He assumes she could only be pursuing a relationship with Troy because the soldier is coercing her, not because she actually wants him."}

THE HOLLOW AMID THE FERNS The hill opposite Bathsheba's dwelling extended, a mile off, into an uncultivated tract of land, dotted at this season with tall thickets of brake fern, plump and diaphanous from recent rapid growth, and radiant in hues of clear and untainted green. At eight o'clock this midsummer evening, whilst the bristling ball of gold in the west still swept the tips of the ferns with its long, luxuriant rays, a soft brushing-by of garments might have been heard among them, and Bathsheba appeared in their midst, their soft, feathery arms caressing her up to her shoulders. She paused, turned, went back over the hill and half-way to her own door, whence she cast a farewell glance upon the spot she had just left, having resolved not to remain near the place after all. She saw a dim spot of artificial red moving round the shoulder of the rise. It disappeared on the other side. She waited one minute--two minutes--thought of Troy's disappointment at her non-fulfilment of a promised engagement, till she again ran along the field, clambered over the bank, and followed the original direction. She was now literally trembling and panting at this her temerity in such an errant undertaking; her breath came and went quickly, and her eyes shone with an infrequent light. Yet go she must. She reached the verge of a pit in the middle of the ferns. Troy stood in the bottom, looking up towards her. "I heard you rustling through the fern before I saw you," he said, coming up and giving her his hand to help her down the slope. The pit was a saucer-shaped concave, naturally formed, with a top diameter of about thirty feet, and shallow enough to allow the sunshine to reach their heads. Standing in the centre, the sky overhead was met by a circular horizon of fern: this grew nearly to the bottom of the slope and then abruptly ceased. The middle within the belt of verdure was floored with a thick flossy carpet of moss and grass intermingled, so yielding that the foot was half-buried within it. "Now," said Troy, producing the sword, which, as he raised it into the sunlight, gleamed a sort of greeting, like a living thing, "first, we have four right and four left cuts; four right and four left thrusts. Infantry cuts and guards are more interesting than ours, to my mind; but they are not so swashing. They have seven cuts and three thrusts. So much as a preliminary. Well, next, our cut one is as if you were sowing your corn--so." Bathsheba saw a sort of rainbow, upside down in the air, and Troy's arm was still again. "Cut two, as if you were hedging--so. Three, as if you were reaping--so. Four, as if you were threshing--in that way. Then the same on the left. The thrusts are these: one, two, three, four, right; one, two, three, four, left." He repeated them. "Have 'em again?" he said. "One, two--" She hurriedly interrupted: "I'd rather not; though I don't mind your twos and fours; but your ones and threes are terrible!" "Very well. I'll let you off the ones and threes. Next, cuts, points and guards altogether." Troy duly exhibited them. "Then there's pursuing practice, in this way." He gave the movements as before. "There, those are the stereotyped forms. The infantry have two most diabolical upward cuts, which we are too humane to use. Like this--three, four." "How murderous and bloodthirsty!" "They are rather deathly. Now I'll be more interesting, and let you see some loose play--giving all the cuts and points, infantry and cavalry, quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously--with just enough rule to regulate instinct and yet not to fetter it. You are my antagonist, with this difference from real warfare, that I shall miss you every time by one hair's breadth, or perhaps two. Mind you don't flinch, whatever you do." "I'll be sure not to!" she said invincibly. He pointed to about a yard in front of him. Bathsheba's adventurous spirit was beginning to find some grains of relish in these highly novel proceedings. She took up her position as directed, facing Troy. "Now just to learn whether you have pluck enough to let me do what I wish, I'll give you a preliminary test." He flourished the sword by way of introduction number two, and the next thing of which she was conscious was that the point and blade of the sword were darting with a gleam towards her left side, just above her hip; then of their reappearance on her right side, emerging as it were from between her ribs, having apparently passed through her body. The third item of consciousness was that of seeing the same sword, perfectly clean and free from blood held vertically in Troy's hand (in the position technically called "recover swords"). All was as quick as electricity. "Oh!" she cried out in affright, pressing her hand to her side. "Have you run me through?--no, you have not! Whatever have you done!" "I have not touched you," said Troy, quietly. "It was mere sleight of hand. The sword passed behind you. Now you are not afraid, are you? Because if you are I can't perform. I give my word that I will not only not hurt you, but not once touch you." "I don't think I am afraid. You are quite sure you will not hurt me?" "Quite sure." "Is the sword very sharp?" "O no--only stand as still as a statue. Now!" In an instant the atmosphere was transformed to Bathsheba's eyes. Beams of light caught from the low sun's rays, above, around, in front of her, well-nigh shut out earth and heaven--all emitted in the marvellous evolutions of Troy's reflecting blade, which seemed everywhere at once, and yet nowhere specially. These circling gleams were accompanied by a keen rush that was almost a whistling--also springing from all sides of her at once. In short, she was enclosed in a firmament of light, and of sharp hisses, resembling a sky-full of meteors close at hand. Never since the broadsword became the national weapon had there been more dexterity shown in its management than by the hands of Sergeant Troy, and never had he been in such splendid temper for the performance as now in the evening sunshine among the ferns with Bathsheba. It may safely be asserted with respect to the closeness of his cuts, that had it been possible for the edge of the sword to leave in the air a permanent substance wherever it flew past, the space left untouched would have been almost a mould of Bathsheba's figure. Behind the luminous streams of this _aurora militaris_, she could see the hue of Troy's sword arm, spread in a scarlet haze over the space covered by its motions, like a twanged harpstring, and behind all Troy himself, mostly facing her; sometimes, to show the rear cuts, half turned away, his eye nevertheless always keenly measuring her breadth and outline, and his lips tightly closed in sustained effort. Next, his movements lapsed slower, and she could see them individually. The hissing of the sword had ceased, and he stopped entirely. "That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying," he said, before she had moved or spoken. "Wait: I'll do it for you." An arc of silver shone on her right side: the sword had descended. The lock dropped to the ground. "Bravely borne!" said Troy. "You didn't flinch a shade's thickness. Wonderful in a woman!" "It was because I didn't expect it. Oh, you have spoilt my hair!" "Only once more." "No--no! I am afraid of you--indeed I am!" she cried. "I won't touch you at all--not even your hair. I am only going to kill that caterpillar settling on you. Now: still!" It appeared that a caterpillar had come from the fern and chosen the front of her bodice as his resting place. She saw the point glisten towards her bosom, and seemingly enter it. Bathsheba closed her eyes in the full persuasion that she was killed at last. However, feeling just as usual, she opened them again. "There it is, look," said the sergeant, holding his sword before her eyes. The caterpillar was spitted upon its point. "Why, it is magic!" said Bathsheba, amazed. "Oh no--dexterity. I merely gave point to your bosom where the caterpillar was, and instead of running you through checked the extension a thousandth of an inch short of your surface." "But how could you chop off a curl of my hair with a sword that has no edge?" "No edge! This sword will shave like a razor. Look here." He touched the palm of his hand with the blade, and then, lifting it, showed her a thin shaving of scarf-skin dangling therefrom. "But you said before beginning that it was blunt and couldn't cut me!" "That was to get you to stand still, and so make sure of your safety. The risk of injuring you through your moving was too great not to force me to tell you a fib to escape it." She shuddered. "I have been within an inch of my life, and didn't know it!" "More precisely speaking, you have been within half an inch of being pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times." "Cruel, cruel, 'tis of you!" "You have been perfectly safe, nevertheless. My sword never errs." And Troy returned the weapon to the scabbard. Bathsheba, overcome by a hundred tumultuous feelings resulting from the scene, abstractedly sat down on a tuft of heather. "I must leave you now," said Troy, softly. "And I'll venture to take and keep this in remembrance of you." She saw him stoop to the grass, pick up the winding lock which he had severed from her manifold tresses, twist it round his fingers, unfasten a button in the breast of his coat, and carefully put it inside. She felt powerless to withstand or deny him. He was altogether too much for her, and Bathsheba seemed as one who, facing a reviving wind, finds it blow so strongly that it stops the breath. He drew near and said, "I must be leaving you." He drew nearer still. A minute later and she saw his scarlet form disappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand swiftly waved. That minute's interval had brought the blood beating into her face, set her stinging as if aflame to the very hollows of her feet, and enlarged emotion to a compass which quite swamped thought. It had brought upon her a stroke resulting, as did that of Moses in Horeb, in a liquid stream--here a stream of tears. She felt like one who has sinned a great sin. The circumstance had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth downwards upon her own. He had kissed her. PARTICULARS OF A TWILIGHT WALK We now see the element of folly distinctly mingling with the many varying particulars which made up the character of Bathsheba Everdene. It was almost foreign to her intrinsic nature. Introduced as lymph on the dart of Eros, it eventually permeated and coloured her whole constitution. Bathsheba, though she had too much understanding to be entirely governed by her womanliness, had too much womanliness to use her understanding to the best advantage. Perhaps in no minor point does woman astonish her helpmate more than in the strange power she possesses of believing cajoleries that she knows to be false--except, indeed, in that of being utterly sceptical on strictures that she knows to be true. Bathsheba loved Troy in the way that only self-reliant women love when they abandon their self-reliance. When a strong woman recklessly throws away her strength she is worse than a weak woman who has never had any strength to throw away. One source of her inadequacy is the novelty of the occasion. She has never had practice in making the best of such a condition. Weakness is doubly weak by being new. Bathsheba was not conscious of guile in this matter. Though in one sense a woman of the world, it was, after all, that world of daylight coteries and green carpets wherein cattle form the passing crowd and winds the busy hum; where a quiet family of rabbits or hares lives on the other side of your party-wall, where your neighbour is everybody in the tything, and where calculation is confined to market-days. Of the fabricated tastes of good fashionable society she knew but little, and of the formulated self-indulgence of bad, nothing at all. Had her utmost thoughts in this direction been distinctly worded (and by herself they never were), they would only have amounted to such a matter as that she felt her impulses to be pleasanter guides than her discretion. Her love was entire as a child's, and though warm as summer it was fresh as spring. Her culpability lay in her making no attempt to control feeling by subtle and careful inquiry into consequences. She could show others the steep and thorny way, but "reck'd not her own rede." And Troy's deformities lay deep down from a woman's vision, whilst his embellishments were upon the very surface; thus contrasting with homely Oak, whose defects were patent to the blindest, and whose virtues were as metals in a mine. The difference between love and respect was markedly shown in her conduct. Bathsheba had spoken of her interest in Boldwood with the greatest freedom to Liddy, but she had only communed with her own heart concerning Troy. All this infatuation Gabriel saw, and was troubled thereby from the time of his daily journey a-field to the time of his return, and on to the small hours of many a night. That he was not beloved had hitherto been his great sorrow; that Bathsheba was getting into the toils was now a sorrow greater than the first, and one which nearly obscured it. It was a result which paralleled the oft-quoted observation of Hippocrates concerning physical pains. That is a noble though perhaps an unpromising love which not even the fear of breeding aversion in the bosom of the one beloved can deter from combating his or her errors. Oak determined to speak to his mistress. He would base his appeal on what he considered her unfair treatment of Farmer Boldwood, now absent from home. An opportunity occurred one evening when she had gone for a short walk by a path through the neighbouring cornfields. It was dusk when Oak, who had not been far a-field that day, took the same path and met her returning, quite pensively, as he thought. The wheat was now tall, and the path was narrow; thus the way was quite a sunken groove between the embowing thicket on either side. Two persons could not walk abreast without damaging the crop, and Oak stood aside to let her pass. "Oh, is it Gabriel?" she said. "You are taking a walk too. Good-night." "I thought I would come to meet you, as it is rather late," said Oak, turning and following at her heels when she had brushed somewhat quickly by him. "Thank you, indeed, but I am not very fearful." "Oh no; but there are bad characters about." "I never meet them." Now Oak, with marvellous ingenuity, had been going to introduce the gallant sergeant through the channel of "bad characters." But all at once the scheme broke down, it suddenly occurring to him that this was rather a clumsy way, and too barefaced to begin with. He tried another preamble. "And as the man who would naturally come to meet you is away from home, too--I mean Farmer Boldwood--why, thinks I, I'll go," he said. "Ah, yes." She walked on without turning her head, and for many steps nothing further was heard from her quarter than the rustle of her dress against the heavy corn-ears. Then she resumed rather tartly-- "I don't quite understand what you meant by saying that Mr. Boldwood would naturally come to meet me." "I meant on account of the wedding which they say is likely to take place between you and him, miss. Forgive my speaking plainly." "They say what is not true." she returned quickly. "No marriage is likely to take place between us." Gabriel now put forth his unobscured opinion, for the moment had come. "Well, Miss Everdene," he said, "putting aside what people say, I never in my life saw any courting if his is not a courting of you." Bathsheba would probably have terminated the conversation there and then by flatly forbidding the subject, had not her conscious weakness of position allured her to palter and argue in endeavours to better it. "Since this subject has been mentioned," she said very emphatically, "I am glad of the opportunity of clearing up a mistake which is very common and very provoking. I didn't definitely promise Mr. Boldwood anything. I have never cared for him. I respect him, and he has urged me to marry him. But I have given him no distinct answer. As soon as he returns I shall do so; and the answer will be that I cannot think of marrying him." "People are full of mistakes, seemingly." "They are." "The other day they said you were trifling with him, and you almost proved that you were not; lately they have said that you be not, and you straightway begin to show--" "That I am, I suppose you mean." "Well, I hope they speak the truth." "They do, but wrongly applied. I don't trifle with him; but then, I have nothing to do with him." Oak was unfortunately led on to speak of Boldwood's rival in a wrong tone to her after all. "I wish you had never met that young Sergeant Troy, miss," he sighed. Bathsheba's steps became faintly spasmodic. "Why?" she asked. "He is not good enough for 'ee." "Did any one tell you to speak to me like this?" "Nobody at all." "Then it appears to me that Sergeant Troy does not concern us here," she said, intractably. "Yet I must say that Sergeant Troy is an educated man, and quite worthy of any woman. He is well born." "His being higher in learning and birth than the ruck o' soldiers is anything but a proof of his worth. It show's his course to be down'ard." "I cannot see what this has to do with our conversation. Mr. Troy's course is not by any means downward; and his superiority IS a proof of his worth!" "I believe him to have no conscience at all. And I cannot help begging you, miss, to have nothing to do with him. Listen to me this once--only this once! I don't say he's such a bad man as I have fancied--I pray to God he is not. But since we don't exactly know what he is, why not behave as if he MIGHT be bad, simply for your own safety? Don't trust him, mistress; I ask you not to trust him so." "Why, pray?" "I like soldiers, but this one I do not like," he said, sturdily. "His cleverness in his calling may have tempted him astray, and what is mirth to the neighbours is ruin to the woman. When he tries to talk to 'ee again, why not turn away with a short 'Good day'; and when you see him coming one way, turn the other. When he says anything laughable, fail to see the point and don't smile, and speak of him before those who will report your talk as 'that fantastical man,' or 'that Sergeant What's-his-name.' 