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0,"
It is necessary to consider another point in examining the character of
these principalities: that is, whether a prince has such power that, in
case of need, he can support himself with his own resources, or whether
he has always need of the assistance of others. And to make this quite
clear I say that I consider those who are able to support themselves by
their own resources who can, either by abundance of men or money, raise
a sufficient army to join battle against any one who comes to attack
them; and I consider those always to have need of others who cannot
show themselves against the enemy in the field, but are forced to
defend themselves by sheltering behind walls. The first case has been
discussed, but we will speak of it again should it recur. In the second
case one can say nothing except to encourage such princes to provision
and fortify their towns, and not on any account to defend the country.
And whoever shall fortify his town well, and shall have managed the
other concerns of his subjects in the way stated above, and to be often
repeated, will never be attacked without great caution, for men are
always adverse to enterprises where difficulties can be seen, and it
will be seen not to be an easy thing to attack one who has his town well
fortified, and is not hated by his people.

The cities of Germany are absolutely free, they own but little country
around them, and they yield obedience to the emperor when it suits
them, nor do they fear this or any other power they may have near them,
because they are fortified in such a way that every one thinks the
taking of them by assault would be tedious and difficult, seeing they
have proper ditches and walls, they have sufficient artillery, and they
always keep in public depots enough for one year's eating, drinking, and
firing. And beyond this, to keep the people quiet and without loss to
the state, they always have the means of giving work to the community
in those labours that are the life and strength of the city, and on
the pursuit of which the people are supported; they also hold military
exercises in repute, and moreover have many ordinances to uphold them.

Therefore, a prince who has a strong city, and had not made himself
odious, will not be attacked, or if any one should attack he will only
be driven off with disgrace; again, because that the affairs of this
world are so changeable, it is almost impossible to keep an army a whole
year in the field without being interfered with. And whoever should
reply: If the people have property outside the city, and see it burnt,
they will not remain patient, and the long siege and self-interest will
make them forget their prince; to this I answer that a powerful and
courageous prince will overcome all such difficulties by giving at one
time hope to his subjects that the evil will not be for long, at another
time fear of the cruelty of the enemy, then preserving himself adroitly
from those subjects who seem to him to be too bold.

Further, the enemy would naturally on his arrival at once burn and ruin
the country at the time when the spirits of the people are still hot and
ready for the defence; and, therefore, so much the less ought the prince
to hesitate; because after a time, when spirits have cooled, the damage
is already done, the ills are incurred, and there is no longer any
remedy; and therefore they are so much the more ready to unite with
their prince, he appearing to be under obligations to them now that
their houses have been burnt and their possessions ruined in his
defence. For it is the nature of men to be bound by the benefits they
confer as much as by those they receive. Therefore, if everything is
well considered, it will not be difficult for a wise prince to keep the
minds of his citizens steadfast from first to last, when he does not
fail to support and defend them.



","Chapter X is entitled ""How to Measure the Strength of Any Prince's State. Here Machiavelli adopts a decidedly militaristic tone. Princes, he writes, are better off when they can assemble an army and stand up against attackers; once again, Cesare Borgia is cited as a perfect example. Machiavelli addresses the majority of this chapter to the other class of princes: ""those who can't take the field against their foes, but have to hide behind their walls and defend themselves there. What should these more vulnerable princes do. They should keep their cities well-fortified; they should ignore the rural areas and focus their defense efforts on the urban centers; and they should be careful not to earn the people's hatred. A prudent prince is able to keep his subjects loyal to him and in good spirits during a siege. The burden during a siege is often on the besieger; he can almost never afford to wage a siege and do nothing else for a year. Defense, therefore, can consist of slowing the attacker down, wearing him out. Machiavelli cites the cities in Germany as examples of good fortification. These cities have moats, walls, artillery, public warehouses of food, drink, and fuel, and large supplies of raw materials in reserve to keep workers busy and economies going during a siege"
1,"
It remains now to see what ought to be the rules of conduct for a prince
towards subject and friends. And as I know that many have written on
this point, I expect I shall be considered presumptuous in mentioning it
again, especially as in discussing it I shall depart from the methods of
other people. But, it being my intention to write a thing which shall
be useful to him who apprehends it, it appears to me more appropriate to
follow up the real truth of the matter than the imagination of it; for
many have pictured republics and principalities which in fact have never
been known or seen, because how one lives is so far distant from how one
ought to live, that he who neglects what is done for what ought to
be done, sooner effects his ruin than his preservation; for a man who
wishes to act entirely up to his professions of virtue soon meets with
what destroys him among so much that is evil.

Hence it is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know
how to do wrong, and to make use of it or not according to necessity.
Therefore, putting on one side imaginary things concerning a prince, and
discussing those which are real, I say that all men when they are spoken
of, and chiefly princes for being more highly placed, are remarkable
for some of those qualities which bring them either blame or praise; and
thus it is that one is reputed liberal, another miserly, using a Tuscan
term (because an avaricious person in our language is still he who
desires to possess by robbery, whilst we call one miserly who deprives
himself too much of the use of his own); one is reputed generous,
one rapacious; one cruel, one compassionate; one faithless, another
faithful; one effeminate and cowardly, another bold and brave; one
affable, another haughty; one lascivious, another chaste; one sincere,
another cunning; one hard, another easy; one grave, another frivolous;
one religious, another unbelieving, and the like. And I know that every
one will confess that it would be most praiseworthy in a prince to
exhibit all the above qualities that are considered good; but because
they can neither be entirely possessed nor observed, for human
conditions do not permit it, it is necessary for him to be sufficiently
prudent that he may know how to avoid the reproach of those vices which
would lose him his state; and also to keep himself, if it be possible,
from those which would not lose him it; but this not being possible, he
may with less hesitation abandon himself to them. And again, he need
not make himself uneasy at incurring a reproach for those vices without
which the state can only be saved with difficulty, for if everything is
considered carefully, it will be found that something which looks like
virtue, if followed, would be his ruin; whilst something else, which
looks like vice, yet followed brings him security and prosperity.



","""On the Reasons Why Men Are Praised or Blamed - Especially Princes,"" Machiavelli argues that a prince should be good as long as that goodness is politically useful. It is impossible for a prince to be perfect and to exercise all virtues; therefore, he should not worry about guarding against vices that will not cost him his state. He should avoid those vices that lead to the kind of disgrace that could precipitate a fall from power, but while he should try to avoid those vices that are not as damaging, if he cannot prevent them, he is allowed to indulge them"
2,"
All states, all powers, that have held and hold rule over men have been
and are either republics or principalities.

Principalities are either hereditary, in which the family has been long
established; or they are new.

The new are either entirely new, as was Milan to Francesco Sforza, or
they are, as it were, members annexed to the hereditary state of the
prince who has acquired them, as was the kingdom of Naples to that of
the King of Spain.

Such dominions thus acquired are either accustomed to live under a
prince, or to live in freedom; and are acquired either by the arms of
the prince himself, or of others, or else by fortune or by ability.



","Okay, here's how it is. There are two types of governments: republics and monarchies . Now, there are new monarchies or old ones, and new monarchies can be either totally new or sort of new . It looks kind of like this: RepublicsMonarchies New Monarchies Brand-spanking New MonarchiesSort of New MonarchiesOld Monarchies Republics Monarchies New Monarchies Brand-spanking New MonarchiesSort of New MonarchiesOld Monarchies New Monarchies Brand-spanking New MonarchiesSort of New Monarchies Brand-spanking New Monarchies Sort of New Monarchies Old Monarchies Now, when you're doing this whole conquering thing--yes, you, since only princes or rulers can read this book--there are a few things to keep in mind: the place you are conquering either already had a ruler or they are used to governing themselves. Also, when you conquer them, you can do it yourself or get someone else to do it; and you might be lucky or you might work hard. These are all of the ways to conquer a place. Got it? No? Well that's what the rest of the book is for."
3,"
I will leave out all discussion on republics, inasmuch as in another
place I have written of them at length, and will address myself only to
principalities. In doing so I will keep to the order indicated above,
and discuss how such principalities are to be ruled and preserved.

I say at once there are fewer difficulties in holding hereditary states,
and those long accustomed to the family of their prince, than new
ones; for it is sufficient only not to transgress the customs of his
ancestors, and to deal prudently with circumstances as they arise, for a
prince of average powers to maintain himself in his state, unless he
be deprived of it by some extraordinary and excessive force; and if he
should be so deprived of it, whenever anything sinister happens to the
usurper, he will regain it.

We have in Italy, for example, the Duke of Ferrara, who could not have
withstood the attacks of the Venetians in '84, nor those of Pope Julius
in '10, unless he had been long established in his dominions. For the
hereditary prince has less cause and less necessity to offend; hence it
happens that he will be more loved; and unless extraordinary vices cause
him to be hated, it is reasonable to expect that his subjects will be
naturally well disposed towards him; and in the antiquity and duration
of his rule the memories and motives that make for change are lost, for
one change always leaves the toothing for another.



","This book is not about republics. It's about monarchies--how to get 'em and how to keep 'em. So remember those old monarchies, the ones where the kids become the new ruler? Those are a piece of cake to rule. Unless you are a total idiot, you can't mess up this sweet deal. Even if other people invade, you'll probably get your power back once they have any kind of trouble because the people love you. Come on, they watched you in your royal, diamond-studded diapers--how could they not? Dynasties are pretty chill, but upheavals? That's another story."
4,"Considering the difficulties which men have had to hold to a newly
acquired state, some might wonder how, seeing that Alexander the
Great became the master of Asia in a few years, and died whilst it
was scarcely settled (whence it might appear reasonable that the whole
empire would have rebelled), nevertheless his successors maintained
themselves, and had to meet no other difficulty than that which arose
among themselves from their own ambitions.

I answer that the principalities of which one has record are found to
be governed in two different ways; either by a prince, with a body
of servants, who assist him to govern the kingdom as ministers by his
favour and permission; or by a prince and barons, who hold that dignity
by antiquity of blood and not by the grace of the prince. Such barons
have states and their own subjects, who recognize them as lords and hold
them in natural affection. Those states that are governed by a prince
and his servants hold their prince in more consideration, because in all
the country there is no one who is recognized as superior to him, and
if they yield obedience to another they do it as to a minister and
official, and they do not bear him any particular affection.

The examples of these two governments in our time are the Turk and the
King of France. The entire monarchy of the Turk is governed by one lord,
the others are his servants; and, dividing his kingdom into sanjaks, he
sends there different administrators, and shifts and changes them as
he chooses. But the King of France is placed in the midst of an ancient
body of lords, acknowledged by their own subjects, and beloved by them;
they have their own prerogatives, nor can the king take these away
except at his peril. Therefore, he who considers both of these states
will recognize great difficulties in seizing the state of the Turk,
but, once it is conquered, great ease in holding it. The causes of the
difficulties in seizing the kingdom of the Turk are that the usurper
cannot be called in by the princes of the kingdom, nor can he hope to be
assisted in his designs by the revolt of those whom the lord has around
him. This arises from the reasons given above; for his ministers, being
all slaves and bondmen, can only be corrupted with great difficulty, and
one can expect little advantage from them when they have been corrupted,
as they cannot carry the people with them, for the reasons assigned.
Hence, he who attacks the Turk must bear in mind that he will find him
united, and he will have to rely more on his own strength than on the
revolt of others; but, if once the Turk has been conquered, and routed
in the field in such a way that he cannot replace his armies, there
is nothing to fear but the family of this prince, and, this being
exterminated, there remains no one to fear, the others having no credit
with the people; and as the conqueror did not rely on them before his
victory, so he ought not to fear them after it.

The contrary happens in kingdoms governed like that of France, because
one can easily enter there by gaining over some baron of the kingdom,
for one always finds malcontents and such as desire a change. Such men,
for the reasons given, can open the way into the state and render the
victory easy; but if you wish to hold it afterwards, you meet with
infinite difficulties, both from those who have assisted you and from
those you have crushed. Nor is it enough for you to have exterminated
the family of the prince, because the lords that remain make themselves
the heads of fresh movements against you, and as you are unable either
to satisfy or exterminate them, that state is lost whenever time brings
the opportunity.

Now if you will consider what was the nature of the government of
Darius, you will find it similar to the kingdom of the Turk, and
therefore it was only necessary for Alexander, first to overthrow him in
the field, and then to take the country from him. After which victory,
Darius being killed, the state remained secure to Alexander, for the
above reasons. And if his successors had been united they would have
enjoyed it securely and at their ease, for there were no tumults raised
in the kingdom except those they provoked themselves.

But it is impossible to hold with such tranquillity states constituted
like that of France. Hence arose those frequent rebellions against the
Romans in Spain, France, and Greece, owing to the many principalities
there were in these states, of which, as long as the memory of them
endured, the Romans always held an insecure possession; but with the
power and long continuance of the empire the memory of them passed
away, and the Romans then became secure possessors. And when fighting
afterwards amongst themselves, each one was able to attach to himself
his own parts of the country, according to the authority he had assumed
there; and the family of the former lord being exterminated, none other
than the Romans were acknowledged.