'That man of a family that has come to the dogs.' Don't be unmannerly towards en, but harmless-uncivil, and so get rid of the man." No Christmas robin detained by a window-pane ever pulsed as did Bathsheba now. "I say--I say again--that it doesn't become you to talk about him. Why he should be mentioned passes me quite!" she exclaimed desperately. "I know this, th-th-that he is a thoroughly conscientious man--blunt sometimes even to rudeness--but always speaking his mind about you plain to your face!" "Oh." "He is as good as anybody in this parish! He is very particular, too, about going to church--yes, he is!" "I am afeard nobody saw him there. I never did, certainly." "The reason of that is," she said eagerly, "that he goes in privately by the old tower door, just when the service commences, and sits at the back of the gallery. He told me so." This supreme instance of Troy's goodness fell upon Gabriel ears like the thirteenth stroke of crazy clock. It was not only received with utter incredulity as regarded itself, but threw a doubt on all the assurances that had preceded it. Oak was grieved to find how entirely she trusted him. He brimmed with deep feeling as he replied in a steady voice, the steadiness of which was spoilt by the palpableness of his great effort to keep it so:-- "You know, mistress, that I love you, and shall love you always. I only mention this to bring to your mind that at any rate I would wish to do you no harm: beyond that I put it aside. I have lost in the race for money and good things, and I am not such a fool as to pretend to 'ee now I am poor, and you have got altogether above me. But Bathsheba, dear mistress, this I beg you to consider--that, both to keep yourself well honoured among the workfolk, and in common generosity to an honourable man who loves you as well as I, you should be more discreet in your bearing towards this soldier." "Don't, don't, don't!" she exclaimed, in a choking voice. "Are ye not more to me than my own affairs, and even life!" he went on. "Come, listen to me! I am six years older than you, and Mr. Boldwood is ten years older than I, and consider--I do beg of 'ee to consider before it is too late--how safe you would be in his hands!" Oak's allusion to his own love for her lessened, to some extent, her anger at his interference; but she could not really forgive him for letting his wish to marry her be eclipsed by his wish to do her good, any more than for his slighting treatment of Troy. "I wish you to go elsewhere," she commanded, a paleness of face invisible to the eye being suggested by the trembling words. "Do not remain on this farm any longer. I don't want you--I beg you to go!" "That's nonsense," said Oak, calmly. "This is the second time you have pretended to dismiss me; and what's the use o' it?" "Pretended! You shall go, sir--your lecturing I will not hear! I am mistress here." "Go, indeed--what folly will you say next? Treating me like Dick, Tom and Harry when you know that a short time ago my position was as good as yours! Upon my life, Bathsheba, it is too barefaced. You know, too, that I can't go without putting things in such a strait as you wouldn't get out of I can't tell when. Unless, indeed, you'll promise to have an understanding man as bailiff, or manager, or something. I'll go at once if you'll promise that." "I shall have no bailiff; I shall continue to be my own manager," she said decisively. "Very well, then; you should be thankful to me for biding. How would the farm go on with nobody to mind it but a woman? But mind this, I don't wish 'ee to feel you owe me anything. Not I. What I do, I do. Sometimes I say I should be as glad as a bird to leave the place--for don't suppose I'm content to be a nobody. I was made for better things. However, I don't like to see your concerns going to ruin, as they must if you keep in this mind.... I hate taking my own measure so plain, but, upon my life, your provoking ways make a man say what he wouldn't dream of at other times! I own to being rather interfering. But you know well enough how it is, and who she is that I like too well, and feel too much like a fool about to be civil to her!" It is more than probable that she privately and unconsciously respected him a little for this grim fidelity, which had been shown in his tone even more than in his words. At any rate she murmured something to the effect that he might stay if he wished. She said more distinctly, "Will you leave me alone now? I don't order it as a mistress--I ask it as a woman, and I expect you not to be so uncourteous as to refuse." "Certainly I will, Miss Everdene," said Gabriel, gently. He wondered that the request should have come at this moment, for the strife was over, and they were on a most desolate hill, far from every human habitation, and the hour was getting late. He stood still and allowed her to get far ahead of him till he could only see her form upon the sky. A distressing explanation of this anxiety to be rid of him at that point now ensued. A figure apparently rose from the earth beside her. The shape beyond all doubt was Troy's. Oak would not be even a possible listener, and at once turned back till a good two hundred yards were between the lovers and himself. Gabriel went home by way of the churchyard. In passing the tower he thought of what she had said about the sergeant's virtuous habit of entering the church unperceived at the beginning of service. Believing that the little gallery door alluded to was quite disused, he ascended the external flight of steps at the top of which it stood, and examined it. The pale lustre yet hanging in the north-western heaven was sufficient to show that a sprig of ivy had grown from the wall across the door to a length of more than a foot, delicately tying the panel to the stone jamb. It was a decisive proof that the door had not been opened at least since Troy came back to Weatherbury. HOT CHEEKS AND TEARFUL EYES Half an hour later Bathsheba entered her own house. There burnt upon her face when she met the light of the candles the flush and excitement which were little less than chronic with her now. The farewell words of Troy, who had accompanied her to the very door, still lingered in her ears. He had bidden her adieu for two days, which were, so he stated, to be spent at Bath in visiting some friends. He had also kissed her a second time. It is only fair to Bathsheba to explain here a little fact which did not come to light till a long time afterwards: that Troy's presentation of himself so aptly at the roadside this evening was not by any distinctly preconcerted arrangement. He had hinted--she had forbidden; and it was only on the chance of his still coming that she had dismissed Oak, fearing a meeting between them just then. She now sank down into a chair, wild and perturbed by all these new and fevering sequences. Then she jumped up with a manner of decision, and fetched her desk from a side table. In three minutes, without pause or modification, she had written a letter to Boldwood, at his address beyond Casterbridge, saying mildly but firmly that she had well considered the whole subject he had brought before her and kindly given her time to decide upon; that her final decision was that she could not marry him. She had expressed to Oak an intention to wait till Boldwood came home before communicating to him her conclusive reply. But Bathsheba found that she could not wait. It was impossible to send this letter till the next day; yet to quell her uneasiness by getting it out of her hands, and so, as it were, setting the act in motion at once, she arose to take it to any one of the women who might be in the kitchen. She paused in the passage. A dialogue was going on in the kitchen, and Bathsheba and Troy were the subject of it. "If he marry her, she'll gie up farming." "'Twill be a gallant life, but may bring some trouble between the mirth--so say I." "Well, I wish I had half such a husband." Bathsheba had too much sense to mind seriously what her servitors said about her; but too much womanly redundance of speech to leave alone what was said till it died the natural death of unminded things. She burst in upon them. "Who are you speaking of?" she asked. There was a pause before anybody replied. At last Liddy said frankly, "What was passing was a bit of a word about yourself, miss." "I thought so! Maryann and Liddy and Temperance--now I forbid you to suppose such things. You know I don't care the least for Mr. Troy--not I. Everybody knows how much I hate him.--Yes," repeated the froward young person, "HATE him!" "We know you do, miss," said Liddy; "and so do we all." "I hate him too," said Maryann. "Maryann--Oh you perjured woman! How can you speak that wicked story!" said Bathsheba, excitedly. "You admired him from your heart only this morning in the very world, you did. Yes, Maryann, you know it!" "Yes, miss, but so did you. He is a wild scamp now, and you are right to hate him." "He's NOT a wild scamp! How dare you to my face! I have no right to hate him, nor you, nor anybody. But I am a silly woman! What is it to me what he is? You know it is nothing. I don't care for him; I don't mean to defend his good name, not I. Mind this, if any of you say a word against him you'll be dismissed instantly!" She flung down the letter and surged back into the parlour, with a big heart and tearful eyes, Liddy following her. "Oh miss!" said mild Liddy, looking pitifully into Bathsheba's face. "I am sorry we mistook you so! I did think you cared for him; but I see you don't now." "Shut the door, Liddy." Liddy closed the door, and went on: "People always say such foolery, miss. I'll make answer hencefor'ard, 'Of course a lady like Miss Everdene can't love him'; I'll say it out in plain black and white." Bathsheba burst out: "O Liddy, are you such a simpleton? Can't you read riddles? Can't you see? Are you a woman yourself?" Liddy's clear eyes rounded with wonderment. "Yes; you must be a blind thing, Liddy!" she said, in reckless abandonment and grief. "Oh, I love him to very distraction and misery and agony! Don't be frightened at me, though perhaps I am enough to frighten any innocent woman. Come closer--closer." She put her arms round Liddy's neck. "I must let it out to somebody; it is wearing me away! Don't you yet know enough of me to see through that miserable denial of mine? O God, what a lie it was! Heaven and my Love forgive me. And don't you know that a woman who loves at all thinks nothing of perjury when it is balanced against her love? There, go out of the room; I want to be quite alone." Liddy went towards the door. "Liddy, come here. Solemnly swear to me that he's not a fast man; that it is all lies they say about him!" "But, miss, how can I say he is not if--" "You graceless girl! How can you have the cruel heart to repeat what they say? Unfeeling thing that you are.... But I'LL see if you or anybody else in the village, or town either, dare do such a thing!" She started off, pacing from fireplace to door, and back again. "No, miss. I don't--I know it is not true!" said Liddy, frightened at Bathsheba's unwonted vehemence. "I suppose you only agree with me like that to please me. But, Liddy, he CANNOT BE bad, as is said. Do you hear?" "Yes, miss, yes." "And you don't believe he is?" "I don't know what to say, miss," said Liddy, beginning to cry. "If I say No, you don't believe me; and if I say Yes, you rage at me!" "Say you don't believe it--say you don't!" "I don't believe him to be so bad as they make out." "He is not bad at all.... My poor life and heart, how weak I am!" she moaned, in a relaxed, desultory way, heedless of Liddy's presence. "Oh, how I wish I had never seen him! Loving is misery for women always. I shall never forgive God for making me a woman, and dearly am I beginning to pay for the honour of owning a pretty face." She freshened and turned to Liddy suddenly. "Mind this, Lydia Smallbury, if you repeat anywhere a single word of what I have said to you inside this closed door, I'll never trust you, or love you, or have you with me a moment longer--not a moment!" "I don't want to repeat anything," said Liddy, with womanly dignity of a diminutive order; "but I don't wish to stay with you. And, if you please, I'll go at the end of the harvest, or this week, or to-day.... I don't see that I deserve to be put upon and stormed at for nothing!" concluded the small woman, bigly. "No, no, Liddy; you must stay!" said Bathsheba, dropping from haughtiness to entreaty with capricious inconsequence. "You must not notice my being in a taking just now. You are not as a servant--you are a companion to me. Dear, dear--I don't know what I am doing since this miserable ache of my heart has weighted and worn upon me so! What shall I come to! I suppose I shall get further and further into troubles. I wonder sometimes if I am doomed to die in the Union. I am friendless enough, God knows!" "I won't notice anything, nor will I leave you!" sobbed Liddy, impulsively putting up her lips to Bathsheba's, and kissing her. Then Bathsheba kissed Liddy, and all was smooth again. "I don't often cry, do I, Lidd? but you have made tears come into my eyes," she said, a smile shining through the moisture. "Try to think him a good man, won't you, dear Liddy?" "I will, miss, indeed." "He is a sort of steady man in a wild way, you know. That's better than to be as some are, wild in a steady way. I am afraid that's how I am. And promise me to keep my secret--do, Liddy! And do not let them know that I have been crying about him, because it will be dreadful for me, and no good to him, poor thing!" "Death's head himself shan't wring it from me, mistress, if I've a mind to keep anything; and I'll always be your friend," replied Liddy, emphatically, at the same time bringing a few more tears into her own eyes, not from any particular necessity, but from an artistic sense of making herself in keeping with the remainder of the picture, which seems to influence women at such times. "I think God likes us to be good friends, don't you?" "Indeed I do." "And, dear miss, you won't harry me and storm at me, will you? because you seem to swell so tall as a lion then, and it frightens me! Do you know, I fancy you would be a match for any man when you are in one o' your takings." "Never! do you?" said Bathsheba, slightly laughing, though somewhat seriously alarmed by this Amazonian picture of herself. "I hope I am not a bold sort of maid--mannish?" she continued with some anxiety. "Oh no, not mannish; but so almighty womanish that 'tis getting on that way sometimes. Ah! miss," she said, after having drawn her breath very sadly in and sent it very sadly out, "I wish I had half your failing that way. 'Tis a great protection to a poor maid in these illegit'mate days!" BLAME--FURY The next evening Bathsheba, with the idea of getting out of the way of Mr. Boldwood in the event of his returning to answer her note in person, proceeded to fulfil an engagement made with Liddy some few hours earlier. Bathsheba's companion, as a gauge of their reconciliation, had been granted a week's holiday to visit her sister, who was married to a thriving hurdler and cattle-crib-maker living in a delightful labyrinth of hazel copse not far beyond Yalbury. The arrangement was that Miss Everdene should honour them by coming there for a day or two to inspect some ingenious contrivances which this man of the woods had introduced into his wares. Leaving her instructions with Gabriel and Maryann, that they were to see everything carefully locked up for the night, she went out of the house just at the close of a timely thunder-shower, which had refined the air, and daintily bathed the coat of the land, though all beneath was dry as ever. Freshness was exhaled in an essence from the varied contours of bank and hollow, as if the earth breathed maiden breath; and the pleased birds were hymning to the scene. Before her, among the clouds, there was a contrast in the shape of lairs of fierce light which showed themselves in the neighbourhood of a hidden sun, lingering on to the farthest north-west corner of the heavens that this midsummer season allowed. She had walked nearly two miles of her journey, watching how the day was retreating, and thinking how the time of deeds was quietly melting into the time of thought, to give place in its turn to the time of prayer and sleep, when she beheld advancing over Yalbury hill the very man she sought so anxiously to elude. Boldwood was stepping on, not with that quiet tread of reserved strength which was his customary gait, in which he always seemed to be balancing two thoughts. His manner was stunned and sluggish now. Boldwood had for the first time been awakened to woman's privileges in tergiversation even when it involves another person's possible blight. That Bathsheba was a firm and positive girl, far less inconsequent than her fellows, had been the very lung of his hope; for he had held that these qualities would lead her to adhere to a straight course for consistency's sake, and accept him, though her fancy might not flood him with the iridescent hues of uncritical love. But the argument now came back as sorry gleams from a broken mirror. The discovery was no less a scourge than a surprise. He came on looking upon the ground, and did not see Bathsheba till they were less than a stone's throw apart. He looked up at the sound of her pit-pat, and his changed appearance sufficiently denoted to her the depth and strength of the feelings paralyzed by her letter. "Oh; is it you, Mr. Boldwood?" she faltered, a guilty warmth pulsing in her face. Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a means more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter moods that they avoid the pathway of sound. Boldwood's look was unanswerable. Seeing she turned a little aside, he said, "What, are you afraid of me?" "Why should you say that?" said Bathsheba. "I fancied you looked so," said he. "And it is most strange, because of its contrast with my feeling for you." She regained self-possession, fixed her eyes calmly, and waited. "You know what that feeling is," continued Boldwood, deliberately. "A thing strong as death. No dismissal by a hasty letter affects that." "I wish you did not feel so strongly about me," she murmured. "It is generous of you, and more than I deserve, but I must not hear it now." "Hear it? What do you think I have to say, then? I am not to marry you, and that's enough. Your letter was excellently plain. I want you to hear nothing--not I." Bathsheba was unable to direct her will into any definite groove for freeing herself from this fearfully awkward position. She confusedly said, "Good evening," and was moving on. Boldwood walked up to her heavily and dully. "Bathsheba--darling--is it final indeed?" "Indeed it is." "Oh, Bathsheba--have pity upon me!" Boldwood burst out. "God's sake, yes--I am come to that low, lowest stage--to ask a woman for pity! Still, she is you--she is you." Bathsheba commanded herself well. But she could hardly get a clear voice for what came instinctively to her lips: "There is little honour to the woman in that speech." It was only whispered, for something unutterably mournful no less than distressing in this spectacle of a man showing himself to be so entirely the vane of a passion enervated the feminine instinct for punctilios. "I am beyond myself about this, and am mad," he said. "I am no stoic at all to be supplicating here; but I do supplicate to you. I wish you knew what is in me of devotion to you; but it is impossible, that. In bare human mercy to a lonely man, don't throw me off now!" "I don't throw you off--indeed, how can I? I never had you." In her noon-clear sense that she had never loved him she forgot for a moment her thoughtless angle on that day in February. "But there was a time when you turned to me, before I thought of you! I don't reproach you, for even now I feel that the ignorant and cold darkness that I should have lived in if you had not attracted me by that letter--valentine you call it--would have been worse than my knowledge of you, though it has brought this misery. But, I say, there was a time when I knew nothing of you, and cared nothing for you, and yet you drew me on. And if you say you gave me no encouragement, I cannot but contradict you." "What you call encouragement was the childish game of an idle minute. I have bitterly repented of it--ay, bitterly, and in tears. Can you still go on reminding me?" "I don't accuse you of it--I deplore it. I took for earnest what you insist was jest, and now this that I pray to be jest you say is awful, wretched earnest. Our moods meet at wrong places. I wish your feeling was more like mine, or my feeling more like yours! Oh, could I but have foreseen the torture that trifling trick was going to lead me into, how I should have cursed you; but only having been able to see it since, I cannot do that, for I love you too well! But it is weak, idle drivelling to go on like this.... Bathsheba, you are the first woman of any shade or nature that I have ever looked at to love, and it is the having been so near claiming you for my own that makes this denial so hard to bear. How nearly you promised me! But I don't speak now to move your heart, and make you grieve because of my pain; it is no use, that. I must bear it; my pain would get no less by paining you." "But I do pity you--deeply--O, so deeply!" she earnestly said. "Do no such thing--do no such thing. Your dear love, Bathsheba, is such a vast thing beside your pity, that the loss of your pity as well as your love is no great addition to my sorrow, nor does the gain of your pity make it sensibly less. O sweet--how dearly you spoke to me behind the spear-bed at the washing-pool, and in the barn at the shearing, and that dearest last time in the evening at your home! Where are your pleasant words all gone--your earnest hope to be able to love me? Where is your firm conviction that you would get to care for me very much? Really forgotten?--really?" She checked emotion, looked him quietly and clearly in the face, and said in her low, firm voice, "Mr. Boldwood, I promised you nothing. Would you have had me a woman of clay when you paid me that furthest, highest compliment a man can pay a woman--telling her he loves her? I was bound to show some feeling, if I would not be a graceless shrew. Yet each of those pleasures was just for the day--the day just for the pleasure. How was I to know that what is a pastime to all other men was death to you? Have reason, do, and think more kindly of me!" "Well, never mind arguing--never mind. One thing is sure: you were all but mine, and now you are not nearly mine. Everything is changed, and that by you alone, remember. You were nothing to me once, and I was contented; you are now nothing to me again, and how different the second nothing is from the first! Would to God you had never taken me up, since it was only to throw me down!" Bathsheba, in spite of her mettle, began to feel unmistakable signs that she was inherently the weaker vessel. She strove miserably against this femininity which would insist upon supplying unbidden emotions in stronger and stronger current. She had tried to elude agitation by fixing her mind on the trees, sky, any trivial object before her eyes, whilst his reproaches fell, but ingenuity could not save her now. "I did not take you up--surely I did not!" she answered as heroically as she could. "But don't be in this mood with me. I can endure being told I am in the wrong, if you will only tell it me gently! O sir, will you not kindly forgive me, and look at it cheerfully?" "Cheerfully! Can a man fooled to utter heart-burning find a reason for being merry? If I have lost, how can I be as if I had won? Heavens you must be heartless quite! Had I known what a fearfully bitter sweet this was to be, how I would have avoided you, and never seen you, and been deaf of you. I tell you all this, but what do you care! You don't care." She returned silent and weak denials to his charges, and swayed her head desperately, as if to thrust away the words as they came showering about her ears from the lips of the trembling man in the climax of life, with his bronzed Roman face and fine frame. "Dearest, dearest, I am wavering even now between the two opposites of recklessly renouncing you, and labouring humbly for you again. Forget that you have said No, and let it be as it was! Say, Bathsheba, that you only wrote that refusal to me in fun--come, say it to me!" "It would be untrue, and painful to both of us. You overrate my capacity for love. I don't possess half the warmth of nature you believe me to have. An unprotected childhood in a cold world has beaten gentleness out of me." He immediately said with more resentment: "That may be true, somewhat; but ah, Miss Everdene, it won't do as a reason! You are not the cold woman you would have me believe. No, no! It isn't because you have no feeling in you that you don't love me. You naturally would have me think so--you would hide from me that you have a burning heart like mine. You have love enough, but it is turned into a new channel. I know where." The swift music of her heart became hubbub now, and she throbbed to extremity. He was coming to Troy. He did then know what had occurred! And the name fell from his lips the next moment. "Why did Troy not leave my treasure alone?" he asked, fiercely. "When I had no thought of injuring him, why did he force himself upon your notice! Before he worried you your inclination was to have me; when next I should have come to you your answer would have been Yes. Can you deny it--I ask, can you deny it?" She delayed the reply, but was too honest to withhold it. "I cannot," she whispered. "I know you cannot. But he stole in in my absence and robbed me. Why didn't he win you away before, when nobody would have been grieved?--when nobody would have been set tale-bearing. Now the people sneer at me--the very hills and sky seem to laugh at me till I blush shamefully for my folly. I have lost my respect, my good name, my standing--lost it, never to get it again. Go and marry your man--go on!" "Oh sir--Mr. Boldwood!" "You may as well. I have no further claim upon you. As for me, I had better go somewhere alone, and hide--and pray. I loved a woman once. I am now ashamed. When I am dead they'll say, miserable love-sick man that he was. Heaven--heaven--if I had got jilted secretly, and the dishonour not known, and my position kept! But no matter, it is gone, and the woman not gained. Shame upon him--shame!" His unreasonable anger terrified her, and she glided from him, without obviously moving, as she said, "I am only a girl--do not speak to me so!" "All the time you knew--how very well you knew--that your new freak was my misery. Dazzled by brass and scarlet--Oh, Bathsheba--this is woman's folly indeed!" She fired up at once. "You are taking too much upon yourself!" she said, vehemently. "Everybody is upon me--everybody. It is unmanly to attack a woman so! I have nobody in the world to fight my battles for me; but no mercy is shown. Yet if a thousand of you sneer and say things against me, I WILL NOT be put down!" "You'll chatter with him doubtless about me. Say to him, 'Boldwood would have died for me.' Yes, and you have given way to him, knowing him to be not the man for you. He has kissed you--claimed you as his. Do you hear--he has kissed you. Deny it!" The most tragic woman is cowed by a tragic man, and although Boldwood was, in vehemence and glow, nearly her own self rendered into another sex, Bathsheba's cheek quivered. She gasped, "Leave me, sir--leave me! I am nothing to you. Let me go on!" "Deny that he has kissed you." "I shall not." "Ha--then he has!" came hoarsely from the farmer. "He has," she said, slowly, and, in spite of her fear, defiantly. "I am not ashamed to speak the truth." "Then curse him; and curse him!" said Boldwood, breaking into a whispered fury. "Whilst I would have given worlds to touch your hand, you have let a rake come in without right or ceremony and--kiss you! Heaven's mercy--kiss you! ... Ah, a time of his life shall come when he will have to repent, and think wretchedly of the pain he has caused another man; and then may he ache, and wish, and curse, and yearn--as I do now!" "Don't, don't, oh, don't pray down evil upon him!" she implored in a miserable cry. "Anything but that--anything. Oh, be kind to him, sir, for I love him true!" Boldwood's ideas had reached that point of fusion at which outline and consistency entirely disappear. The impending night appeared to concentrate in his eye. He did not hear her at all now. "I'll punish him--by my soul, that will I! I'll meet him, soldier or no, and I'll horsewhip the untimely stripling for this reckless theft of my one delight. If he were a hundred men I'd horsewhip him--" He dropped his voice suddenly and unnaturally. "Bathsheba, sweet, lost coquette, pardon me! I've been blaming you, threatening you, behaving like a churl to you, when he's the greatest sinner. He stole your dear heart away with his unfathomable lies! ... It is a fortunate thing for him that he's gone back to his regiment--that he's away up the country, and not here! I hope he may not return here just yet. I pray God he may not come into my sight, for I may be tempted beyond myself. Oh, Bathsheba, keep him away--yes, keep him away from me!" For a moment Boldwood stood so inertly after this that his soul seemed to have been entirely exhaled with the breath of his passionate words. He turned his face away, and withdrew, and his form was soon covered over by the twilight as his footsteps mixed in with the low hiss of the leafy trees. Bathsheba, who had been standing motionless as a model all this latter time, flung her hands to her face, and wildly attempted to ponder on the exhibition which had just passed away. Such astounding wells of fevered feeling in a still man like Mr. Boldwood were incomprehensible, dreadful. Instead of being a man trained to repression he was--what she had seen him. The force of the farmer's threats lay in their relation to a circumstance known at present only to herself: her lover was coming back to Weatherbury in the course of the very next day or two. Troy had not returned to his distant barracks as Boldwood and others supposed, but had merely gone to visit some acquaintance in Bath, and had yet a week or more remaining to his furlough. She felt wretchedly certain that if he revisited her just at this nick of time, and came into contact with Boldwood, a fierce quarrel would be the consequence. She panted with solicitude when she thought of possible injury to Troy. The least spark would kindle the farmer's swift feelings of rage and jealousy; he would lose his self-mastery as he had this evening; Troy's blitheness might become aggressive; it might take the direction of derision, and Boldwood's anger might then take the direction of revenge. With almost a morbid dread of being thought a gushing girl, this guileless woman too well concealed from the world under a manner of carelessness the warm depths of her strong emotions. But now there was no reserve. In her distraction, instead of advancing further she walked up and down, beating the air with her fingers, pressing on her brow, and sobbing brokenly to herself. Then she sat down on a heap of stones by the wayside to think. There she remained long. Above the dark margin of the earth appeared foreshores and promontories of coppery cloud, bounding a green and pellucid expanse in the western sky. Amaranthine glosses came over them then, and the unresting world wheeled her round to a contrasting prospect eastward, in the shape of indecisive and palpitating stars. She gazed upon their silent throes amid the shades of space, but realised none at all. Her troubled spirit was far away with Troy.