When these things are remembered no one will marvel at the ease with
which Alexander held the Empire of Asia, or at the difficulties which
others have had to keep an acquisition, such as Pyrrhus and many more;
this is not occasioned by the little or abundance of ability in the
conqueror, but by the want of uniformity in the subject state.



","Now you're thinking: didn't Alexander the Great get land quickly and hold on to it even after his death? And weren't you just saying how difficult it is to hold on to new lands, Machiavelli? Well, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for that. There are two ways to govern a monarchy: by a king and non-elected barons or by a king and his appointed ministers. In the second one, the king is more powerful since he's the only person who has real power. Turkey is one example of this kind of government. Because the king has all the power, a country like Turkey is pretty hard to conquer. There are no barons to help you by turning against the king. But on the plus side, once you do take over, ruling is a piece of cake because there are no barons to try to challenge you. On the other hand, we have places like France, where there's a king and barons that go back a long time. It's super easy to get into one of these places, since a baron somewhere is probably pissed at the king and wants him gone. The problem is, those same barons can turn against you after the old king is gone, so it's hard to hold on to these sorts of kingdoms. Back to Alexander. Why was it easy to keep his lands? You guessed it: they were like Turkey and had no barons to complicate things."
5,"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.



","Now let's talk about conquering places used to governing themselves, like republics or democracies. There are three ways to do this: burn it all down, go live there, and basically leave them alone but make them pay taxes and create a small government. Got it? Now forget the last two, because those aren't going to work. You need to destroy these places. Republics are too feisty, and they don't seem to like the idea of being conquered by kings, oddly enough. If you don't burn it all down, they'll come back to bite you when you least expect it, even 100 years later."
6,"
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.



","Now let's talk about the two other ways for regular old Joes to become rulers: through crime and by being made king by everyone else. Machiavelli gives us two examples of the first kinds. Here's the ancient example: Agathocles was a bad man. Like, really bad. He somehow became the head of the army even though he was just the son of a potter. Then he decided that he was going to be king. Can you guess what comes next? Yep, more killing. Agathocles invited the senators and richest guys around to a huge bash at his place and, before they knew it, they were dead, Agathocles was king, and everyone was too scared of this crazy guy to even try messing with him. This guy didn't leave much up to luck, and it's easy to see that he worked hard at his kingdom. But no one remembers him as an awesome leader. Why? Because he was insanely horrible and violent, that's why. He might have ruled securely, but you don't get written into the history books as a great ruler by massacring people left and right. Okay, let's move into modern times with Oliverotto. He was raised by his uncle and went into the army, where he rose to the top of the pack. Once he got there, he wanted to be his own boss, which meant ruling Fermo. So the plan was to go back to Fermo and tell his uncle to throw a big shindig for him. Fancy food, fancy clothes, all the highest-ranking people in town, the works. Guess what happened when he got to the party? That's right, it wasn't a party after allit was a massacre. Oliverotto killed all of the people there, including his uncle and scared everyone else so much that they set him up as the new ruler of Fermo. Does this technique sound familiar? So after this bloody coup, Oliverotto did all the good things a new ruler should do, like make a new army and government. He was doing all right for himself. At least until he went to a party thrown by none other than Cesare Borgia. Man, if we were those guys, we would never go to a party again. It seems to be code word for ""kill everyone en masse."" Okay, but how does a crazy guy like Agathocles keep ruling even though he's horribly violent? Elementary, dear Shmoopton. He used cruelty well. You can use cruelty badly, getting crueler and crueler over time, or you can use it well, getting less cruel pretty quickly. If you use cruelty badly, everyone will hate you. It's better to get that part over with and give people favors over time instead."
7,"
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.


","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."
8,"
A prince ought to have no other aim or thought, nor select anything else
for his study, than war and its rules and discipline; for this is the
sole art that belongs to him who rules, and it is of such force that it
not only upholds those who are born princes, but it often enables men
to rise from a private station to that rank. And, on the contrary, it is
seen that when princes have thought more of ease than of arms they have
lost their states. And the first cause of your losing it is to neglect
this art; and what enables you to acquire a state is to be master of
the art. Francesco Sforza, through being martial, from a private person
became Duke of Milan; and the sons, through avoiding the hardships and
troubles of arms, from dukes became private persons. For among other
evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised, and
this is one of those ignominies against which a prince ought to guard
himself, as is shown later on. Because there is nothing proportionate
between the armed and the unarmed; and it is not reasonable that he who
is armed should yield obedience willingly to him who is unarmed, or that
the unarmed man should be secure among armed servants. Because, there
being in the one disdain and in the other suspicion, it is not possible
for them to work well together. And therefore a prince who does not
understand the art of war, over and above the other misfortunes already
mentioned, cannot be respected by his soldiers, nor can he rely on them.
He ought never, therefore, to have out of his thoughts this subject of
war, and in peace he should addict himself more to its exercise than in
war; this he can do in two ways, the one by action, the other by study.

As regards action, he ought above all things to keep his men well
organized and drilled, to follow incessantly the chase, by which he
accustoms his body to hardships, and learns something of the nature of
localities, and gets to find out how the mountains rise, how the valleys
open out, how the plains lie, and to understand the nature of rivers and
marshes, and in all this to take the greatest care. Which knowledge
is useful in two ways. Firstly, he learns to know his country, and
is better able to undertake its defence; afterwards, by means of the
knowledge and observation of that locality, he understands with ease any
other which it may be necessary for him to study hereafter; because
the hills, valleys, and plains, and rivers and marshes that are, for
instance, in Tuscany, have a certain resemblance to those of other
countries, so that with a knowledge of the aspect of one country one can
easily arrive at a knowledge of others. And the prince that lacks this
skill lacks the essential which it is desirable that a captain should
possess, for it teaches him to surprise his enemy, to select quarters,
to lead armies, to array the battle, to besiege towns to advantage.

Philopoemen,(*) Prince of the Achaeans, among other praises which
writers have bestowed on him, is commended because in time of peace he
never had anything in his mind but the rules of war; and when he was in
the country with friends, he often stopped and reasoned with them: ""If
the enemy should be upon that hill, and we should find ourselves here
with our army, with whom would be the advantage? How should one best
advance to meet him, keeping the ranks? If we should wish to retreat,
how ought we to pursue?"" And he would set forth to them, as he went, all
the chances that could befall an army; he would listen to their opinion
and state his, confirming it with reasons, so that by these continual
discussions there could never arise, in time of war, any unexpected
circumstances that he could not deal with.

     (*) Philopoemen, ""the last of the Greeks,"" born 252 B.C.,
     died 183 B.C.

But to exercise the intellect the prince should read histories, and
study there the actions of illustrious men, to see how they have borne
themselves in war, to examine the causes of their victories and defeat,
so as to avoid the latter and imitate the former; and above all do as
an illustrious man did, who took as an exemplar one who had been praised
and famous before him, and whose achievements and deeds he always kept
in his mind, as it is said Alexander the Great imitated Achilles, Caesar
Alexander, Scipio Cyrus. And whoever reads the life of Cyrus, written
by Xenophon, will recognize afterwards in the life of Scipio how that
imitation was his glory, and how in chastity, affability, humanity, and
liberality Scipio conformed to those things which have been written of
Cyrus by Xenophon. A wise prince ought to observe some such rules, and
never in peaceful times stand idle, but increase his resources with
industry in such a way that they may be available to him in adversity,
so that if fortune chances it may find him prepared to resist her blows.


","War. 24/7. That's what should be on your mind if you want to become King or Queen Shmoopton the Third. Stop thinking about war, and you're as good as done. Oh, and if you don't even have an army, you're just pathetic. There's no sugar-coating it. Think about peace as war prep-time. During this time, a ruler should exercise and train his troops. He should also think about everything possible concerning war and read history to look at examples of other rulers' war strategies, just like football players study playbooks. Basically, make sure you get ready for war before it happens, or you'll be sorry."
9,"
Commencing then with the first of the above-named characteristics, I say
that it would be well to be reputed liberal. Nevertheless, liberality
exercised in a way that does not bring you the reputation for it,
injures you; for if one exercises it honestly and as it should be
exercised, it may not become known, and you will not avoid the reproach
of its opposite. Therefore, any one wishing to maintain among men the
name of liberal is obliged to avoid no attribute of magnificence; so
that a prince thus inclined will consume in such acts all his property,
and will be compelled in the end, if he wish to maintain the name
of liberal, to unduly weigh down his people, and tax them, and do
everything he can to get money. This will soon make him odious to his
subjects, and becoming poor he will be little valued by any one; thus,
with his liberality, having offended many and rewarded few, he is
affected by the very first trouble and imperilled by whatever may be the
first danger; recognizing this himself, and wishing to draw back from
it, he runs at once into the reproach of being miserly.

Therefore, a prince, not being able to exercise this virtue of
liberality in such a way that it is recognized, except to his cost, if
he is wise he ought not to fear the reputation of being mean, for in
time he will come to be more considered than if liberal, seeing that
with his economy his revenues are enough, that he can defend himself
against all attacks, and is able to engage in enterprises without
burdening his people; thus it comes to pass that he exercises liberality
towards all from whom he does not take, who are numberless, and meanness
towards those to whom he does not give, who are few.

We have not seen great things done in our time except by those who have
been considered mean; the rest have failed. Pope Julius the Second was
assisted in reaching the papacy by a reputation for liberality, yet he
did not strive afterwards to keep it up, when he made war on the King of
France; and he made many wars without imposing any extraordinary tax on
his subjects, for he supplied his additional expenses out of his long
thriftiness. The present King of Spain would not have undertaken or
conquered in so many enterprises if he had been reputed liberal. A
prince, therefore, provided that he has not to rob his subjects, that he
can defend himself, that he does not become poor and abject, that he
is not forced to become rapacious, ought to hold of little account
a reputation for being mean, for it is one of those vices which will
enable him to govern.

And if any one should say: Caesar obtained empire by liberality, and
many others have reached the highest positions by having been liberal,
and by being considered so, I answer: Either you are a prince in
fact, or in a way to become one. In the first case this liberality is
dangerous, in the second it is very necessary to be considered liberal;
and Caesar was one of those who wished to become pre-eminent in Rome;
but if he had survived after becoming so, and had not moderated his
expenses, he would have destroyed his government. And if any one should
reply: Many have been princes, and have done great things with armies,
who have been considered very liberal, I reply: Either a prince spends
that which is his own or his subjects' or else that of others. In the
first case he ought to be sparing, in the second he ought not to neglect
any opportunity for liberality. And to the prince who goes forth with
his army, supporting it by pillage, sack, and extortion, handling that
which belongs to others, this liberality is necessary, otherwise he
would not be followed by soldiers. And of that which is neither yours
nor your subjects' you can be a ready giver, as were Cyrus, Caesar, and
Alexander; because it does not take away your reputation if you squander
that of others, but adds to it; it is only squandering your own that
injures you.

And there is nothing wastes so rapidly as liberality, for even whilst
you exercise it you lose the power to do so, and so become either poor
or despised, or else, in avoiding poverty, rapacious and hated. And a
prince should guard himself, above all things, against being despised
and hated; and liberality leads you to both. Therefore it is wiser to
have a reputation for meanness which brings reproach without hatred,
than to be compelled through seeking a reputation for liberality to
incur a name for rapacity which begets reproach with hatred.



","Machiavelli's rule number 670,979,843,101: Don't be generous. It's not worth it. We know you want to seem awesome and have everyone think that you're the best ruler ever, but seriously, don't. You will waste all of your money and your people will hate you because you have to raise taxes. Funnily enough, you can seem generous by not spending any money because everyone will be happy that you didn't tax them. Old Niccolo likes to back up his claims with examples, if you haven't noticed already. This time, he says it worked out for Pope Julius II, The King of France, and the King of Spain, so it can work for you! Anyway, if people are upset with you for not giving them presents, ignore them. Oh, unless it's other people's stuff. If it's other people's stuff then feel free to throw money everywhere. Actually you have to. Otherwise, everyone will hate you, and that means that they might rebel against you."
10,"
Every one admits how praiseworthy it is in a prince to keep faith, and
to live with integrity and not with craft. Nevertheless our experience
has been that those princes who have done great things have held good
faith of little account, and have known how to circumvent the intellect
of men by craft, and in the end have overcome those who have relied on
their word. You must know there are two ways of contesting,(*) the one
by the law, the other by force; the first method is proper to men, the
second to beasts; but because the first is frequently not sufficient, it
is necessary to have recourse to the second. Therefore it is necessary
for a prince to understand how to avail himself of the beast and the
man. This has been figuratively taught to princes by ancient writers,
who describe how Achilles and many other princes of old were given to
the Centaur Chiron to nurse, who brought them up in his discipline;
which means solely that, as they had for a teacher one who was half
beast and half man, so it is necessary for a prince to know how to make
use of both natures, and that one without the other is not durable. A
prince, therefore, being compelled knowingly to adopt the beast, ought
to choose the fox and the lion; because the lion cannot defend himself
against snares and the fox cannot defend himself against wolves.
Therefore, it is necessary to be a fox to discover the snares and a
lion to terrify the wolves. Those who rely simply on the lion do not
understand what they are about. Therefore a wise lord cannot, nor ought
he to, keep faith when such observance may be turned against him, and
when the reasons that caused him to pledge it exist no longer. If men
were entirely good this precept would not hold, but because they are
bad, and will not keep faith with you, you too are not bound to observe
it with them. Nor will there ever be wanting to a prince legitimate
reasons to excuse this non-observance. Of this endless modern examples
could be given, showing how many treaties and engagements have been made
void and of no effect through the faithlessness of princes; and he who
has known best how to employ the fox has succeeded best.

     (*) ""Contesting,"" i.e. ""striving for mastery."" Mr Burd
     points out that this passage is imitated directly from
     Cicero's ""De Officiis"": ""Nam cum sint duo genera decertandi,
     unum per disceptationem, alterum per vim; cumque illud
     proprium sit hominis, hoc beluarum; confugiendum est ad
     posterius, si uti non licet superiore.""

But it is necessary to know well how to disguise this characteristic,
and to be a great pretender and dissembler; and men are so simple, and
so subject to present necessities, that he who seeks to deceive will
always find someone who will allow himself to be deceived. One recent
example I cannot pass over in silence. Alexander the Sixth did nothing
else but deceive men, nor ever thought of doing otherwise, and he
always found victims; for there never was a man who had greater power
in asserting, or who with greater oaths would affirm a thing, yet would
observe it less; nevertheless his deceits always succeeded according to
his wishes,(*) because he well understood this side of mankind.

     (*) ""Nondimanco sempre gli succederono gli inganni (ad
     votum)."" The words ""ad votum"" are omitted in the Testina
     addition, 1550.

     Alexander never did what he said,
     Cesare never said what he did.

Therefore it is unnecessary for a prince to have all the good qualities
I have enumerated, but it is very necessary to appear to have them. And
I shall dare to say this also, that to have them and always to observe
them is injurious, and that to appear to have them is useful; to appear
merciful, faithful, humane, religious, upright, and to be so, but with a
mind so framed that should you require not to be so, you may be able and
know how to change to the opposite.

And you have to understand this, that a prince, especially a new one,
cannot observe all those things for which men are esteemed, being often
forced, in order to maintain the state, to act contrary to fidelity,(*)
friendship, humanity, and religion. Therefore it is necessary for him to
have a mind ready to turn itself accordingly as the winds and variations
of fortune force it, yet, as I have said above, not to diverge from the
good if he can avoid doing so, but, if compelled, then to know how to
set about it.

     (*) ""Contrary to fidelity"" or ""faith,"" ""contro alla fede,""
     and ""tutto fede,"" ""altogether faithful,"" in the next
     paragraph. It is noteworthy that these two phrases, ""contro
     alla fede"" and ""tutto fede,"" were omitted in the Testina
     edition, which was published with the sanction of the papal
     authorities. It may be that the meaning attached to the word
     ""fede"" was ""the faith,"" i.e. the Catholic creed, and not as
     rendered here ""fidelity"" and ""faithful."" Observe that the
     word ""religione"" was suffered to stand in the text of the
     Testina, being used to signify indifferently every shade of
     belief, as witness ""the religion,"" a phrase inevitably
     employed to designate the Huguenot heresy. South in his
     Sermon IX, p. 69, ed. 1843, comments on this passage as
     follows: ""That great patron and Coryphaeus of this tribe,
     Nicolo Machiavel, laid down this for a master rule in his
     political scheme: 'That the show of religion was helpful to
     the politician, but the reality of it hurtful and
     pernicious.'""

For this reason a prince ought to take care that he never lets anything
slip from his lips that is not replete with the above-named five
qualities, that he may appear to him who sees and hears him altogether
merciful, faithful, humane, upright, and religious. There is nothing
more necessary to appear to have than this last quality, inasmuch as men
judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, because it belongs to
everybody to see you, to few to come in touch with you. Every one sees
what you appear to be, few really know what you are, and those few dare
not oppose themselves to the opinion of the many, who have the majesty
of the state to defend them; and in the actions of all men, and
especially of princes, which it is not prudent to challenge, one judges
by the result.

For that reason, let a prince have the credit of conquering and holding
his state, the means will always be considered honest, and he will be
praised by everybody; because the vulgar are always taken by what a
thing seems to be and by what comes of it; and in the world there are
only the vulgar, for the few find a place there only when the many have
no ground to rest on.

One prince(*) of the present time, whom it is not well to name, never
preaches anything else but peace and good faith, and to both he is
most hostile, and either, if he had kept it, would have deprived him of
reputation and kingdom many a time.

     (*) Ferdinand of Aragon. ""When Machiavelli was writing 'The
     Prince' it would have been clearly impossible to mention
     Ferdinand's name here without giving offence."" Burd's ""Il
     Principe,"" p. 308.



","We would all love to be perfect and be honest, but, hey, you have to break some eggs if you're going to make an omelet. Dear Shmooponauts: if you want to rule, you're going to have to lie. A lot. Maybe all the time. Machiavelli gives us some metaphors about law versus force, and our animal side versus our human side. Basically the idea is this: don't be afraid to go a little wild. You're going to have to be a bit tricky and a bit scary, and that's okay. We think Machiavelli would have liked the phrase ""there's a sucker born every minute"" because he thinks that most people are just sitting around, waiting to be lied to. He even gives an example of a lying pope: Alexander VI. Here's a guy whose job is to be religious and moral, but how does he succeed in life? By lying! Ta-da. So, Machiavelli gives us the go-ahead to do the nasty stuff. But here's the thing: we have to seem to be innocent. And we need to know when we have to change our tactics. Anyway, as long as you keep your kingdom prosperous and safe, people will say that you were a good guyeven if you say one thing and do another, like the king of Spain."
11,"
1. Some princes, so as to hold securely the state, have disarmed their
subjects; others have kept their subject towns distracted by factions;
others have fostered enmities against themselves; others have laid
themselves out to gain over those whom they distrusted in the beginning
of their governments; some have built fortresses; some have overthrown
and destroyed them. And although one cannot give a final judgment on all
of these things unless one possesses the particulars of those states
in which a decision has to be made, nevertheless I will speak as
comprehensively as the matter of itself will admit.

2. There never was a new prince who has disarmed his subjects; rather
when he has found them disarmed he has always armed them, because, by
arming them, those arms become yours, those men who were distrusted
become faithful, and those who were faithful are kept so, and your
subjects become your adherents. And whereas all subjects cannot be
armed, yet when those whom you do arm are benefited, the others can be
handled more freely, and this difference in their treatment, which they
quite understand, makes the former your dependents, and the latter,
considering it to be necessary that those who have the most danger and
service should have the most reward, excuse you. But when you disarm
them, you at once offend them by showing that you distrust them, either
for cowardice or for want of loyalty, and either of these opinions
breeds hatred against you. And because you cannot remain unarmed, it
follows that you turn to mercenaries, which are of the character already
shown; even if they should be good they would not be sufficient to
defend you against powerful enemies and distrusted subjects. Therefore,
as I have said, a new prince in a new principality has always
distributed arms. Histories are full of examples. But when a prince
acquires a new state, which he adds as a province to his old one, then
it is necessary to disarm the men of that state, except those who have
been his adherents in acquiring it; and these again, with time and
opportunity, should be rendered soft and effeminate; and matters should
be managed in such a way that all the armed men in the state shall be
your own soldiers who in your old state were living near you.

3. Our forefathers, and those who were reckoned wise, were accustomed
to say that it was necessary to hold Pistoia by factions and Pisa by
fortresses; and with this idea they fostered quarrels in some of their
tributary towns so as to keep possession of them the more easily.
This may have been well enough in those times when Italy was in a way
balanced, but I do not believe that it can be accepted as a precept
for to-day, because I do not believe that factions can ever be of use;
rather it is certain that when the enemy comes upon you in divided
cities you are quickly lost, because the weakest party will always
assist the outside forces and the other will not be able to resist.
The Venetians, moved, as I believe, by the above reasons, fostered the
Guelph and Ghibelline factions in their tributary cities; and although
they never allowed them to come to bloodshed, yet they nursed these
disputes amongst them, so that the citizens, distracted by their
differences, should not unite against them. Which, as we saw, did not
afterwards turn out as expected, because, after the rout at Vaila, one
party at once took courage and seized the state. Such methods argue,
therefore, weakness in the prince, because these factions will never be
permitted in a vigorous principality; such methods for enabling one the
more easily to manage subjects are only useful in times of peace, but if
war comes this policy proves fallacious.

4. Without doubt princes become great when they overcome the
difficulties and obstacles by which they are confronted, and therefore
fortune, especially when she desires to make a new prince great, who
has a greater necessity to earn renown than an hereditary one, causes
enemies to arise and form designs against him, in order that he may have
the opportunity of overcoming them, and by them to mount higher, as by a
ladder which his enemies have raised. For this reason many consider that
a wise prince, when he has the opportunity, ought with craft to foster
some animosity against himself, so that, having crushed it, his renown
may rise higher.

5. Princes, especially new ones, have found more fidelity and assistance
in those men who in the beginning of their rule were distrusted than
among those who in the beginning were trusted. Pandolfo Petrucci, Prince
of Siena, ruled his state more by those who had been distrusted than by
others. But on this question one cannot speak generally, for it varies
so much with the individual; I will only say this, that those men who
at the commencement of a princedom have been hostile, if they are of
a description to need assistance to support themselves, can always be
gained over with the greatest ease, and they will be tightly held to
serve the prince with fidelity, inasmuch as they know it to be very
necessary for them to cancel by deeds the bad impression which he had
formed of them; and thus the prince always extracts more profit from
them than from those who, serving him in too much security, may neglect
his affairs. And since the matter demands it, I must not fail to warn a
prince, who by means of secret favours has acquired a new state, that he
must well consider the reasons which induced those to favour him who
did so; and if it be not a natural affection towards him, but only
discontent with their government, then he will only keep them friendly
with great trouble and difficulty, for it will be impossible to satisfy
them. And weighing well the reasons for this in those examples which
can be taken from ancient and modern affairs, we shall find that it is
easier for the prince to make friends of those men who were contented
under the former government, and are therefore his enemies, than of
those who, being discontented with it, were favourable to him and
encouraged him to seize it.

6. It has been a custom with princes, in order to hold their states
more securely, to build fortresses that may serve as a bridle and bit
to those who might design to work against them, and as a place of refuge
from a first attack. I praise this system because it has been made use
of formerly. Notwithstanding that, Messer Nicolo Vitelli in our times
has been seen to demolish two fortresses in Citta di Castello so that he
might keep that state; Guido Ubaldo, Duke of Urbino, on returning to
his dominion, whence he had been driven by Cesare Borgia, razed to the
foundations all the fortresses in that province, and considered that
without them it would be more difficult to lose it; the Bentivogli
returning to Bologna came to a similar decision. Fortresses, therefore,
are useful or not according to circumstances; if they do you good in one
way they injure you in another. And this question can be reasoned thus:
the prince who has more to fear from the people than from foreigners
ought to build fortresses, but he who has more to fear from foreigners
than from the people ought to leave them alone. The castle of Milan,
built by Francesco Sforza, has made, and will make, more trouble for the
house of Sforza than any other disorder in the state. For this reason
the best possible fortress is--not to be hated by the people, because,
although you may hold the fortresses, yet they will not save you if the
people hate you, for there will never be wanting foreigners to assist
a people who have taken arms against you. It has not been seen in our
times that such fortresses have been of use to any prince, unless to the
Countess of Forli,(*) when the Count Girolamo, her consort, was killed;
for by that means she was able to withstand the popular attack and wait
for assistance from Milan, and thus recover her state; and the posture
of affairs was such at that time that the foreigners could not assist
the people. But fortresses were of little value to her afterwards when
Cesare Borgia attacked her, and when the people, her enemy, were allied
with foreigners. Therefore, it would have been safer for her, both then
and before, not to have been hated by the people than to have had the
fortresses. All these things considered then, I shall praise him
who builds fortresses as well as him who does not, and I shall blame
whoever, trusting in them, cares little about being hated by the people.

     (*) Catherine Sforza, a daughter of Galeazzo Sforza and
     Lucrezia Landriani, born 1463, died 1509. It was to the
     Countess of Forli that Machiavelli was sent as envoy on 1499.
     A letter from Fortunati to the countess announces the
     appointment: ""I have been with the signori,"" wrote
     Fortunati, ""to learn whom they would send and when. They
     tell me that Nicolo Machiavelli, a learned young Florentine
     noble, secretary to my Lords of the Ten, is to leave with me
     at once."" Cf. ""Catherine Sforza,"" by Count Pasolini,
     translated by P. Sylvester, 1898.