Chapters 28-31

https://web.archive.org/web/20210108004047/https://www.gradesaver.com/far-from-the-madding-crowd/study-guide/summary-chapters-28-31

Bathsheba is increasingly distracted by her feelings for Troy, and Gabriel notices what is going on. He finds an opportunity to join her on an evening walk, and mentions the possibility of her marrying Boldwood. Bathsheba now asserts that she is not going to marry him, and that she will tell him so when he returns at harvest time. Gabriel expresses concern that she is toying with Boldwood's feelings, and his dislike of her relationship with Troy. He tells her that he does not think Troy is a good or trustworthy person, but Bathsheba defends him. Becoming more desperate, Gabriel tells her that he loves her, and that while he knows he has no chance of marrying her, he would much rather see her with Boldwood or anyone else other than Troy. Bathsheba becomes angry and tells Gabriel he cannot work for her any longer. He tells her that she needs him if the farm is going to continue to run successfully, and that he will only consent to leave if she agrees to hire another man as a bailiff. Since she refuses to do so, he insists on staying and she reluctantly agrees. She then asks Gabriel to leave her alone, and as he slips away, he sees that she is meeting up with Troy. Bathsheba returns from the meeting with Troy and writes a letter to Boldwood saying that she has decided she cannot marry him. She then overhears Liddy and other female servants gossiping about the possibility of her marrying Troy. She becomes very angry and swears that she hates Troy, but then becomes very emotional and confides to Liddy that she is in love with Troy and agitated by all the bad things people seem to say about him. She behaves so erratically that Liddy is hurt and says she does not want to work for Bathsheba anymore, but Bathsheba quickly persuades her to stay. After Bathsheba sends her letter to Boldwood, she is worried that he might try and come to discuss it with her, so she arranges to go away for a few days to visit Liddy's sister. However, as she is walking on her journey, she runs into Boldwood. He tells her how upset he is, and begs her to reconsider. Bathsheba pleads that she never truly had feelings for him, and that she has done nothing wrong. Boldwood becomes angry about the fact that she loves Troy and not him, and accuses her of letting Troy kiss her. Bathsheba defiantly refuses to deny this. Boldwood storms into a jealous rage, claiming Troy has seduced and manipulated her, and that he will punish him if he ever catches him. After Boldwood leaves, Bathsheba is very anxious, because while Boldwood and most of the other townspeople think Troy has returned to his regiment permanently, she knows that he is only away on a brief visit to Bath and is going to be returning the next day. She is fearful of what might happen if Boldwood runs into her lover. Bathsheba is unsure about whether she should tell Troy to remain in Bath but decides she needs to get there to tell him not to return before he sets out. The only way to accomplish this is for her to drive through the night. She decides to go home, get the horse, drive to Bath, end the relationship with Troy, and then continue on to visit Liddy's sister as she had originally planned. That night, Bathsheba's servant Mary-Ann wakes up to the sound of someone taking one of the horses and driving away with it. Believing that a theft has happened, she wakes up the men and Gabriel determines that he and Jan Coggan should pursue the thief on horseback. They go after the thief and eventually are shocked to find that it is Bathsheba herself with the horse and wagon. She explains that she suddenly needed to go to Bath. She continues on her journey, and Gabriel and Coggan go home after agreeing not to discuss what they saw.