","People do all kinds of things in order to keep power. They take guns away from people, try to turn them against one another, build fortresses, tear them down. All sorts of things. But let's talk about if they are helpful or not. First, taking away guns. This is a bad idea for most rulers. If you give arms to people, they are excited. If you take them away, they wonder why you don't like them and start to hate you. And we all know where that leads--right, Shmoop rulers of tomorrow? The only people who should be doing this are people who already have vast established kingdoms and are just adding this new one to their collection. Then, go right ahead. You have your army already and taking away arms will keep the state weak. Next, dividing towns into factions and making them fight amongst each other. Now, for some reason, people keep saying this is a good idea. As the president of Panem will tell you, it is not. The weaker faction will turn against you and the stronger one won't be able to defend against a foreign invasion. Just say no. Next, stirring up trouble intentionally. Do it. It will make you seem more awesome if you take care of it like a pro. You'll have a reputation of being a good ruler, and everyone will like you. Machiavelli just leaves us a note here to remember if you take a nation with inside help, you need to be pretty suspicious of those guys that helped you. Hey, they turned on their previous ruler, why shouldn't they turn on you, newbie? Fortresses. Machiavelli approves, but only because everyone has been doing it forever. Mostly they are only helpful if you're afraid of your own people, because they hate you--which, as we all know by now, is the beginning of a downward spiral. The important thing to remember is that fortresses can't help you for long if your people hate you."
12,"
Nothing makes a prince so much esteemed as great enterprises and setting
a fine example. We have in our time Ferdinand of Aragon, the present
King of Spain. He can almost be called a new prince, because he has
risen, by fame and glory, from being an insignificant king to be the
foremost king in Christendom; and if you will consider his deeds
you will find them all great and some of them extraordinary. In the
beginning of his reign he attacked Granada, and this enterprise was the
foundation of his dominions. He did this quietly at first and without
any fear of hindrance, for he held the minds of the barons of Castile
occupied in thinking of the war and not anticipating any innovations;
thus they did not perceive that by these means he was acquiring power
and authority over them. He was able with the money of the Church and
of the people to sustain his armies, and by that long war to lay the
foundation for the military skill which has since distinguished him.
Further, always using religion as a plea, so as to undertake greater
schemes, he devoted himself with pious cruelty to driving out and
clearing his kingdom of the Moors; nor could there be a more admirable
example, nor one more rare. Under this same cloak he assailed Africa,
he came down on Italy, he has finally attacked France; and thus his
achievements and designs have always been great, and have kept the minds
of his people in suspense and admiration and occupied with the issue of
them. And his actions have arisen in such a way, one out of the other,
that men have never been given time to work steadily against him.

Again, it much assists a prince to set unusual examples in internal
affairs, similar to those which are related of Messer Bernabo da Milano,
who, when he had the opportunity, by any one in civil life doing some
extraordinary thing, either good or bad, would take some method of
rewarding or punishing him, which would be much spoken about. And a
prince ought, above all things, always endeavour in every action to gain
for himself the reputation of being a great and remarkable man.

A prince is also respected when he is either a true friend or a
downright enemy, that is to say, when, without any reservation, he
declares himself in favour of one party against the other; which course
will always be more advantageous than standing neutral; because if two
of your powerful neighbours come to blows, they are of such a character
that, if one of them conquers, you have either to fear him or not.
In either case it will always be more advantageous for you to declare
yourself and to make war strenuously; because, in the first case, if
you do not declare yourself, you will invariably fall a prey to
the conqueror, to the pleasure and satisfaction of him who has been
conquered, and you will have no reasons to offer, nor anything to
protect or to shelter you. Because he who conquers does not want
doubtful friends who will not aid him in the time of trial; and he who
loses will not harbour you because you did not willingly, sword in hand,
court his fate.

Antiochus went into Greece, being sent for by the Aetolians to drive
out the Romans. He sent envoys to the Achaeans, who were friends of
the Romans, exhorting them to remain neutral; and on the other hand the
Romans urged them to take up arms. This question came to be discussed in
the council of the Achaeans, where the legate of Antiochus urged them to
stand neutral. To this the Roman legate answered: ""As for that which has
been said, that it is better and more advantageous for your state not
to interfere in our war, nothing can be more erroneous; because by
not interfering you will be left, without favour or consideration, the
guerdon of the conqueror."" Thus it will always happen that he who is not
your friend will demand your neutrality, whilst he who is your friend
will entreat you to declare yourself with arms. And irresolute princes,
to avoid present dangers, generally follow the neutral path, and are
generally ruined. But when a prince declares himself gallantly in favour
of one side, if the party with whom he allies himself conquers, although
the victor may be powerful and may have him at his mercy, yet he is
indebted to him, and there is established a bond of amity; and men are
never so shameless as to become a monument of ingratitude by oppressing
you. Victories after all are never so complete that the victor must not
show some regard, especially to justice. But if he with whom you ally
yourself loses, you may be sheltered by him, and whilst he is able he
may aid you, and you become companions on a fortune that may rise again.

In the second case, when those who fight are of such a character that
you have no anxiety as to who may conquer, so much the more is it
greater prudence to be allied, because you assist at the destruction
of one by the aid of another who, if he had been wise, would have saved
him; and conquering, as it is impossible that he should not do with your
assistance, he remains at your discretion. And here it is to be noted
that a prince ought to take care never to make an alliance with one
more powerful than himself for the purposes of attacking others, unless
necessity compels him, as is said above; because if he conquers you are
at his discretion, and princes ought to avoid as much as possible being
at the discretion of any one. The Venetians joined with France against
the Duke of Milan, and this alliance, which caused their ruin, could
have been avoided. But when it cannot be avoided, as happened to the
Florentines when the Pope and Spain sent armies to attack Lombardy, then
in such a case, for the above reasons, the prince ought to favour one of
the parties.

Never let any Government imagine that it can choose perfectly safe
courses; rather let it expect to have to take very doubtful ones,
because it is found in ordinary affairs that one never seeks to avoid
one trouble without running into another; but prudence consists in
knowing how to distinguish the character of troubles, and for choice to
take the lesser evil.

A prince ought also to show himself a patron of ability, and to honour
the proficient in every art. At the same time he should encourage his
citizens to practise their callings peaceably, both in commerce and
agriculture, and in every other following, so that the one should not be
deterred from improving his possessions for fear lest they be taken away
from him or another from opening up trade for fear of taxes; but the
prince ought to offer rewards to whoever wishes to do these things and
designs in any way to honour his city or state.

Further, he ought to entertain the people with festivals and spectacles
at convenient seasons of the year; and as every city is divided into
guilds or into societies,(*) he ought to hold such bodies in esteem, and
associate with them sometimes, and show himself an example of courtesy
and liberality; nevertheless, always maintaining the majesty of his
rank, for this he must never consent to abate in anything.

     (*) ""Guilds or societies,"" ""in arti o in tribu."" ""Arti"" were
     craft or trade guilds, cf. Florio: ""Arte . . . a whole
     company of any trade in any city or corporation town."" The
     guilds of Florence are most admirably described by Mr
     Edgcumbe Staley in his work on the subject (Methuen, 1906).
     Institutions of a somewhat similar character, called
     ""artel,"" exist in Russia to-day, cf. Sir Mackenzie Wallace's
     ""Russia,"" ed. 1905: ""The sons . . . were always during the
     working season members of an artel. In some of the larger
     towns there are artels of a much more complex kind--
     permanent associations, possessing large capital, and
     pecuniarily responsible for the acts of the individual
     members."" The word ""artel,"" despite its apparent similarity,
     has, Mr Aylmer Maude assures me, no connection with ""ars"" or
     ""arte."" Its root is that of the verb ""rotisya,"" to bind
     oneself by an oath; and it is generally admitted to be only
     another form of ""rota,"" which now signifies a ""regimental
     company."" In both words the underlying idea is that of a
     body of men united by an oath. ""Tribu"" were possibly gentile
     groups, united by common descent, and included individuals
     connected by marriage. Perhaps our words ""sects"" or ""clans""
     would be most appropriate.



","How do you get respect as a ruler? By winning wars. Look at the King of Spain. He was once just a wimp, but now he's the most famous king in Europe. War not your thing? Too bad. But you can also handle your nation's domestic affairs awesomely, and that will work, too. Also, you need to be a genuine friend and enemy. What Machiavelli means by that is, if two of your neighbors are fighting, you have to take sides. If you don't, then the winner will come after you and the loser won't help you at all. If win, you get spoils; if you lose, you can plot your revenge together. A ruler should also give prizes to overachievers, lower taxes, promote small businesses, and give people parties. Also, show up from time to time. That way, everyone will remember how awesome and yet authoritative you are. Yep. This part seems just silly to us, like Machiavelli had to fill up the end of the chapter to meet his word count."
13,"
The choice of servants is of no little importance to a prince, and they
are good or not according to the discrimination of the prince. And the
first opinion which one forms of a prince, and of his understanding, is
by observing the men he has around him; and when they are capable and
faithful he may always be considered wise, because he has known how
to recognize the capable and to keep them faithful. But when they are
otherwise one cannot form a good opinion of him, for the prime error
which he made was in choosing them.

There were none who knew Messer Antonio da Venafro as the servant of
Pandolfo Petrucci, Prince of Siena, who would not consider Pandolfo to
be a very clever man in having Venafro for his servant. Because there
are three classes of intellects: one which comprehends by itself;
another which appreciates what others comprehended; and a third which
neither comprehends by itself nor by the showing of others; the first is
the most excellent, the second is good, the third is useless. Therefore,
it follows necessarily that, if Pandolfo was not in the first rank, he
was in the second, for whenever one has judgment to know good and
bad when it is said and done, although he himself may not have the
initiative, yet he can recognize the good and the bad in his servant,
and the one he can praise and the other correct; thus the servant cannot
hope to deceive him, and is kept honest.

But to enable a prince to form an opinion of his servant there is one
test which never fails; when you see the servant thinking more of his
own interests than of yours, and seeking inwardly his own profit in
everything, such a man will never make a good servant, nor will you ever
be able to trust him; because he who has the state of another in his
hands ought never to think of himself, but always of his prince, and
never pay any attention to matters in which the prince is not concerned.

On the other hand, to keep his servant honest the prince ought to study
him, honouring him, enriching him, doing him kindnesses, sharing with
him the honours and cares; and at the same time let him see that he
cannot stand alone, so that many honours may not make him desire more,
many riches make him wish for more, and that many cares may make him
dread chances. When, therefore, servants, and princes towards servants,
are thus disposed, they can trust each other, but when it is otherwise,
the end will always be disastrous for either one or the other.



","Choosing ministers is a big deal. If you chose right, everyone will say how smart you are for choosing such a great minister. Machiavelli explains that there are three kinds of people: First, there are those that are just super smart and understand things without any help Second, there are those that can understand what someone else has come up with And third, there are those that just don't get anything Ministers are great because even if you are only the second kind of person, you can pick a minister that is the first kind and seem super smart. There is no hope for the third kind of person. Now how do we choose a good minister? Throw any minister who seems to be thinking only of himself out of the pile. When you get ministers, give them more than they could ever dream of, so that, unless they are completely worthless, they will only think of how to make things more awesome for you, since you gave them all of that stuff. Loyalty guaranteed."
14,"
I do not wish to leave out an important branch of this subject, for it
is a danger from which princes are with difficulty preserved, unless
they are very careful and discriminating. It is that of flatterers, of
whom courts are full, because men are so self-complacent in their own
affairs, and in a way so deceived in them, that they are preserved with
difficulty from this pest, and if they wish to defend themselves they
run the danger of falling into contempt. Because there is no other way
of guarding oneself from flatterers except letting men understand that
to tell you the truth does not offend you; but when every one may tell
you the truth, respect for you abates.

Therefore a wise prince ought to hold a third course by choosing the
wise men in his state, and giving to them only the liberty of speaking
the truth to him, and then only of those things of which he inquires,
and of none others; but he ought to question them upon everything, and
listen to their opinions, and afterwards form his own conclusions.
With these councillors, separately and collectively, he ought to carry
himself in such a way that each of them should know that, the more
freely he shall speak, the more he shall be preferred; outside of
these, he should listen to no one, pursue the thing resolved on, and be
steadfast in his resolutions. He who does otherwise is either overthrown
by flatterers, or is so often changed by varying opinions that he falls
into contempt.

I wish on this subject to adduce a modern example. Fra Luca, the man of
affairs to Maximilian,(*) the present emperor, speaking of his majesty,
said: He consulted with no one, yet never got his own way in anything.
This arose because of his following a practice the opposite to the
above; for the emperor is a secretive man--he does not communicate his
designs to any one, nor does he receive opinions on them. But as in
carrying them into effect they become revealed and known, they are
at once obstructed by those men whom he has around him, and he, being
pliant, is diverted from them. Hence it follows that those things he
does one day he undoes the next, and no one ever understands what he
wishes or intends to do, and no one can rely on his resolutions.

     (*) Maximilian I, born in 1459, died 1519, Emperor of the
     Holy Roman Empire. He married, first, Mary, daughter of
     Charles the Bold; after her death, Bianca Sforza; and thus
     became involved in Italian politics.