Up until beginning her relationship with Troy, Bathsheba has largely operated from a rational and balanced perspective. She is capable of making good decisions about business and the future of the farm, and has shown herself to be a good manager and supervisor. But as her feelings for Troy deepen, Bathsheba behaves more irrationally and erratically. In some ways, as Bathsheba becomes more feminized by her first genuine experience of attraction and desire, she also moves away from the emphasis on logic that had previously characterized her. As Joanna Devereux observes, "the narrator typically attributes the qualities of logic and thoughtfulness to men, and then notes the unusual circumstance of a woman possessing these traits" . One sign that her relationship with Troy is not on a good track is that it alienates her from people she cares about. Her volatile moods disrupt her relationship with Liddy, who is essentially Bathsheba's only friend. More seriously, it leads to a confrontation with Gabriel. In both cases, these conflicts end with the risk of Bathsheba's employee leaving her service. While Bathsheba's elevated social and economic position gives her status and power, it is also a lonely situation for her. The only people she is close to still work for her, and that makes this emotional relationships even more complicated. The way in which her friendship with Gabriel has become atypical is made clear when, after she tries to fire him, he simply tells her that he won't leave because he knows she needs him in order for the farm to run. While the possibility that Bathsheba would marry Boldwood was clearly personally painful to Gabriel, he never attempted to interfere with the courtship because he respected and trusted Boldwood to be a good husband. Gabriel's concerns about the fact that Troy does not seem to attend church show that he is a traditional, even conservative, character; for a character like Troy who is not used to being part of tightly-knit community, it would not seem important to publicly demonstrate his integrity and values in this way. What is more significant than Troy not attending church is the fact that he lies about it. When Gabriel suspiciously goes to investigate Troy's story that he enters by the back door, he becomes clear that Troy has not been telling truth Bathsheba the truth, but instead telling her what she wants to hear. This relatively small deception foreshadows the bigger secrets he will turn out to be keeping. Bathsheba's confrontation with Boldwood echoes these themes of other characters mistrusting Troy and trying to protect her. However, while Gabriel and Liddy both seemed genuinely concerned about Bathsheba's welfare, Boldwood is primarily motivated by his jealousy and desire to possess and control her. While it might not seem provocative to modern readers, Boldwood's accusation that Bathsheba has allowed Troy to kiss her, and her refusal to deny this, would have been quite striking in the Victorian era. Boldwood interprets this as evidence that Troy is not a gentleman, and that he will manipulate women to get whatever he can without caring about the consequences to their reputation. Boldwood will turn out to be partially correct, but he overlooks the significant factor of Bathsheba's own desire and agency. He assumes she could only be pursuing a relationship with Troy because the soldier is coercing her, not because she actually wants him.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_14_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 15

chapter 15

{"name": "Chapter 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-15", "summary": "After the intensity of the previous three chapters, Wilde interjects this chapter as a dramatic pause. Like a light interlude in a play following profound action, Chapter 15 is more style than substance. The opening scene of the chapter is a dinner party at Lady Narborough's. Dorian arrives only an hour or so after Campbell's departure from his home. At first, Dorian is bored with the party. It includes a flirtatious but elderly hostess and several guests whose only distinction is their mediocrity. Dorian is relieved when Lord Henry arrives. At dinner, Dorian eats nothing but drinks several glasses of champagne; in fact, his thirst increases as he drinks, perhaps an allusion to his unquenchable passions. Lord Henry asks if his old protege is feeling out of sorts; Lady Narborough concludes that Dorian must be in love. Dorian manages to mutter that he has not been in love for a whole week. Despite the clever table talk, Dorian is distracted and irritable. For example, when Lord Henry questions him about his whereabouts the previous evening, Dorian becomes agitated and gives an excessively defensive and lengthy response. Lord Henry notes that there must be something wrong with Dorian, but he is characteristically unconcerned. Dorian continues to feel out of sorts, and he leaves the party early, asking Lord Henry to make excuses to the hostess for him. Again, readers should note that Dorian is so preoccupied with his secret life that he can't enjoy the pleasures for which he has given up his soul. Now Dorian has the weight of two secrets to bear -- the portrait and Basil's death. At home, Dorian burns Basil's hat and bag, the last of the evidence that Basil was ever there. He tries to relax, but a Florentine cabinet between two windows catches his attention. He stares at the cabinet, lights a cigarette, and then throws it away. Finally, he walks to the cabinet and removes a small Chinese box. In the box is a \"green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and persistent.\" The reader can assume that the paste is an opiate of some kind. Dorian dresses as a commoner, hails a cab, and takes off toward the river. Glossary Parma violet a variety cultivated for its fragrance; after Parma, a city in northern Italy. chaud-froid French, meaning \"hot-cold\"; a molded, jellied cold meat or fish dish with a jellied sauce. decolletee French, meaning \"in a low-cut dress.\" edition de luxe French, meaning \"luxury edition.\" trop de zele French, meaning \"too much zeal.\" trop d'audace French, meaning \"too much audacity.\" fin de siecle French, meaning \"end of the century\"; a phrase especially applied to the 1890s. fin du globe French, meaning \"end of the world.\" peerage a book listing noblemen and their families; peers as a class; rank or title of nobility. pastille French, meaning \"drop\"; a tablet containing aromatic substances. sovereign a gold coin formerly used in Great Britain, worth one pound.", "analysis": ""}

That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady Narborough's drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was throbbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his manner as he bent over his hostess's hand was as easy and graceful as ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease as when one has to play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any tragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a double life. It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who was a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the remains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and French _esprit_ when she could get it. Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that she was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. "I know, my dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you," she used to say, "and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most fortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody. However, that was all Narborough's fault. He was dreadfully short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who never sees anything." Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. "I think it is most unkind of her, my dear," she whispered. "Of course I go and stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake them up. You don't know what an existence they lead down there. It is pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep after dinner. You shan't sit next either of them. You shall sit by me and amuse me." Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes: it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess's daughter, a dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas. He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: "How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me." It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. "Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week--not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. "I really cannot understand it." "It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _decolletee_ she was then." "She is still _decolletee_," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _edition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief." "How can you, Harry!" cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don't mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" "Certainly, Lady Narborough." "I don't believe a word of it." "Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends." "Is it true, Mr. Gray?" "She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at her girdle. She told me she didn't, because none of them had had any hearts at all." "Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zele_." "_Trop d'audace_, I tell her," said Dorian. "Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol like? I don't know him." "The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes," said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked." "But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows. "It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent terms." "Everybody I know says you are very wicked," cried the old lady, shaking her head. Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectly monstrous," he said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays saying things against one behind one's back that are absolutely and entirely true." "Isn't he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. "I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really, if you all worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again so as to be in the fashion." "You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry. "You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs." "Narborough wasn't perfect," cried the old lady. "If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady," was the rejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough, but it is quite true." "Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men." "_Fin de siecle_," murmured Lord Henry. "_Fin du globe_," answered his hostess. "I wish it were _fin du globe_," said Dorian with a sigh. "Life is a great disappointment." "Ah, my dear," cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, "don't tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes wish that I had been; but you are made to be good--you look so good. I must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don't you think that Mr. Gray should get married?" "I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry with a bow. "Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the eligible young ladies." "With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked Dorian. "Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done in a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable alliance, and I want you both to be happy." "What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love her." "Ah! what a cynic you are!" cried the old lady, pushing back her chair and nodding to Lady Ruxton. "You must come and dine with me soon again. You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet, though. I want it to be a delightful gathering." "I like men who have a future and women who have a past," he answered. "Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?" "I fear so," she said, laughing, as she stood up. "A thousand pardons, my dear Lady Ruxton," she added, "I didn't see you hadn't finished your cigarette." "Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going to limit myself, for the future." "Pray don't, Lady Ruxton," said Lord Henry. "Moderation is a fatal thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a feast." Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. "You must come and explain that to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory," she murmured, as she swept out of the room. "Now, mind you don't stay too long over your politics and scandal," cried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure to squabble upstairs." The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The word _doctrinaire_--word full of terror to the British mind--reappeared from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race--sound English common sense he jovially termed it--was shown to be the proper bulwark for society. A smile curved Lord Henry's lips, and he turned round and looked at Dorian. "Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of sorts at dinner." "I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all." "You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby." "She has promised to come on the twentieth." "Is Monmouth to be there, too?" "Oh, yes, Harry." "He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences." "How long has she been married?" asked Dorian. "An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, with time thrown in. Who else is coming?" "Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian." "I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don't, but I find him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type." "I don't know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to Monte Carlo with his father." "Ah! what a nuisance people's people are! Try and make him come. By the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?" Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned. "No, Harry," he said at last, "I did not get home till nearly three." "Did you go to the club?" "Yes," he answered. Then he bit his lip. "No, I don't mean that. I didn't go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him." Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman. Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not yourself to-night." "Don't mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady Narborough. I shan't go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home." "All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time. The duchess is coming." "I will try to be there, Harry," he said, leaving the room. As he drove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry's casual questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted his nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He winced. He hated the idea of even touching them. Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had thrust Basil Hallward's coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He piled another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning leather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume everything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar. Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed nervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue lapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet almost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying, went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring. A triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small Chinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and persistent. He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his face. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly hot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did so, and went into his bedroom. As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray, dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept quietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good horse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address. The man shook his head. "It is too far for me," he muttered. "Here is a sovereign for you," said Dorian. "You shall have another if you drive fast." "All right, sir," answered the man, "you will be there in an hour," and after his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly towards the river.

Chapter 15

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-15

After the intensity of the previous three chapters, Wilde interjects this chapter as a dramatic pause. Like a light interlude in a play following profound action, Chapter 15 is more style than substance. The opening scene of the chapter is a dinner party at Lady Narborough's. Dorian arrives only an hour or so after Campbell's departure from his home. At first, Dorian is bored with the party. It includes a flirtatious but elderly hostess and several guests whose only distinction is their mediocrity. Dorian is relieved when Lord Henry arrives. At dinner, Dorian eats nothing but drinks several glasses of champagne; in fact, his thirst increases as he drinks, perhaps an allusion to his unquenchable passions. Lord Henry asks if his old protege is feeling out of sorts; Lady Narborough concludes that Dorian must be in love. Dorian manages to mutter that he has not been in love for a whole week. Despite the clever table talk, Dorian is distracted and irritable. For example, when Lord Henry questions him about his whereabouts the previous evening, Dorian becomes agitated and gives an excessively defensive and lengthy response. Lord Henry notes that there must be something wrong with Dorian, but he is characteristically unconcerned. Dorian continues to feel out of sorts, and he leaves the party early, asking Lord Henry to make excuses to the hostess for him. Again, readers should note that Dorian is so preoccupied with his secret life that he can't enjoy the pleasures for which he has given up his soul. Now Dorian has the weight of two secrets to bear -- the portrait and Basil's death. At home, Dorian burns Basil's hat and bag, the last of the evidence that Basil was ever there. He tries to relax, but a Florentine cabinet between two windows catches his attention. He stares at the cabinet, lights a cigarette, and then throws it away. Finally, he walks to the cabinet and removes a small Chinese box. In the box is a "green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and persistent." The reader can assume that the paste is an opiate of some kind. Dorian dresses as a commoner, hails a cab, and takes off toward the river. Glossary Parma violet a variety cultivated for its fragrance; after Parma, a city in northern Italy. chaud-froid French, meaning "hot-cold"; a molded, jellied cold meat or fish dish with a jellied sauce. decolletee French, meaning "in a low-cut dress." edition de luxe French, meaning "luxury edition." trop de zele French, meaning "too much zeal." trop d'audace French, meaning "too much audacity." fin de siecle French, meaning "end of the century"; a phrase especially applied to the 1890s. fin du globe French, meaning "end of the world." peerage a book listing noblemen and their families; peers as a class; rank or title of nobility. pastille French, meaning "drop"; a tablet containing aromatic substances. sovereign a gold coin formerly used in Great Britain, worth one pound.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_24_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 25

chapter 25

{"name": "Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-25", "summary": "Later Marlow and Jim visit the Rajah, and Jim goes into more detail about his captivity. After being imprisoned for a few days, he escaped by vaulting the stockade . He made a mad dash to Doramin , who took Jim in. Doramin's family then tended to Jim until he was better.", "analysis": ""}

'"This is where I was prisoner for three days," he murmured to me (it was on the occasion of our visit to the Rajah), while we were making our way slowly through a kind of awestruck riot of dependants across Tunku Allang's courtyard. "Filthy place, isn't it? And I couldn't get anything to eat either, unless I made a row about it, and then it was only a small plate of rice and a fried fish not much bigger than a stickleback--confound them! Jove! I've been hungry prowling inside this stinking enclosure with some of these vagabonds shoving their mugs right under my nose. I had given up that famous revolver of yours at the first demand. Glad to get rid of the bally thing. Look like a fool walking about with an empty shooting-iron in my hand." At that moment we came into the presence, and he became unflinchingly grave and complimentary with his late captor. Oh! magnificent! I want to laugh when I think of it. But I was impressed, too. The old disreputable Tunku Allang could not help showing his fear (he was no hero, for all the tales of his hot youth he was fond of telling); and at the same time there was a wistful confidence in his manner towards his late prisoner. Note! Even where he would be most hated he was still trusted. Jim--as far as I could follow the conversation--was improving the occasion by the delivery of a lecture. Some poor villagers had been waylaid and robbed while on their way to Doramin's house with a few pieces of gum or beeswax which they wished to exchange for rice. "It was Doramin who was a thief," burst out the Rajah. A shaking fury seemed to enter that old frail body. He writhed weirdly on his mat, gesticulating with his hands and feet, tossing the tangled strings of his mop--an impotent incarnation of rage. There were staring eyes and dropping jaws all around us. Jim began to speak. Resolutely, coolly, and for some time he enlarged upon the text that no man should be prevented from getting his food and his children's food honestly. The other sat like a tailor at his board, one palm on each knee, his head low, and fixing Jim through the grey hair that fell over his very eyes. When Jim had done there was a great stillness. Nobody seemed to breathe even; no one made a sound till the old Rajah sighed faintly, and looking up, with a toss of his head, said quickly, "You hear, my people! No more of these little games." This decree was received in profound silence. A rather heavy man, evidently in a position of confidence, with intelligent eyes, a bony, broad, very dark face, and a cheerily of officious manner (I learned later on he was the executioner), presented to us two cups of coffee on a brass tray, which he took from the hands of an inferior attendant. "You needn't drink," muttered Jim very rapidly. I didn't perceive the meaning at first, and only looked at him. He took a good sip and sat composedly, holding the saucer in his left hand. In a moment I felt excessively annoyed. "Why the devil," I whispered, smiling at him amiably, "do you expose me to such a stupid risk?" I drank, of course, there was nothing for it, while he gave no sign, and almost immediately afterwards we took our leave. While we were going down the courtyard to our boat, escorted by the intelligent and cheery executioner, Jim said he was very sorry. It was the barest chance, of course. Personally he thought nothing of poison. The remotest chance. He was--he assured me--considered to be infinitely more useful than dangerous, and so . . . "But the Rajah is afraid of you abominably. Anybody can see that," I argued with, I own, a certain peevishness, and all the time watching anxiously for the first twist of some sort of ghastly colic. I was awfully disgusted. "If I am to do any good here and preserve my position," he said, taking his seat by my side in the boat, "I must stand the risk: I take it once every month, at least. Many people trust me to do that--for them. Afraid of me! That's just it. Most likely he is afraid of me because I am not afraid of his coffee." Then showing me a place on the north front of the stockade where the pointed tops of several stakes were broken, "This is where I leaped over on my third day in Patusan. They haven't put new stakes there yet. Good leap, eh?" A moment later we passed the mouth of a muddy creek. "This is my second leap. I had a bit of a run and took this one flying, but fell short. Thought I would leave my skin there. Lost my shoes struggling. And all the time I was thinking to myself how beastly it would be to get a jab with a bally long spear while sticking in the mud like this. I remember how sick I felt wriggling in that slime. I mean really sick--as if I had bitten something rotten." 'That's how it was--and the opportunity ran by his side, leaped over the gap, floundered in the mud . . . still veiled. The unexpectedness of his coming was the only thing, you understand, that saved him from being at once dispatched with krisses and flung into the river. They had him, but it was like getting hold of an apparition, a wraith, a portent. What did it mean? What to do with it? Was it too late to conciliate him? Hadn't he better be killed without more delay? But what would happen then? Wretched old Allang went nearly mad with apprehension and through the difficulty of making up his mind. Several times the council was broken up, and the advisers made a break helter-skelter for the door and out on to the verandah. One--it is said--even jumped down to the ground--fifteen feet, I should judge--and broke his leg. The royal governor of Patusan had bizarre mannerisms, and one of them was to introduce boastful rhapsodies into every arduous discussion, when, getting gradually excited, he would end by flying off his perch with a kriss in his hand. But, barring such interruptions, the deliberations upon Jim's fate went on night and day. 'Meanwhile he wandered about the courtyard, shunned by some, glared at by others, but watched by all, and practically at the mercy of the first casual ragamuffin with a chopper, in there. He took possession of a small tumble-down shed to sleep in; the effluvia of filth and rotten matter incommoded him greatly: it seems he had not lost his appetite though, because--he told me--he had been hungry all the blessed time. Now and again "some fussy ass" deputed from the council-room would come out running to him, and in honeyed tones would administer amazing interrogatories: "Were the Dutch coming to take the country? Would the white man like to go back down the river? What was the object of coming to such a miserable country? The Rajah wanted to know whether the white man could repair a watch?" They did actually bring out to him a nickel clock of New England make, and out of sheer unbearable boredom he busied himself in trying to get the alarum to work. It was apparently when thus occupied in his shed that the true perception of his extreme peril dawned upon him. He dropped the thing--he says--"like a hot potato," and walked out hastily, without the slightest idea of what he would, or indeed could, do. He only knew that the position was intolerable. He strolled aimlessly beyond a sort of ramshackle little granary on posts, and his eyes fell on the broken stakes of the palisade; and then--he says--at once, without any mental process as it were, without any stir of emotion, he set about his escape as if executing a plan matured for a month. He walked off carelessly to give himself a good run, and when he faced about there was some dignitary, with two spearmen in attendance, close at his elbow ready with a question. He started off "from under his very nose," went over "like a bird," and landed on the other side with a fall that jarred all his bones and seemed to split his head. He picked himself up instantly. He never thought of anything at the time; all he could remember--he said--was a great yell; the first houses of Patusan were before him four hundred yards away; he saw the creek, and as it were mechanically put on more pace. The earth seemed fairly to fly backwards under his feet. He took off from the last dry spot, felt himself flying through the air, felt himself, without any shock, planted upright in an extremely soft and sticky mudbank. It was only when he tried to move his legs and found he couldn't that, in his own words, "he came to himself." He began to think of the "bally long spears." As a matter of fact, considering that the people inside the stockade had to run to the gate, then get down to the landing-place, get into boats, and pull round a point of land, he had more advance than he imagined. Besides, it being low water, the creek was without water--you couldn't call it dry--and practically he was safe for a time from everything but a very long shot perhaps. The higher firm ground was about six feet in front of him. "I thought I would have to die there all the same," he said. He reached and grabbed desperately with his hands, and only succeeded in gathering a horrible cold shiny heap of slime against his breast--up to his very chin. It seemed to him he was burying himself alive, and then he struck out madly, scattering the mud with his fists. It fell on his head, on his face, over his eyes, into his mouth. He told me that he remembered suddenly the courtyard, as you remember a place where you had been very happy years ago. He longed--so he said--to be back there again, mending the clock. Mending the clock--that was the idea. He made efforts, tremendous sobbing, gasping efforts, efforts that seemed to burst his eyeballs in their sockets and make him blind, and culminating into one mighty supreme effort in the darkness to crack the earth asunder, to throw it off his limbs--and he felt himself creeping feebly up the bank. He lay full length on the firm ground and saw the light, the sky. Then as a sort of happy thought the notion came to him that he would go to sleep. He will have it that he _did_ actually go to sleep; that he slept--perhaps for a minute, perhaps for twenty seconds, or only for one second, but he recollects distinctly the violent convulsive start of awakening. He remained lying still for a while, and then he arose muddy from head to foot and stood there, thinking he was alone of his kind for hundreds of miles, alone, with no help, no sympathy, no pity to expect from any one, like a hunted animal. The first houses were not more than twenty yards from him; and it was the desperate screaming of a frightened woman trying to carry off a child that started him again. He pelted straight on in his socks, beplastered with filth out of all semblance to a human being. He traversed more than half the length of the settlement. The nimbler women fled right and left, the slower men just dropped whatever they had in their hands, and remained petrified with dropping jaws. He was a flying terror. He says he noticed the little children trying to run for life, falling on their little stomachs and kicking. He swerved between two houses up a slope, clambered in desperation over a barricade of felled trees (there wasn't a week without some fight in Patusan at that time), burst through a fence into a maize-patch, where a scared boy flung a stick at him, blundered upon a path, and ran all at once into the arms of several startled men. He just had breath enough to gasp out, "Doramin! Doramin!" He remembers being half-carried, half-rushed to the top of the slope, and in a vast enclosure with palms and fruit trees being run up to a large man sitting massively in a chair in the midst of the greatest possible commotion and excitement. He fumbled in mud and clothes to produce the ring, and, finding himself suddenly on his back, wondered who had knocked him down. They had simply let him go--don't you know?--but he couldn't stand. At the foot of the slope random shots were fired, and above the roofs of the settlement there rose a dull roar of amazement. But he was safe. Doramin's people were barricading the gate and pouring water down his throat; Doramin's old wife, full of business and commiseration, was issuing shrill orders to her girls. "The old woman," he said softly, "made a to-do over me as if I had been her own son. They put me into an immense bed--her state bed--and she ran in and out wiping her eyes to give me pats on the back. I must have been a pitiful object. I just lay there like a log for I don't know how long." 'He seemed to have a great liking for Doramin's old wife. She on her side had taken a motherly fancy to him. She had a round, nut-brown, soft face, all fine wrinkles, large, bright red lips (she chewed betel assiduously), and screwed up, winking, benevolent eyes. She was constantly in movement, scolding busily and ordering unceasingly a troop of young women with clear brown faces and big grave eyes, her daughters, her servants, her slave-girls. You know how it is in these households: it's generally impossible to tell the difference. She was very spare, and even her ample outer garment, fastened in front with jewelled clasps, had somehow a skimpy effect. Her dark bare feet were thrust into yellow straw slippers of Chinese make. I have seen her myself flitting about with her extremely thick, long, grey hair falling about her shoulders. She uttered homely shrewd sayings, was of noble birth, and was eccentric and arbitrary. In the afternoon she would sit in a very roomy arm-chair, opposite her husband, gazing steadily through a wide opening in the wall which gave an extensive view of the settlement and the river. 'She invariably tucked up her feet under her, but old Doramin sat squarely, sat imposingly as a mountain sits on a plain. He was only of the nakhoda or merchant class, but the respect shown to him and the dignity of his bearing were very striking. He was the chief of the second power in Patusan. The immigrants from Celebes (about sixty families that, with dependants and so on, could muster some two hundred men "wearing the kriss") had elected him years ago for their head. The men of that race are intelligent, enterprising, revengeful, but with a more frank courage than the other Malays, and restless under oppression. They formed the party opposed to the Rajah. Of course the quarrels were for trade. This was the primary cause of faction fights, of the sudden outbreaks that would fill this or that part of the settlement with smoke, flame, the noise of shots and shrieks. Villages were burnt, men were dragged into the Rajah's stockade to be killed or tortured for the crime of trading with anybody else but himself. Only a day or two before Jim's arrival several heads of households in the very fishing village that was afterwards taken under his especial protection had been driven over the cliffs by a party of the Rajah's spearmen, on suspicion of having been collecting edible birds' nests for a Celebes trader. Rajah Allang pretended to be the only trader in his country, and the penalty for the breach of the monopoly was death; but his idea of trading was indistinguishable from the commonest forms of robbery. His cruelty and rapacity had no other bounds than his cowardice, and he was afraid of the organised power of the Celebes men, only--till Jim came--he was not afraid enough to keep quiet. He struck at them through his subjects, and thought himself pathetically in the right. The situation was complicated by a wandering stranger, an Arab half-breed, who, I believe, on purely religious grounds, had incited the tribes in the interior (the bush-folk, as Jim himself called them) to rise, and had established himself in a fortified camp on the summit of one of the twin hills. He hung over the town of Patusan like a hawk over a poultry-yard, but he devastated the open country. Whole villages, deserted, rotted on their blackened posts over the banks of clear streams, dropping piecemeal into the water the grass of their walls, the leaves of their roofs, with a curious effect of natural decay as if they had been a form of vegetation stricken by a blight at its very root. The two parties in Patusan were not sure which one this partisan most desired to plunder. The Rajah intrigued with him feebly. Some of the Bugis settlers, weary with endless insecurity, were half inclined to call him in. The younger spirits amongst them, chaffing, advised to "get Sherif Ali with his wild men and drive the Rajah Allang out of the country." Doramin restrained them with difficulty. He was growing old, and, though his influence had not diminished, the situation was getting beyond him. This was the state of affairs when Jim, bolting from the Rajah's stockade, appeared before the chief of the Bugis, produced the ring, and was received, in a manner of speaking, into the heart of the community.'