A prince, therefore, ought always to take counsel, but only when he
wishes and not when others wish; he ought rather to discourage every one
from offering advice unless he asks it; but, however, he ought to be
a constant inquirer, and afterwards a patient listener concerning the
things of which he inquired; also, on learning that any one, on any
consideration, has not told him the truth, he should let his anger be
felt.

And if there are some who think that a prince who conveys an impression
of his wisdom is not so through his own ability, but through the good
advisers that he has around him, beyond doubt they are deceived, because
this is an axiom which never fails: that a prince who is not wise
himself will never take good advice, unless by chance he has yielded his
affairs entirely to one person who happens to be a very prudent man. In
this case indeed he may be well governed, but it would not be for long,
because such a governor would in a short time take away his state from
him.

But if a prince who is not inexperienced should take counsel from more
than one he will never get united counsels, nor will he know how to
unite them. Each of the counsellors will think of his own interests, and
the prince will not know how to control them or to see through them. And
they are not to be found otherwise, because men will always prove untrue
to you unless they are kept honest by constraint. Therefore it must be
inferred that good counsels, whencesoever they come, are born of
the wisdom of the prince, and not the wisdom of the prince from good
counsels.



","This is a hard one. There are so many people around who will just want to kiss your butt. Think of paparazzi. Everyone wants a piece of you. So what to do? Here it is: get people, but only some people, i.e. your ministers, to understand that you want them to tell the truth. Only when you ask, though. Also, make sure they get that you are the decider here, not them. One Bishop, Luca Rainaldi, never got advice and he also never got anything done, because he was always changing his mind. Don't be like him. Get your advice and make your decisions. Remember that a good minister and good advice won't help you if you are a bad leader, because they will just take over. You have to be a good leader to begin with to take advantage of a good minister."
15,"
The previous suggestions, carefully observed, will enable a new prince
to appear well established, and render him at once more secure and fixed
in the state than if he had been long seated there. For the actions of
a new prince are more narrowly observed than those of an hereditary
one, and when they are seen to be able they gain more men and bind
far tighter than ancient blood; because men are attracted more by the
present than by the past, and when they find the present good they enjoy
it and seek no further; they will also make the utmost defence of a
prince if he fails them not in other things. Thus it will be a double
glory for him to have established a new principality, and adorned and
strengthened it with good laws, good arms, good allies, and with a good
example; so will it be a double disgrace to him who, born a prince,
shall lose his state by want of wisdom.

And if those seigniors are considered who have lost their states in
Italy in our times, such as the King of Naples, the Duke of Milan,
and others, there will be found in them, firstly, one common defect in
regard to arms from the causes which have been discussed at length; in
the next place, some one of them will be seen, either to have had the
people hostile, or if he has had the people friendly, he has not known
how to secure the nobles. In the absence of these defects states that
have power enough to keep an army in the field cannot be lost.

Philip of Macedon, not the father of Alexander the Great, but he who
was conquered by Titus Quintius, had not much territory compared to
the greatness of the Romans and of Greece who attacked him, yet being a
warlike man who knew how to attract the people and secure the nobles, he
sustained the war against his enemies for many years, and if in the
end he lost the dominion of some cities, nevertheless he retained the
kingdom.

Therefore, do not let our princes accuse fortune for the loss of their
principalities after so many years' possession, but rather their own
sloth, because in quiet times they never thought there could be a change
(it is a common defect in man not to make any provision in the calm
against the tempest), and when afterwards the bad times came they
thought of flight and not of defending themselves, and they hoped that
the people, disgusted with the insolence of the conquerors, would recall
them. This course, when others fail, may be good, but it is very bad to
have neglected all other expedients for that, since you would never
wish to fall because you trusted to be able to find someone later on to
restore you. This again either does not happen, or, if it does, it will
not be for your security, because that deliverance is of no avail which
does not depend upon yourself; those only are reliable, certain, and
durable that depend on yourself and your valour.



","These rules are a quick-start guide to ruling a kingdom. In just a few short years, you, too, can have all the prestige of a well-established ruler. Plus, people will love you more because they will be extra surprised that you didn't failjust like people are amazed when babies do anything. Enough of that. Let's talk about why Italy has been failing so hard recently. We all know why. What is Machiavelli's number one rule? Have a strong army. What haven't they had? Any kind of decent army at all. Yet they are whining about how they lost their states because of ""bad luck."" It's not luck, people. You should have been training an army. Mr. Machiavelli gets himself pretty worked up about this."
16,"
It is not unknown to me how many men have had, and still have, the
opinion that the affairs of the world are in such wise governed by
fortune and by God that men with their wisdom cannot direct them and
that no one can even help them; and because of this they would have us
believe that it is not necessary to labour much in affairs, but to let
chance govern them. This opinion has been more credited in our times
because of the great changes in affairs which have been seen, and
may still be seen, every day, beyond all human conjecture. Sometimes
pondering over this, I am in some degree inclined to their opinion.
Nevertheless, not to extinguish our free will, I hold it to be true that
Fortune is the arbiter of one-half of our actions,(*) but that she still
leaves us to direct the other half, or perhaps a little less.

     (*) Frederick the Great was accustomed to say: ""The older
     one gets the more convinced one becomes that his Majesty
     King Chance does three-quarters of the business of this
     miserable universe."" Sorel's ""Eastern Question.""

I compare her to one of those raging rivers, which when in flood
overflows the plains, sweeping away trees and buildings, bearing away
the soil from place to place; everything flies before it, all yield to
its violence, without being able in any way to withstand it; and yet,
though its nature be such, it does not follow therefore that men, when
the weather becomes fair, shall not make provision, both with defences
and barriers, in such a manner that, rising again, the waters may
pass away by canal, and their force be neither so unrestrained nor so
dangerous. So it happens with fortune, who shows her power where valour
has not prepared to resist her, and thither she turns her forces where
she knows that barriers and defences have not been raised to constrain
her.

And if you will consider Italy, which is the seat of these changes, and
which has given to them their impulse, you will see it to be an open
country without barriers and without any defence. For if it had been
defended by proper valour, as are Germany, Spain, and France, either
this invasion would not have made the great changes it has made or it
would not have come at all. And this I consider enough to say concerning
resistance to fortune in general.

But confining myself more to the particular, I say that a prince may be
seen happy to-day and ruined to-morrow without having shown any change
of disposition or character. This, I believe, arises firstly from causes
that have already been discussed at length, namely, that the prince who
relies entirely on fortune is lost when it changes. I believe also that
he will be successful who directs his actions according to the spirit of
the times, and that he whose actions do not accord with the times will
not be successful. Because men are seen, in affairs that lead to the end
which every man has before him, namely, glory and riches, to get there
by various methods; one with caution, another with haste; one by force,
another by skill; one by patience, another by its opposite; and each one
succeeds in reaching the goal by a different method. One can also see of
two cautious men the one attain his end, the other fail; and similarly,
two men by different observances are equally successful, the one being
cautious, the other impetuous; all this arises from nothing else than
whether or not they conform in their methods to the spirit of the times.
This follows from what I have said, that two men working differently
bring about the same effect, and of two working similarly, one attains
his object and the other does not.

Changes in estate also issue from this, for if, to one who governs
himself with caution and patience, times and affairs converge in such a
way that his administration is successful, his fortune is made; but if
times and affairs change, he is ruined if he does not change his course
of action. But a man is not often found sufficiently circumspect to know
how to accommodate himself to the change, both because he cannot deviate
from what nature inclines him to do, and also because, having always
prospered by acting in one way, he cannot be persuaded that it is well
to leave it; and, therefore, the cautious man, when it is time to turn
adventurous, does not know how to do it, hence he is ruined; but had he
changed his conduct with the times fortune would not have changed.

Pope Julius the Second went to work impetuously in all his affairs, and
found the times and circumstances conform so well to that line of action
that he always met with success. Consider his first enterprise against
Bologna, Messer Giovanni Bentivogli being still alive. The Venetians
were not agreeable to it, nor was the King of Spain, and he had the
enterprise still under discussion with the King of France; nevertheless
he personally entered upon the expedition with his accustomed boldness
and energy, a move which made Spain and the Venetians stand irresolute
and passive, the latter from fear, the former from desire to recover
the kingdom of Naples; on the other hand, he drew after him the King of
France, because that king, having observed the movement, and desiring
to make the Pope his friend so as to humble the Venetians, found it
impossible to refuse him. Therefore Julius with his impetuous action
accomplished what no other pontiff with simple human wisdom could have
done; for if he had waited in Rome until he could get away, with his
plans arranged and everything fixed, as any other pontiff would have
done, he would never have succeeded. Because the King of France would
have made a thousand excuses, and the others would have raised a
thousand fears.

I will leave his other actions alone, as they were all alike, and they
all succeeded, for the shortness of his life did not let him experience
the contrary; but if circumstances had arisen which required him to go
cautiously, his ruin would have followed, because he would never have
deviated from those ways to which nature inclined him.

I conclude, therefore that, fortune being changeful and mankind
steadfast in their ways, so long as the two are in agreement men are
successful, but unsuccessful when they fall out. For my part I consider
that it is better to be adventurous than cautious, because fortune is
a woman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and
ill-use her; and it is seen that she allows herself to be mastered by
the adventurous rather than by those who go to work more coldly. She is,
therefore, always, woman-like, a lover of young men, because they are
less cautious, more violent, and with more audacity command her.



","Let's talk about luck. People feel like the world is just a Wheel of Fortune and they might as well give up because they can't do anything to change their luck. Well, Machiavelli says yeah, fortune is a real force, but just like we dam rivers and create earthquake resistant buildings, we can prepare for when bad luck strikes. The only people who get hit by ""bad luck"" are the ones who aren't prepared. That's how Italy got where it is. If they were prepared, it wouldn't matter if bad luck in the form of an occupation came knocking on their door. They would have been ready to deal with it. Some people might say that luck is what makes some people trying the same technique fail and others succeed. Nope. Machiavelli says that's just the circumstances. Sometimes certain techniques are good for certain circumstances, and sometimes they are not. It's up to a smart ruler to tell the difference, but that almost never happens. Look at Pope Julius II, our warrior pope. He jumped into everything he's ever done, and in his circumstances that was great. But what if circumstances changed? Things might not have turned out so well for him. Machiavelli ends with a weird sexist-style note about dominating fortune. Bottom line: when in doubt, be impulsive."
17,"
Having carefully considered the subject of the above discourses, and
wondering within myself whether the present times were propitious to
a new prince, and whether there were elements that would give an
opportunity to a wise and virtuous one to introduce a new order of
things which would do honour to him and good to the people of this
country, it appears to me that so many things concur to favour a new
prince that I never knew a time more fit than the present.

And if, as I said, it was necessary that the people of Israel should be
captive so as to make manifest the ability of Moses; that the Persians
should be oppressed by the Medes so as to discover the greatness of the
soul of Cyrus; and that the Athenians should be dispersed to illustrate
the capabilities of Theseus: then at the present time, in order to
discover the virtue of an Italian spirit, it was necessary that Italy
should be reduced to the extremity that she is now in, that she should
be more enslaved than the Hebrews, more oppressed than the Persians,
more scattered than the Athenians; without head, without order, beaten,
despoiled, torn, overrun; and to have endured every kind of desolation.

Although lately some spark may have been shown by one, which made us
think he was ordained by God for our redemption, nevertheless it was
afterwards seen, in the height of his career, that fortune rejected him;
so that Italy, left as without life, waits for him who shall yet heal
her wounds and put an end to the ravaging and plundering of Lombardy,
to the swindling and taxing of the kingdom and of Tuscany, and cleanse
those sores that for long have festered. It is seen how she entreats God
to send someone who shall deliver her from these wrongs and barbarous
insolencies. It is seen also that she is ready and willing to follow a
banner if only someone will raise it.

Nor is there to be seen at present one in whom she can place more hope
than in your illustrious house,(*) with its valour and fortune, favoured
by God and by the Church of which it is now the chief, and which could
be made the head of this redemption. This will not be difficult if you
will recall to yourself the actions and lives of the men I have named.
And although they were great and wonderful men, yet they were men, and
each one of them had no more opportunity than the present offers, for
their enterprises were neither more just nor easier than this, nor was
God more their friend than He is yours.

     (*) Giuliano de Medici. He had just been created a cardinal
     by Leo X. In 1523 Giuliano was elected Pope, and took the
     title of Clement VII.

With us there is great justice, because that war is just which is
necessary, and arms are hallowed when there is no other hope but in
them. Here there is the greatest willingness, and where the willingness
is great the difficulties cannot be great if you will only follow those
men to whom I have directed your attention. Further than this, how
extraordinarily the ways of God have been manifested beyond example:
the sea is divided, a cloud has led the way, the rock has poured
forth water, it has rained manna, everything has contributed to
your greatness; you ought to do the rest. God is not willing to do
everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory
which belongs to us.

And it is not to be wondered at if none of the above-named Italians
have been able to accomplish all that is expected from your illustrious
house; and if in so many revolutions in Italy, and in so many campaigns,
it has always appeared as if military virtue were exhausted, this has
happened because the old order of things was not good, and none of us
have known how to find a new one. And nothing honours a man more than to
establish new laws and new ordinances when he himself was newly risen.
Such things when they are well founded and dignified will make him
revered and admired, and in Italy there are not wanting opportunities to
bring such into use in every form.