Chapter 25

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-25

Later Marlow and Jim visit the Rajah, and Jim goes into more detail about his captivity. After being imprisoned for a few days, he escaped by vaulting the stockade . He made a mad dash to Doramin , who took Jim in. Doramin's family then tended to Jim until he was better.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/46.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_6_part_1.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xlv

chapter xlv

{"name": "Chapter XLV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase6-chapter45-52", "summary": "It has been four years since Tess has last seen Alec, and she is shocked and horrified when she sees him preaching in the barn. She runs away but Alec, just as shocked, runs after her. He has suffered since the death of his mother and thanks to Reverend Clare he has been converted and feels he must save her. Tess is speechless, attacks him for ruining women's lives and doesn't for a moment believe his conversion is authentic. Referring to her errant husband Angel, she tells him she knows a truly good man. Alec makes her swear on a stone monument called the Cross-in-Hand, rumored to be an evil omen, that she will never tempt him. She swears before learning it is \"a thing of ill omen\" and leaves in anger. To soothe his nerves, Alec re-reads a letter from Reverend Clare congratulating him on his conversion", "analysis": ""}

Till this moment she had never seen or heard from d'Urberville since her departure from Trantridge. The rencounter came at a heavy moment, one of all moments calculated to permit its impact with the least emotional shock. But such was unreasoning memory that, though he stood there openly and palpably a converted man, who was sorrowing for his past irregularities, a fear overcame her, paralyzing her movement so that she neither retreated nor advanced. To think of what emanated from that countenance when she saw it last, and to behold it now! ... There was the same handsome unpleasantness of mien, but now he wore neatly trimmed, old-fashioned whiskers, the sable moustache having disappeared; and his dress was half-clerical, a modification which had changed his expression sufficiently to abstract the dandyism from his features, and to hinder for a second her belief in his identity. To Tess's sense there was, just at first, a ghastly _bizarrerie_, a grim incongruity, in the march of these solemn words of Scripture out of such a mouth. This too familiar intonation, less than four years earlier, had brought to her ears expressions of such divergent purpose that her heart became quite sick at the irony of the contrast. It was less a reform than a transfiguration. The former curves of sensuousness were now modulated to lines of devotional passion. The lip-shapes that had meant seductiveness were now made to express supplication; the glow on the cheek that yesterday could be translated as riotousness was evangelized to-day into the splendour of pious rhetoric; animalism had become fanaticism; Paganism, Paulinism; the bold rolling eye that had flashed upon her form in the old time with such mastery now beamed with the rude energy of a theolatry that was almost ferocious. Those black angularities which his face had used to put on when his wishes were thwarted now did duty in picturing the incorrigible backslider who would insist upon turning again to his wallowing in the mire. The lineaments, as such, seemed to complain. They had been diverted from their hereditary connotation to signify impressions for which Nature did not intend them. Strange that their very elevation was a misapplication, that to raise seemed to falsify. Yet could it be so? She would admit the ungenerous sentiment no longer. D'Urberville was not the first wicked man who had turned away from his wickedness to save his soul alive, and why should she deem it unnatural in him? It was but the usage of thought which had been jarred in her at hearing good new words in bad old notes. The greater the sinner, the greater the saint; it was not necessary to dive far into Christian history to discover that. Such impressions as these moved her vaguely, and without strict definiteness. As soon as the nerveless pause of her surprise would allow her to stir, her impulse was to pass on out of his sight. He had obviously not discerned her yet in her position against the sun. But the moment that she moved again he recognized her. The effect upon her old lover was electric, far stronger than the effect of his presence upon her. His fire, the tumultuous ring of his eloquence, seemed to go out of him. His lip struggled and trembled under the words that lay upon it; but deliver them it could not as long as she faced him. His eyes, after their first glance upon her face, hung confusedly in every other direction but hers, but came back in a desperate leap every few seconds. This paralysis lasted, however, but a short time; for Tess's energies returned with the atrophy of his, and she walked as fast as she was able past the barn and onward. As soon as she could reflect, it appalled her, this change in their relative platforms. He who had wrought her undoing was now on the side of the Spirit, while she remained unregenerate. And, as in the legend, it had resulted that her Cyprian image had suddenly appeared upon his altar, whereby the fire of the priest had been well nigh extinguished. She went on without turning her head. Her back seemed to be endowed with a sensitiveness to ocular beams--even her clothing--so alive was she to a fancied gaze which might be resting upon her from the outside of that barn. All the way along to this point her heart had been heavy with an inactive sorrow; now there was a change in the quality of its trouble. That hunger for affection too long withheld was for the time displaced by an almost physical sense of an implacable past which still engirdled her. It intensified her consciousness of error to a practical despair; the break of continuity between her earlier and present existence, which she had hoped for, had not, after all, taken place. Bygones would never be complete bygones till she was a bygone herself. Thus absorbed, she recrossed the northern part of Long-Ash Lane at right angles, and presently saw before her the road ascending whitely to the upland along whose margin the remainder of her journey lay. Its dry pale surface stretched severely onward, unbroken by a single figure, vehicle, or mark, save some occasional brown horse-droppings which dotted its cold aridity here and there. While slowly breasting this ascent Tess became conscious of footsteps behind her, and turning she saw approaching that well-known form--so strangely accoutred as the Methodist--the one personage in all the world she wished not to encounter alone on this side of the grave. There was not much time, however, for thought or elusion, and she yielded as calmly as she could to the necessity of letting him overtake her. She saw that he was excited, less by the speed of his walk than by the feelings within him. "Tess!" he said. She slackened speed without looking round. "Tess!" he repeated. "It is I--Alec d'Urberville." She then looked back at him, and he came up. "I see it is," she answered coldly. "Well--is that all? Yet I deserve no more! Of course," he added, with a slight laugh, "there is something of the ridiculous to your eyes in seeing me like this. But--I must put up with that. ... I heard you had gone away; nobody knew where. Tess, you wonder why I have followed you?" "I do, rather; and I would that you had not, with all my heart!" "Yes--you may well say it," he returned grimly, as they moved onward together, she with unwilling tread. "But don't mistake me; I beg this because you may have been led to do so in noticing--if you did notice it--how your sudden appearance unnerved me down there. It was but a momentary faltering; and considering what you have been to me, it was natural enough. But will helped me through it--though perhaps you think me a humbug for saying it--and immediately afterwards I felt that of all persons in the world whom it was my duty and desire to save from the wrath to come--sneer if you like--the woman whom I had so grievously wronged was that person. I have come with that sole purpose in view--nothing more." There was the smallest vein of scorn in her words of rejoinder: "Have you saved yourself? Charity begins at home, they say." "_I_ have done nothing!" said he indifferently. "Heaven, as I have been telling my hearers, has done all. No amount of contempt that you can pour upon me, Tess, will equal what I have poured upon myself--the old Adam of my former years! Well, it is a strange story; believe it or not; but I can tell you the means by which my conversion was brought about, and I hope you will be interested enough at least to listen. Have you ever heard the name of the parson of Emminster--you must have done do?--old Mr Clare; one of the most earnest of his school; one of the few intense men left in the Church; not so intense as the extreme wing of Christian believers with which I have thrown in my lot, but quite an exception among the Established clergy, the younger of whom are gradually attenuating the true doctrines by their sophistries, till they are but the shadow of what they were. I only differ from him on the question of Church and State--the interpretation of the text, 'Come out from among them and be ye separate, saith the Lord'--that's all. He is one who, I firmly believe, has been the humble means of saving more souls in this country than any other man you can name. You have heard of him?" "I have," she said. "He came to Trantridge two or three years ago to preach on behalf of some missionary society; and I, wretched fellow that I was, insulted him when, in his disinterestedness, he tried to reason with me and show me the way. He did not resent my conduct, he simply said that some day I should receive the first-fruits of the Spirit--that those who came to scoff sometimes remained to pray. There was a strange magic in his words. They sank into my mind. But the loss of my mother hit me most; and by degrees I was brought to see daylight. Since then my one desire has been to hand on the true view to others, and that is what I was trying to do to-day; though it is only lately that I have preached hereabout. The first months of my ministry have been spent in the North of England among strangers, where I preferred to make my earliest clumsy attempts, so as to acquire courage before undergoing that severest of all tests of one's sincerity, addressing those who have known one, and have been one's companions in the days of darkness. If you could only know, Tess, the pleasure of having a good slap at yourself, I am sure--" "Don't go on with it!" she cried passionately, as she turned away from him to a stile by the wayside, on which she bent herself. "I can't believe in such sudden things! I feel indignant with you for talking to me like this, when you know--when you know what harm you've done me! You, and those like you, take your fill of pleasure on earth by making the life of such as me bitter and black with sorrow; and then it is a fine thing, when you have had enough of that, to think of securing your pleasure in heaven by becoming converted! Out upon such--I don't believe in you--I hate it!" "Tess," he insisted; "don't speak so! It came to me like a jolly new idea! And you don't believe me? What don't you believe?" "Your conversion. Your scheme of religion." "Why?" She dropped her voice. "Because a better man than you does not believe in such." "What a woman's reason! Who is this better man?" "I cannot tell you." "Well," he declared, a resentment beneath his words seeming ready to spring out at a moment's notice, "God forbid that I should say I am a good man--and you know I don't say any such thing. I am new to goodness, truly; but newcomers see furthest sometimes." "Yes," she replied sadly. "But I cannot believe in your conversion to a new spirit. Such flashes as you feel, Alec, I fear don't last!" Thus speaking she turned from the stile over which she had been leaning, and faced him; whereupon his eyes, falling casually upon the familiar countenance and form, remained contemplating her. The inferior man was quiet in him now; but it was surely not extracted, nor even entirely subdued. "Don't look at me like that!" he said abruptly. Tess, who had been quite unconscious of her action and mien, instantly withdrew the large dark gaze of her eyes, stammering with a flush, "I beg your pardon!" And there was revived in her the wretched sentiment which had often come to her before, that in inhabiting the fleshly tabernacle with which Nature had endowed her she was somehow doing wrong. "No, no! Don't beg my pardon. But since you wear a veil to hide your good looks, why don't you keep it down?" She pulled down the veil, saying hastily, "It was mostly to keep off the wind." "It may seem harsh of me to dictate like this," he went on; "but it is better that I should not look too often on you. It might be dangerous." "Ssh!" said Tess. "Well, women's faces have had too much power over me already for me not to fear them! An evangelist has nothing to do with such as they; and it reminds me of the old times that I would forget!" After this their conversation dwindled to a casual remark now and then as they rambled onward, Tess inwardly wondering how far he was going with her, and not liking to send him back by positive mandate. Frequently when they came to a gate or stile they found painted thereon in red or blue letters some text of Scripture, and she asked him if he knew who had been at the pains to blazon these announcements. He told her that the man was employed by himself and others who were working with him in that district, to paint these reminders that no means might be left untried which might move the hearts of a wicked generation. At length the road touched the spot called "Cross-in-Hand." Of all spots on the bleached and desolate upland this was the most forlorn. It was so far removed from the charm which is sought in landscape by artists and view-lovers as to reach a new kind of beauty, a negative beauty of tragic tone. The place took its name from a stone pillar which stood there, a strange rude monolith, from a stratum unknown in any local quarry, on which was roughly carved a human hand. Differing accounts were given of its history and purport. Some authorities stated that a devotional cross had once formed the complete erection thereon, of which the present relic was but the stump; others that the stone as it stood was entire, and that it had been fixed there to mark a boundary or place of meeting. Anyhow, whatever the origin of the relic, there was and is something sinister, or solemn, according to mood, in the scene amid which it stands; something tending to impress the most phlegmatic passer-by. "I think I must leave you now," he remarked, as they drew near to this spot. "I have to preach at Abbot's-Cernel at six this evening, and my way lies across to the right from here. And you upset me somewhat too, Tessy--I cannot, will not, say why. I must go away and get strength. ... How is it that you speak so fluently now? Who has taught you such good English?" "I have learnt things in my troubles," she said evasively. "What troubles have you had?" She told him of the first one--the only one that related to him. D'Urberville was struck mute. "I knew nothing of this till now!" he next murmured. "Why didn't you write to me when you felt your trouble coming on?" She did not reply; and he broke the silence by adding: "Well--you will see me again." "No," she answered. "Do not again come near me!" "I will think. But before we part come here." He stepped up to the pillar. "This was once a Holy Cross. Relics are not in my creed; but I fear you at moments--far more than you need fear me at present; and to lessen my fear, put your hand upon that stone hand, and swear that you will never tempt me--by your charms or ways." "Good God--how can you ask what is so unnecessary! All that is furthest from my thought!" "Yes--but swear it." Tess, half frightened, gave way to his importunity; placed her hand upon the stone and swore. "I am sorry you are not a believer," he continued; "that some unbeliever should have got hold of you and unsettled your mind. But no more now. At home at least I can pray for you; and I will; and who knows what may not happen? I'm off. Goodbye!" He turned to a hunting-gate in the hedge and, without letting his eyes again rest upon her, leapt over and struck out across the down in the direction of Abbot's-Cernel. As he walked his pace showed perturbation, and by-and-by, as if instigated by a former thought, he drew from his pocket a small book, between the leaves of which was folded a letter, worn and soiled, as from much re-reading. D'Urberville opened the letter. It was dated several months before this time, and was signed by Parson Clare. The letter began by expressing the writer's unfeigned joy at d'Urberville's conversion, and thanked him for his kindness in communicating with the parson on the subject. It expressed Mr Clare's warm assurance of forgiveness for d'Urberville's former conduct and his interest in the young man's plans for the future. He, Mr Clare, would much have liked to see d'Urberville in the Church to whose ministry he had devoted so many years of his own life, and would have helped him to enter a theological college to that end; but since his correspondent had possibly not cared to do this on account of the delay it would have entailed, he was not the man to insist upon its paramount importance. Every man must work as he could best work, and in the method towards which he felt impelled by the Spirit. D'Urberville read and re-read this letter, and seemed to quiz himself cynically. He also read some passages from memoranda as he walked till his face assumed a calm, and apparently the image of Tess no longer troubled his mind. She meanwhile had kept along the edge of the hill by which lay her nearest way home. Within the distance of a mile she met a solitary shepherd. "What is the meaning of that old stone I have passed?" she asked of him. "Was it ever a Holy Cross?" "Cross--no; 'twer not a cross! 'Tis a thing of ill-omen, Miss. It was put up in wuld times by the relations of a malefactor who was tortured there by nailing his hand to a post and afterwards hung. The bones lie underneath. They say he sold his soul to the devil, and that he walks at times." She felt the _petite mort_ at this unexpectedly gruesome information, and left the solitary man behind her. It was dusk when she drew near to Flintcomb-Ash, and in the lane at the entrance to the hamlet she approached a girl and her lover without their observing her. They were talking no secrets, and the clear unconcerned voice of the young woman, in response to the warmer accents of the man, spread into the chilly air as the one soothing thing within the dusky horizon, full of a stagnant obscurity upon which nothing else intruded. For a moment the voices cheered the heart of Tess, till she reasoned that this interview had its origin, on one side or the other, in the same attraction which had been the prelude to her own tribulation. When she came close, the girl turned serenely and recognized her, the young man walking off in embarrassment. The woman was Izz Huett, whose interest in Tess's excursion immediately superseded her own proceedings. Tess did not explain very clearly its results, and Izz, who was a girl of tact, began to speak of her own little affair, a phase of which Tess had just witnessed. "He is Amby Seedling, the chap who used to sometimes come and help at Talbothays," she explained indifferently. "He actually inquired and found out that I had come here, and has followed me. He says he's been in love wi' me these two years. But I've hardly answered him."