Here there is great valour in the limbs whilst it fails in the head.
Look attentively at the duels and the hand-to-hand combats, how superior
the Italians are in strength, dexterity, and subtlety. But when it comes
to armies they do not bear comparison, and this springs entirely from
the insufficiency of the leaders, since those who are capable are not
obedient, and each one seems to himself to know, there having never been
any one so distinguished above the rest, either by valour or fortune,
that others would yield to him. Hence it is that for so long a time,
and during so much fighting in the past twenty years, whenever there
has been an army wholly Italian, it has always given a poor account of
itself; the first witness to this is Il Taro, afterwards Allesandria,
Capua, Genoa, Vaila, Bologna, Mestri.(*)

     (*) The battles of Il Taro, 1495; Alessandria, 1499; Capua,
     1501; Genoa, 1507; Vaila, 1509; Bologna, 1511; Mestri, 1513.

If, therefore, your illustrious house wishes to follow these remarkable
men who have redeemed their country, it is necessary before all things,
as a true foundation for every enterprise, to be provided with your
own forces, because there can be no more faithful, truer, or better
soldiers. And although singly they are good, altogether they will
be much better when they find themselves commanded by their prince,
honoured by him, and maintained at his expense. Therefore it is
necessary to be prepared with such arms, so that you can be defended
against foreigners by Italian valour.

And although Swiss and Spanish infantry may be considered very
formidable, nevertheless there is a defect in both, by reason of which
a third order would not only be able to oppose them, but might be relied
upon to overthrow them. For the Spaniards cannot resist cavalry, and the
Switzers are afraid of infantry whenever they encounter them in close
combat. Owing to this, as has been and may again be seen, the Spaniards
are unable to resist French cavalry, and the Switzers are overthrown by
Spanish infantry. And although a complete proof of this latter cannot
be shown, nevertheless there was some evidence of it at the battle of
Ravenna, when the Spanish infantry were confronted by German battalions,
who follow the same tactics as the Swiss; when the Spaniards, by agility
of body and with the aid of their shields, got in under the pikes of the
Germans and stood out of danger, able to attack, while the Germans stood
helpless, and, if the cavalry had not dashed up, all would have been
over with them. It is possible, therefore, knowing the defects of both
these infantries, to invent a new one, which will resist cavalry and not
be afraid of infantry; this need not create a new order of arms, but
a variation upon the old. And these are the kind of improvements which
confer reputation and power upon a new prince.

This opportunity, therefore, ought not to be allowed to pass for letting
Italy at last see her liberator appear. Nor can one express the love
with which he would be received in all those provinces which have
suffered so much from these foreign scourings, with what thirst for
revenge, with what stubborn faith, with what devotion, with what tears.
What door would be closed to him? Who would refuse obedience to him?
What envy would hinder him? What Italian would refuse him homage? To all
of us this barbarous dominion stinks. Let, therefore, your illustrious
house take up this charge with that courage and hope with which all
just enterprises are undertaken, so that under its standard our native
country may be ennobled, and under its auspices may be verified that
saying of Petrarch:

     Virtu contro al Furore
     Prendera l'arme, e fia il combatter corto:
     Che l'antico valore
     Negli italici cuor non e ancor morto.

     Virtue against fury shall advance the fight,
     And it i' th' combat soon shall put to flight:
     For the old Roman valour is not dead,
     Nor in th' Italians' brests extinguished.

     Edward Dacre, 1640.


","At the end of it all, Machiavelli has an appeal to Lorenzo de' Medici. Please take over Italy. Pretty please! It goes a little something like this: It's time for a new ruler. If he wants to, Medici can be like Moses, Cyrus, and all the greats. He can rebuild Italy from its broken down state and be part of the history books. Doesn't that sound sweet? There was one guy who might have been Italy's savior, but well, that didn't work out so well and now look where we are. Italy is ready for someone to save her, and who better than the smart, rich, famous, powerful--and did we mention good-smelling?--Lorenzo de' Medici? Now that he's presumably read the book, Medici has all the knowledge he needs to be a first-rate ruler. God wants him to do it. He has sent miracles. Does he want to displease God? Does he want to get smote? Look at Italy. It's down in the dumps, but its peoples are hard workers. Better than any other country. The best. They just need a leader. Whose name begins with an ""L."" By the way, Lorenzo, if you haven't gotten it already, if you plan to rule Italy, please establish an army. It's only the right thing to do. Italy can take on the Spanish, it can take on the Swiss--just give it a chance. So, Lorenzo, don't pass up this limited-time offer of ruling Italy. Everyone would love you, everyone would be loyal, and you would be the most adored ruler in the history of Italy. Why would you pass that up? Machiavelli leaves de' Medici with a patriotic quote from Petrarch about taking up arms, and his plea is over."
18,"
Auxiliaries, which are the other useless arm, are employed when a prince
is called in with his forces to aid and defend, as was done by Pope
Julius in the most recent times; for he, having, in the enterprise
against Ferrara, had poor proof of his mercenaries, turned to
auxiliaries, and stipulated with Ferdinand, King of Spain,(*) for his
assistance with men and arms. These arms may be useful and good
in themselves, but for him who calls them in they are always
disadvantageous; for losing, one is undone, and winning, one is their
captive.

And although ancient histories may be full of examples, I do not wish
to leave this recent one of Pope Julius the Second, the peril of which
cannot fail to be perceived; for he, wishing to get Ferrara, threw
himself entirely into the hands of the foreigner. But his good fortune
brought about a third event, so that he did not reap the fruit of his
rash choice; because, having his auxiliaries routed at Ravenna, and
the Switzers having risen and driven out the conquerors (against all
expectation, both his and others), it so came to pass that he did
not become prisoner to his enemies, they having fled, nor to his
auxiliaries, he having conquered by other arms than theirs.

The Florentines, being entirely without arms, sent ten thousand
Frenchmen to take Pisa, whereby they ran more danger than at any other
time of their troubles.

The Emperor of Constantinople,(*) to oppose his neighbours, sent ten
thousand Turks into Greece, who, on the war being finished, were not
willing to quit; this was the beginning of the servitude of Greece to
the infidels.

Therefore, let him who has no desire to conquer make use of these arms,
for they are much more hazardous than mercenaries, because with them the
ruin is ready made; they are all united, all yield obedience to others;
but with mercenaries, when they have conquered, more time and better
opportunities are needed to injure you; they are not all of one
community, they are found and paid by you, and a third party, which you
have made their head, is not able all at once to assume enough authority
to injure you. In conclusion, in mercenaries dastardy is most dangerous;
in auxiliaries, valour. The wise prince, therefore, has always avoided
these arms and turned to his own; and has been willing rather to lose
with them than to conquer with the others, not deeming that a real
victory which is gained with the arms of others.

I shall never hesitate to cite Cesare Borgia and his actions. This duke
entered the Romagna with auxiliaries, taking there only French soldiers,
and with them he captured Imola and Forli; but afterwards, such forces
not appearing to him reliable, he turned to mercenaries, discerning less
danger in them, and enlisted the Orsini and Vitelli; whom presently,
on handling and finding them doubtful, unfaithful, and dangerous, he
destroyed and turned to his own men. And the difference between one
and the other of these forces can easily be seen when one considers
the difference there was in the reputation of the duke, when he had the
French, when he had the Orsini and Vitelli, and when he relied on his
own soldiers, on whose fidelity he could always count and found it ever
increasing; he was never esteemed more highly than when every one saw
that he was complete master of his own forces.

I was not intending to go beyond Italian and recent examples, but I am
unwilling to leave out Hiero, the Syracusan, he being one of those I
have named above. This man, as I have said, made head of the army by the
Syracusans, soon found out that a mercenary soldiery, constituted like
our Italian condottieri, was of no use; and it appearing to him that he
could neither keep them not let them go, he had them all cut to pieces,
and afterwards made war with his own forces and not with aliens.

I wish also to recall to memory an instance from the Old Testament
applicable to this subject. David offered himself to Saul to fight with
Goliath, the Philistine champion, and, to give him courage, Saul armed
him with his own weapons; which David rejected as soon as he had them
on his back, saying he could make no use of them, and that he wished to
meet the enemy with his sling and his knife. In conclusion, the arms of
others either fall from your back, or they weigh you down, or they bind
you fast.

Charles the Seventh,(*) the father of King Louis the Eleventh,(+) having
by good fortune and valour liberated France from the English, recognized
the necessity of being armed with forces of his own, and he established
in his kingdom ordinances concerning men-at-arms and infantry.
Afterwards his son, King Louis, abolished the infantry and began to
enlist the Switzers, which mistake, followed by others, is, as is now
seen, a source of peril to that kingdom; because, having raised the
reputation of the Switzers, he has entirely diminished the value of
his own arms, for he has destroyed the infantry altogether; and his
men-at-arms he has subordinated to others, for, being as they are so
accustomed to fight along with Switzers, it does not appear that they
can now conquer without them. Hence it arises that the French cannot
stand against the Switzers, and without the Switzers they do not come
off well against others. The armies of the French have thus become
mixed, partly mercenary and partly national, both of which arms together
are much better than mercenaries alone or auxiliaries alone, but much
inferior to one's own forces. And this example proves it, for the
kingdom of France would be unconquerable if the ordinance of Charles had
been enlarged or maintained.

But the scanty wisdom of man, on entering into an affair which looks
well at first, cannot discern the poison that is hidden in it, as I have
said above of hectic fevers. Therefore, if he who rules a principality
cannot recognize evils until they are upon him, he is not truly wise;
and this insight is given to few. And if the first disaster to the Roman
Empire(*) should be examined, it will be found to have commenced only
with the enlisting of the Goths; because from that time the vigour of
the Roman Empire began to decline, and all that valour which had raised
it passed away to others.

     (*) ""Many speakers to the House the other night in the
     debate on the reduction of armaments seemed to show a most
     lamentable ignorance of the conditions under which the
     British Empire maintains its existence. When Mr Balfour
     replied to the allegations that the Roman Empire sank under
     the weight of its military obligations, he said that this
     was 'wholly unhistorical.' He might well have added that the
     Roman power was at its zenith when every citizen
     acknowledged his liability to fight for the State, but that
     it began to decline as soon as this obligation was no longer
     recognized.""--Pall Mall Gazette, 15th May 1906.

I conclude, therefore, that no principality is secure without having its
own forces; on the contrary, it is entirely dependent on good fortune,
not having the valour which in adversity would defend it. And it has
always been the opinion and judgment of wise men that nothing can be so
uncertain or unstable as fame or power not founded on its own strength.
And one's own forces are those which are composed either of subjects,
citizens, or dependents; all others are mercenaries or auxiliaries. And
the way to make ready one's own forces will be easily found if the rules
suggested by me shall be reflected upon, and if one will consider
how Philip, the father of Alexander the Great, and many republics and
princes have armed and organized themselves, to which rules I entirely
commit myself.



","Auxiliaries are troops sent by another ruler to help you. Just as with mercenaries, if they lose, you are ruined, and if they win, you are in their power. Auxiliaries come to you as a united body trained to obey others. Mercenaries are less dangerous, because they are not united behind their leaders. A wise prince would rather lose his own troops than win with someone else's, because a victory with borrowed troops is not really a victory. A principality that does not have its own army is not really secure, because it depends on fortune, not its own strength. Nothing is weaker than a reputation for power that is not based on your own strength."
19,"

Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her
mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by
her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody
beyond himself, his wife, and their child.  He really pressed them,
with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no
plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she
could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his
invitation was accepted.

A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former
delight, was exactly what suited her mind.  In seasons of cheerfulness,
no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater
degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness
itself.  But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,
and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended
to do for his sisters.  To take three thousand pounds from the fortune
of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most
dreadful degree.  She begged him to think again on the subject.  How
could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too,
of so large a sum?  And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,
who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no
relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount.  It
was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist
between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he
to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his
money to his half sisters?

""It was my father's last request to me,"" replied her husband, ""that I
should assist his widow and daughters.""

""He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he
was light-headed at the time.  Had he been in his right senses, he
could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half
your fortune from your own child.""

""He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only
requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their
situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do.  Perhaps it
would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself.  He could
hardly suppose I should neglect them.  But as he required the promise,
I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.
The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.  Something
must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new
home.""

""Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need
not be three thousand pounds.  Consider,"" she added, ""that when the
money is once parted with, it never can return.  Your sisters will
marry, and it will be gone for ever.  If, indeed, it could be restored
to our poor little boy--""

""Why, to be sure,"" said her husband, very gravely, ""that would make
great difference.  The time may come when Harry will regret that so
large a sum was parted with.  If he should have a numerous family, for
instance, it would be a very convenient addition.""

""To be sure it would.""

""Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were
diminished one half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious
increase to their fortunes!""

""Oh! beyond anything great!  What brother on earth would do half so
much for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters!  And as it is--only
half blood!--But you have such a generous spirit!""

""I would not wish to do any thing mean,"" he replied.  ""One had rather,
on such occasions, do too much than too little.  No one, at least, can
think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly
expect more.""

""There is no knowing what THEY may expect,"" said the lady, ""but we are
not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can
afford to do.""

""Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds
a-piece.  As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have
about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable
fortune for any young woman.""

""To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no
addition at all.  They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst
them.  If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do
not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten
thousand pounds.""

""That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the
whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother
while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I
mean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.""

His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this
plan.

""To be sure,"" said she, ""it is better than parting with fifteen hundred
pounds at once.  But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years
we shall be completely taken in.""

""Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that
purchase.""

""Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when
there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,
and hardly forty.  An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over
and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it.  You are not
aware of what you are doing.  I have known a great deal of the trouble
of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to
old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how
disagreeable she found it.  Twice every year these annuities were to be
paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then
one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be
no such thing.  My mother was quite sick of it.  Her income was not her
own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more
unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever.  It
has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would
not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world.""

""It is certainly an unpleasant thing,"" replied Mr. Dashwood, ""to have
those kind of yearly drains on one's income.  One's fortune, as your
mother justly says, is NOT one's own.  To be tied down to the regular
payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it
takes away one's independence.""

""Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it.  They think
themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
no gratitude at all.  If I were you, whatever I did should be done at
my own discretion entirely.  I would not bind myself to allow them any
thing yearly.  It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a
hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.""

""I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should
be no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will
be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they
would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger
income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the
year.  It will certainly be much the best way.  A present of fifty
pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for
money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father.""

""To be sure it will.  Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within
myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at
all.  The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might
be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a
comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,
and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they
are in season.  I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed,
it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did.  Do but consider,
my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law
and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,
besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which
brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will
pay their mother for their board out of it.  Altogether, they will have
five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want
for more than that?--They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will
be nothing at all.  They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly
any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of
any kind!  Only conceive how comfortable they will be!  Five hundred a
year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as
to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it.  They will
be much more able to give YOU something.""

""Upon my word,"" said Mr. Dashwood, ""I believe you are perfectly right.
My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than
what you say.  I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil
my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you
have described.  When my mother removes into another house my services
shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can.  Some little
present of furniture too may be acceptable then.""

""Certainly,"" returned Mrs. John Dashwood.  ""But, however, ONE thing
must be considered.  When your father and mother moved to Norland,
though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and
linen was saved, and is now left to your mother.  Her house will
therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.""

""That is a material consideration undoubtedly.  A valuable legacy
indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant
addition to our own stock here.""

""Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what
belongs to this house.  A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for
any place THEY can ever afford to live in.  But, however, so it is.
Your father thought only of THEM.  And I must say this: that you owe no
particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very
well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the
world to THEM.""

This argument was irresistible.  It gave to his intentions whatever of
decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the
widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as
his own wife pointed out.


","Mrs. John Dashwood immediately takes over as mistress of the estate, as Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters become visitors in their former home. Mrs. John Dashwood also questions the extent of her husband's generosity; she advises her husband not to give too much lest it diminish the future inheritance of their son. She talks him down from a gift of a thousand pounds apiece, to occasionally giving them help, of a non-financial sort. Fanny reasons that they will have no expenses and more than enough money; she figures that the four of them will be better off on their five hundred pounds a year than herself and her husband, although they have many thousands at their disposal. So, John resolves to only do nice things for them on occasion, and forget any ideas of giving them money at all."
20,"

""What a pity it is, Elinor,"" said Marianne, ""that Edward should have no
taste for drawing.""

""No taste for drawing!"" replied Elinor, ""why should you think so? He
does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means
deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of
improving it.  Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he
would have drawn very well.  He distrusts his own judgment in such
matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any
picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which
in general direct him perfectly right.""

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but
the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the
drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight,
which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste.  Yet, though
smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that
blind partiality to Edward which produced it.

""I hope, Marianne,"" continued Elinor, ""you do not consider him as
deficient in general taste.  Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,
for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were your
opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.""

Marianne hardly knew what to say.  She would not wound the feelings of
her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was
impossible.  At length she replied:

""Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing
equal to your sense of his merits.  I have not had so many
opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his
inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in
the world of his goodness and sense.  I think him every thing that is
worthy and amiable.""

""I am sure,"" replied Elinor, with a smile, ""that his dearest friends
could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that.  I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more warmly.""

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.

""Of his sense and his goodness,"" continued Elinor, ""no one can, I
think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in
unreserved conversation.  The excellence of his understanding and his
principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps
him silent.  You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.
But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from
peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself.  He and I
have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been
wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother.  I
have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard
his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I
venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books
exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and
correct, and his taste delicate and pure.  His abilities in every
respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.
At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person
can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which
are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is
perceived.  At present, I know him so well, that I think him really
handsome; or at least, almost so.  What say you, Marianne?""

""I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now.  When
you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection
in his face, than I now do in his heart.""

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she
had been betrayed into, in speaking of him.  She felt that Edward stood
very high in her opinion.  She believed the regard to be mutual; but
she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of
their attachment agreeable to her.  She knew that what Marianne and her
mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them,
to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.  She tried to explain
the real state of the case to her sister.

""I do not attempt to deny,"" said she, ""that I think very highly of
him--that I greatly esteem, that I like him.""

Marianne here burst forth with indignation--

""Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh!  worse than
cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise.  Use those words again, and I
will leave the room this moment.""

Elinor could not help laughing.  ""Excuse me,"" said she; ""and be assured
that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my
own feelings.  Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;
believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the
hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.
But farther than this you must not believe.  I am by no means assured
of his regard for me.  There are moments when the extent of it seems
doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at
my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by
believing or calling it more than it is.  In my heart I feel
little--scarcely any doubt of his preference.  But there are other
points to be considered besides his inclination.  He is very far from
being independent.  What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from
Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never
been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if
Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in
his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great
fortune or high rank.""

Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother
and herself had outstripped the truth.

""And you really are not engaged to him!"" said she.  ""Yet it certainly
soon will happen.  But two advantages will proceed from this delay.  I
shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of
improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be
so indispensably necessary to your future felicity.  Oh! if he should
be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how
delightful it would be!""

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister.  She could not
consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne
had believed it.  There was, at times, a want of spirits about him
which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as
unpromising.  A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not
give him more than inquietude.  It would not be likely to produce that
dejection of mind which frequently attended him.  A more reasonable
cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the
indulgence of his affection.  She knew that his mother neither behaved
to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him
any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly
attending to her views for his aggrandizement.  With such a knowledge
as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject.  She
was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which
her mother and sister still considered as certain.  Nay, the longer
they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard;
and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more
than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived
by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was
still more common,) to make her uncivil.  She took the first
opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to
her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.
Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the
danger attending any young woman who attempted to DRAW HIM IN; that
Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to
be calm.  She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and
instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the
inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor
should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the
post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed.  It was the
offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of
her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire.  The
letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit
of friendly accommodation.  He understood that she was in need of a
dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,
he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might
think necessary, if the situation pleased her.  He earnestly pressed
her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with
her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from
whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses
were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable
to her.  He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of
his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of
giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was
suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer
connections.  She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry.  Her
resolution was formed as she read.  The situation of Barton, in a
county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours
before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every
possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first
recommendation.  To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an
evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of
the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for
ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or
visit it while such a woman was its mistress.  She instantly wrote Sir
John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance
of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her
daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her
answer were sent.

Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle
at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present
acquaintance.  On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose
her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire.  The house, too, as
described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so
uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either
point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm
to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland
beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from
sending a letter of acquiescence.


","Marianne questions Edward's taste in drawing; Elinor is perfectly content that he is not as obviously passionate about art as Marianne should hope, though she knows that this is one of Edward's failings with Marianne. Elinor says she is perfectly happy with his tastes and education, and even Marianne cannot find fault with his good nature and kind heart. Marianne says she would like Edward even more if he were to get married to Elinor; Elinor knows that her sister and mother believe that there is an attachment between herself and Edward, but does not wish to confirm it because she is not sure of feelings being exactly mutual. Elinor also admits that there is something in Edward which suggests he does not love her as much as she loves him. She believes that it might have something to do with the expectations and overbearing nature of Edward's mother, though of course Elinor cannot be sure. Fanny is especially displeased by this attraction, and comments to Mrs. Dashwood about how there are high hopes for Edward, and he must marry a woman of high birth and much wealth. Fortunately, Mrs. Dashwood then receives a letter from a relative of hers, offering her a cottage on his property very cheaply. The letter is very friendly and urges Mrs. Dashwood to come to Barton Park, his estate in Devonshire, to have a look at the nearby cottage and see if it is suitable. Since Mrs. Dashwood is ready to escape from Fanny, she accepts; Marianne and Elinor approve the proposal, though Elinor does not want to be separated from Edward."
21,"

No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself
in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she
was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till
every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with
surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped
that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great
satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.--Edward
turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise
and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,
""Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to
what part of it?"" She explained the situation. It was within four miles
northward of Exeter.

""It is but a cottage,"" she continued, ""but I hope to see many of my
friends in it.  A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends
find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will
find none in accommodating them.""

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood
to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater
affection.  Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had
made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was
unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that
point to which it principally tended.  To separate Edward and Elinor
was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs.
John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally
she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry
he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to
prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture.  He
really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very
exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his
father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-- The furniture
was all sent around by water.  It chiefly consisted of household linen,
plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's.
Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not
help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so
trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome
article of furniture.

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,
and she might have immediate possession.  No difficulty arose on either
side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her
effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she
set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the
performance of everything that interested her, was soon done.--The
horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his
death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage,
she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest
daughter.  For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her
own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor
prevailed.  HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to
three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from
amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,
to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady
Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going
directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she
relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to
feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.
Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by
the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her
removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed
under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.  Now was the
time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular
propriety be fulfilled.  Since he had neglected to do it on first
coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as
the most suitable period for its accomplishment.  But Mrs. Dashwood
began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced,
from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended
no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland.  He so
frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of
the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in
the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to
stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving
money away.

In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's
first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future
abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their
journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so
much beloved.  ""Dear, dear Norland!"" said Marianne, as she wandered
alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; ""when
shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere!--Oh!
happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this
spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!--And you, ye
well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.--No leaf will decay
because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we
can observe you no longer!--No; you will continue the same; unconscious
of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any
change in those who walk under your shade!--But who will remain to
enjoy you?""


","Mrs. Dashwood announces that they are to leave soon, and take the cottage in Devonshire; Fanny Dashwood is pleased of course, though Edward seems surprised that they are moving so far away. Mrs. Dashwood takes pleasure in the arrangements, and sends their furniture ahead to the house; she invites Edward warmly, hoping he will come to visit them there. Mrs. Dashwood's former hopes that John Dashwood might assist them in some way come to naught; indeed, he starts to comment on the expenses of his housekeeping, indicating that his generosity only extended to keeping them at Norland for those few months."
22,"

Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came
into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their
time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such
frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little
leisure for serious employment.  Yet such was the case.  When Marianne
was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir
John had been previously forming, were put into execution.  The private
balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and
accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.  In every
meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and
familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly
calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the
Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of
Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,
in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her
affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment.  She only wished
that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to
suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.  But Marianne
abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve;
and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves
illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a
disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions.
Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an
illustration of their opinions.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else.  Every thing he
did, was right.  Every thing he said, was clever.  If their evenings at
the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest
of the party to get her a good hand.  If dancing formed the amusement
of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to
separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and
scarcely spoke a word to any body else.  Such conduct made them of
course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and
seemed hardly to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left
her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them.  To her
it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and
ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne.  Her heart was devoted to
Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with
her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it
possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her
present home.

Elinor's happiness was not so great.  Her heart was not so much at
ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure.  They afforded
her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,
nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than
ever.  Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the
conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker,
and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a
large share of her discourse.  She had already repeated her own history
to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to
her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their
acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and
what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died.  Lady Middleton
was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.  Elinor
needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere
calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.  Towards her
husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was
therefore neither to be looked for nor desired.  She had nothing to say
one day that she had not said the day before.  Her insipidity was
invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she
did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every
thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her,
she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might
have experienced in sitting at home;--and so little did her presence
add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation,
that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her
solicitude about her troublesome boys.

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find
a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite
the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.
Willoughby was out of the question.  Her admiration and regard, even
her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his
attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might
have been more generally pleasing.  Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for
himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in
conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the
indifference of her sister.

Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect
that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.
This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from
him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by
mutual consent, while the others were dancing.  His eyes were fixed on
Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint
smile, ""Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second
attachments.""

""No,"" replied Elinor, ""her opinions are all romantic.""

""Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.""

""I believe she does.  But how she contrives it without reflecting on
the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not.
A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of
common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define
and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.""

""This will probably be the case,"" he replied; ""and yet there is
something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is
sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.""