Chapter XLV

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase6-chapter45-52

It has been four years since Tess has last seen Alec, and she is shocked and horrified when she sees him preaching in the barn. She runs away but Alec, just as shocked, runs after her. He has suffered since the death of his mother and thanks to Reverend Clare he has been converted and feels he must save her. Tess is speechless, attacks him for ruining women's lives and doesn't for a moment believe his conversion is authentic. Referring to her errant husband Angel, she tells him she knows a truly good man. Alec makes her swear on a stone monument called the Cross-in-Hand, rumored to be an evil omen, that she will never tempt him. She swears before learning it is "a thing of ill omen" and leaves in anger. To soothe his nerves, Alec re-reads a letter from Reverend Clare congratulating him on his conversion

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_37_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 38

chapter 38

{"name": "Chapter 38", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility55.asp", "summary": "Three days after the incident at John Dashwood's house, Mrs. Jennings and Elinor go out for a walk to Kensington gardens. After separating from Mrs. Jennings, Elinor meets Anne Steele, and the two talk about Lucy and the unhappy incident. Miss Steele also tells Elinor about Edward's visit that morning and how she had overheard an intimate conversation between him and Lucy. Elinor is disgusted at her behavior. After reaching home, she relates the incident to Mrs. Jennings. Later, she receives a letter from Lucy by the two-penny post informing her of their current circumstances. She seeks the help of the Middletons or Palmers to offer a position to Edward. Elinor shows the letter to Mrs. Jennings. The old lady is impressed by the letter.", "analysis": "Notes The chapter reveals the somewhat crass behavior of the Steele sisters. Miss Steele reveals to Elinor that she had purposely stood outside the door of the locked room in which Lucy and Edward were conversing. She does not feel guilty about her behavior; her justification is that even Lucy had eavesdropped earlier. Lucy's letter also exposes her selfishness and base nature. Lucy asks Elinor to recommend her case to anyone who will be willing to provide a position to Edward. She looks forward to the help of Mrs. Jennings, the Middletons and the Palmers. Lucy is not ashamed to ask favors of others. CHAPTER 39 Summary Elinor and Marianne are invited by the Palmers to Cleveland. At the insistence of Mrs. Jennings, they decide to accept the invitation. One day Colonel Brandon visits them and asks Elinor to inform Edward that he is prepared to give a position at Delaford to him. Edward could lead a comfortable life on an income of two thousand pounds, but he would not be able to afford a wife. Mrs. Jennings, who observes Elinor and Colonel Brandon talking animatedly, concludes that they must be talking about a wedding. Notes In answer to Marianne's wish that they go home, the sisters are invited to accompany Mrs. Jennings to Cleveland. Since it will be easy for them to reach Barton from Cleveland, they accept the invitation. Mrs. Jennings, who is always engaged in matchmaking, starts imagining the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. Thus, when she hears the phrase, \"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon,\" she is angry with the Colonel for postponing their wedding. Misunderstanding causes much humor in the scene. Colonel Brandon can be rightly identified as a generous man who willingly offers a living to Edward in Delaford. His love for Marianne and respect for Elinor makes him extend help to their friends. It is ironic that he chooses Elinor to convey this information to Edward. CHAPTER 40 Summary Mrs. Jennings approaches Elinor soon after the Colonel's exit. She congratulates her and asks her many questions, which gradually reveal her mistaken assumption that there is an engagement between Elinor and the Colonel. Elinor mentions Brandon's generosity and his request to her to convey the information to Edward. Mrs. Jennings is puzzled, and as she is in a hurry to leave, she decides to speak further with Elinor upon her return. When Edward arrives, Elinor tells him the good news. He is pleasantly surprised. He promises to meet the Colonel and thank him for his generosity. Mrs. Jennings returns to the house and asks Elinor if Edward is prepared to get ordained to perform her marriage to the Colonel. Elinor is shocked to hear Mrs. Jennings' words. She corrects the misunderstanding by informing the old lady of the Colonel's offer to Edward. Notes This chapter demonstrates the misunderstandings that arise when a character like Mrs. Jennings gives her interpretation of the events that she witnesses. The conversation between Elinor and Mrs. Jennings is amusing as each misinterprets the other's words. Elinor is unaware of Mrs. Jennings' suspicions, and hence she talks about informing Edward of the Colonel's offer. Mrs. Jennings is then unable to understand why Edward should be informed of the Colonel's proposal. She surmises that Elinor and the Colonel might have decided to get married only after Edward has been ordained and is ready to perform their wedding. Much humor results from this confused conversation. Edward Ferrars is obviously surprised when Elinor informs him of the Colonel's generous offer at Delaford: in this time of crisis, assistance from such an unexpected quarter is astonishing. Like Mrs. Jennings, he believes the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. He feels that Brandon has offered him help only to please Elinor. Thus he thanks Elinor for helping him."}

Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. THEY only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own. She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more. Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them within that time. The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place. An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's. Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor, "Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke." It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too, that she would tell any thing WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt. "I am so glad to meet you;" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by the arm--"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world." And then lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is she angry?" "Not at all, I believe, with you." "That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is SHE angry?" "I cannot suppose it possible that she should be." "I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. There now, YOU are going to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it IS the Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never have known he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not know which way to look before them." She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first. "Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what they chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain." "I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you," said Elinor. "Oh, did not you? But it WAS said, I know, very well, and by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?--He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for HER sake, and upon HER account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that--Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you know)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?" "No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know better than that. (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in THAT. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. --, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan't say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get!--Good gracious! (giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world.-- 'La!' I shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of such a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!'" "Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst. You have got your answer ready." Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another more necessary. "Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won't ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn." Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance. As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following natural remark. "Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how THAT will end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her.--Then they will have a child every year! and Lord help 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I talked of t'other day.--No, no, they must get a stout girl of all works.-- Betty's sister would never do for them NOW." The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucy herself. It was as follows: "Bartlett's Building, March. "I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.--Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her.--My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne, "I am, &c." As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise. "Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy.--Poor soul! I wish I COULD get him a living, with all my heart.--She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived.--Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great credit."

Chapter 38

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

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

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