""I cannot agree with you there,"" said Elinor.  ""There are
inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the
charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.  Her
systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at
nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward
to as her greatest possible advantage.""

After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,--

""Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a
second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body?  Are those
who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the
inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be
equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?""

""Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.
I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second
attachment's being pardonable.""

""This,"" said he, ""cannot hold; but a change, a total change of
sentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements
of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they
succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous!  I
speak from experience.  I once knew a lady who in temper and mind
greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who
from an inforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances""--
Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,
and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not
otherwise have entered Elinor's head.  The lady would probably have
passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what
concerned her ought not to escape his lips.  As it was, it required but
a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender
recollection of past regard.  Elinor attempted no more.  But Marianne,
in her place, would not have done so little.  The whole story would
have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing
established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.


","Soon Mrs. Dashwood and the girls are busied with more engagements in the neighborhood than they could have expected. In all social engagements to which the Dashwoods are invited, Willoughby is invited as well; his attachment to Marianne continues to grow, though Elinor believes that they should be more restrained in showing their mutual regard publicly. Marianne is very happy in her relationship with Willoughby, and forgets her homesickness for Norland at last; Elinor is not nearly so content, since she misses Edward's company, and has found none better at Barton. Colonel Brandon is agreeable to her though, and they soon become friends."
23,"

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 party is supposed to go on a picnic to the estate of Colonel Brandon's brother-in-law, but they end up not going at all because Colonel Brandon gets a distressing letter that morning, and is forced to leave to attend to related business. They all try and persuade him to come to the picnic, and then go to town, but apparently the matter is so urgent that he must leave right then to attend to it. Mrs. Jennings figures that it must have something to do with Miss Williams, who is Colonel Brandon's daughter, she says. The party are very disappointed, but decide to go on a drive, and then have a dance that evening to entertain themselves. Willoughby and Marianne share a carriage, and soon outpace the others and are gone until the evening. Mrs. Jennings finds out that they visited Allenham, the estate of Willoughby's aunt; Elinor is surprised that Marianne would go there, since she has no acquaintance with Willoughby's aunt at all. Elinor advises Marianne that her conduct was improper, which Marianne completely denies. Marianne and Willoughby are acting increasingly more like a couple soon to be married, and Marianne seems far too confident that she and Willoughby are to be together."
24,"

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.


","Mrs. Jennings continues to ponder over what exactly drew Colonel Brandon away so suddenly. She believes it must be regarding money, since the Colonel is not so well-off that he might have troubles with money. What Elinor is most alarmed at, however, is how Marianne and Willoughby are refraining from comment on the reason Colonel Brandon went away. This silence seems very unlike either of them, and forebodes some involvement in this affair, probably on Willoughby's part. Willoughby is becoming an even more attentive guest at the cottage, spending a great deal more time there than Allenham with his aunt. He professes to being so happy there that he would duplicate the cottage exactly, since it is a reminder of the happy times he has had there. Willoughby also openly confesses his affections for Marianne and for all of them, and asks that they remain unchanged always, and always think of him as fondly as he does of them. Willoughby's statements seem sincere and heartfelt, and do declare a real fondness for Marianne, her family, and Barton."
25,"

Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.  She
would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next
morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than
when she lay down in it.  But the feelings which made such composure a
disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.  She was awake the
whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.  She got up with a
headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all
attempt at consolation from either.  Her sensibility was potent enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment
and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.  She played
over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at
the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out
for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be
gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.  She spent
whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice
often totally suspended by her tears.  In books too, as well as in
music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and
present was certain of giving.  She read nothing but what they had been
used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it
sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,
to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,
still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy.  But Mrs.
Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at
least satisfied herself.

""Remember, Elinor,"" said she, ""how very often Sir John fetches our
letters himself from the post, and carries them to it.  We have already
agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it
could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through
Sir John's hands.""

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a
motive sufficient for their silence.  But there was one method so
direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real
state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she
could not help suggesting it to her mother.

""Why do you not ask Marianne at once,"" said she, ""whether she is or she
is not engaged to Willoughby?  From you, her mother, and so kind, so
indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.  It would be
the natural result of your affection for her.  She used to be all
unreserve, and to you more especially.""

""I would not ask such a question for the world.  Supposing it possible
that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
inflict!  At any rate it would be most ungenerous.  I should never
deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of
what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.  I know
Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not
be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make
the revealment of it eligible.  I would not attempt to force the
confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty
would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct.""

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's
youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic
delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were
not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;--but
one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of
Shakespeare, exclaimed,

""We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away
before we could get through it.  We will put it by, that when he comes
again...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens.""

""Months!"" cried Marianne, with strong surprise.  ""No--nor many weeks.""

Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of
confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was
prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of
wandering away by herself.  Hitherto she had carefully avoided every
companion in her rambles.  If her sisters intended to walk on the
downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the
valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be
found when the others set off.  But at length she was secured by the
exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,
for Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with
gaining one point, would not then attempt more.  Beyond the entrance of
the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and
more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first
coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they
stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the
distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had
never happened to reach in any of their walks before.

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;
it was a man on horseback riding towards them.  In a few minutes they
could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards
Marianne rapturously exclaimed,

""It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is!""--and was hastening to meet
him, when Elinor cried out,

""Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken.  It is not Willoughby.
The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air.""

""He has, he has,"" cried Marianne, ""I am sure he has.  His air, his
coat, his horse.  I knew how soon he would come.""

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from
particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,
quickened her pace and kept up with her.  They were soon within thirty
yards of the gentleman.  Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within
her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices
of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well
known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she
turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be
forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a
smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her
sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with
them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by
Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than
even Elinor herself.  To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward
and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness
which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.  On
Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a
lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.  He was confused,
seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither
rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by
questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.  Marianne
saw and listened with increasing surprise.  She began almost to feel a
dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by
carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a
contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries
of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.  No,
he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

""A fortnight!"" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same
county with Elinor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with
some friends near Plymouth.

""Have you been lately in Sussex?"" said Elinor.

""I was at Norland about a month ago.""

""And how does dear, dear Norland look?"" cried Marianne.

""Dear, dear Norland,"" said Elinor, ""probably looks much as it always
does at this time of the year.  The woods and walks thickly covered
with dead leaves.""

""Oh,"" cried Marianne, ""with what transporting sensation have I formerly
seen them fall!  How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven
in showers about me by the wind!  What feelings have they, the season,
the air altogether inspired!  Now there is no one to regard them.  They
are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as
possible from the sight.""

""It is not every one,"" said Elinor, ""who has your passion for dead
leaves.""

""No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood.  But
SOMETIMES they are.""--As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a
few moments;--but rousing herself again, ""Now, Edward,"" said she,
calling his attention to the prospect, ""here is Barton valley.  Look up
to it, and be tranquil if you can.  Look at those hills!  Did you ever
see their equals?  To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and
plantations.  You may see the end of the house.  And there, beneath
that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.""

""It is a beautiful country,"" he replied; ""but these bottoms must be
dirty in winter.""

""How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?""

""Because,"" replied he, smiling, ""among the rest of the objects before
me, I see a very dirty lane.""

""How strange!"" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.

""Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here?  Are the Middletons pleasant
people?""

""No, not all,"" answered Marianne; ""we could not be more unfortunately
situated.""

""Marianne,"" cried her sister, ""how can you say so? How can you be so
unjust?  They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards
us have behaved in the friendliest manner.  Have you forgot, Marianne,
how many pleasant days we have owed to them?""

""No,"" said Marianne, in a low voice, ""nor how many painful moments.""

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their
visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by
talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting
from him occasional questions and remarks.  His coldness and reserve
mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to
regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she
avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him
as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.


","Marianne is up crying the whole of that night, and is absolutely inconsolable and overly dramatic in her grief. Days pass, and there is no work from Willoughby; Elinor grows anxious, and asks her mother to inquire of Marianne whether or not they are or were engaged. Her mother refuses to discuss this with Marianne, and so Elinor is left to wonder at the state of Marianne and Willoughby's attachment. Marianne is persuaded to go on a walk with Elinor, and on their way back a man rides toward them; Marianne is persuaded that it must be Willoughby, and is let down when it is Edward Ferrars instead. However, she is happy for her sister that he is there, though his formality with Elinor she believes to be unsuitable for a lover."
26,"

Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his
coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.  He received
the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not
stand against such a reception.  They had begun to fail him before he
entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating
manners of Mrs. Dashwood.  Indeed a man could not very well be in love
with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and
Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like
himself.  His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his
interest in their welfare again became perceptible.  He was not in
spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was
attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.  The whole family
perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of
liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all
selfish parents.

""What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?"" said she,
when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; ""are you still
to be a great orator in spite of yourself?""

""No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
inclination for a public life!""

""But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no
affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find
it a difficult matter.""

""I shall not attempt it.  I have no wish to be distinguished; and have
every reason to hope I never shall.  Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced
into genius and eloquence.""

""You have no ambition, I well know.  Your wishes are all moderate.""

""As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe.  I wish as
well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body
else it must be in my own way.  Greatness will not make me so.""

""Strange that it would!"" cried Marianne.  ""What have wealth or grandeur
to do with happiness?""

""Grandeur has but little,"" said Elinor, ""but wealth has much to do with
it.""

""Elinor, for shame!"" said Marianne, ""money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it.  Beyond a competence, it can
afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned.""

""Perhaps,"" said Elinor, smiling, ""we may come to the same point.  YOUR
competence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without
them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of
external comfort must be wanting.  Your ideas are only more noble than
mine.  Come, what is your competence?""

""About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than THAT.""

Elinor laughed.  ""TWO thousand a year! ONE is my wealth! I guessed how
it would end.""

""And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,"" said Marianne.
""A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller.  I am sure I am not
extravagant in my demands.  A proper establishment of servants, a
carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less.""

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their
future expenses at Combe Magna.

""Hunters!"" repeated Edward--""but why must you have hunters?  Every body
does not hunt.""

Marianne coloured as she replied, ""But most people do.""

""I wish,"" said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, ""that somebody
would give us all a large fortune apiece!""

""Oh that they would!"" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
happiness.

""We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,"" said Elinor, ""in spite
of the insufficiency of wealth.""

""Oh dear!"" cried Margaret, ""how happy I should be!  I wonder what I
should do with it!""

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.

""I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,"" said Mrs.
Dashwood, ""if my children were all to be rich without my help.""

""You must begin your improvements on this house,"" observed Elinor, ""and
your difficulties will soon vanish.""

""What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,"" said
Edward, ""in such an event!  What a happy day for booksellers,
music-sellers, and print-shops!  You, Miss Dashwood, would give a
general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as
for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
enough in London to content her.  And books!--Thomson, Cowper,
Scott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up
every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;
and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old
twisted tree.  Should not you, Marianne?  Forgive me, if I am very
saucy.  But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old
disputes.""

""I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy or
gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking of
former times.  You are very right in supposing how my money would be
spent--some of it, at least--my loose cash would certainly be employed
in improving my collection of music and books.""

""And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs.""

""No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.""

""Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever
be in love more than once in their life--your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?""

""Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.  It is
not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.""

""Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,"" said Elinor, ""she is not
at all altered.""

""She is only grown a little more grave than she was.""

""Nay, Edward,"" said Marianne, ""you need not reproach me.  You are not
very gay yourself.""

""Why should you think so!"" replied he, with a sigh.  ""But gaiety never
was a part of MY character.""

""Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's,"" said Elinor; ""I should hardly
call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all she
does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but she
is not often really merry.""

""I believe you are right,"" he replied, ""and yet I have always set her
down as a lively girl.""

""I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,"" said
Elinor, ""in a total misapprehension of character in some point or
other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or
stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the
deception originated.  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,
without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.""

""But I thought it was right, Elinor,"" said Marianne, ""to be guided
wholly by the opinion of other people.  I thought our judgments were
given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.  This has
always been your doctrine, I am sure.""

""No, Marianne, never.  My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
the understanding.  All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
behaviour.  You must not confound my meaning.  I am guilty, I confess,
of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with
greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their
sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?""

""You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of
general civility,"" said Edward to Elinor.  ""Do you gain no ground?""

""Quite the contrary,"" replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.

""My judgment,"" he returned, ""is all on your side of the question; but I
am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.  I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I
am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.  I have frequently thought
that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I
am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!""

""Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,"" said
Elinor.

""She knows her own worth too well for false shame,"" replied Edward.
""Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
other.  If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy
and graceful, I should not be shy.""

""But you would still be reserved,"" said Marianne, ""and that is worse.""

Edward started--""Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?""

""Yes, very.""

""I do not understand you,"" replied he, colouring.  ""Reserved!--how, in
what manner?  What am I to tell you?  What can you suppose?""

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
subject, she said to him, ""Do not you know my sister well enough to
understand what she means?  Do not you know she calls every one
reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as
rapturously as herself?""

Edward made no answer.  His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
in their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.


","Mrs. Dashwood is happy to see that Edward has come, and welcomes him very warmly as their guest. He becomes more easy and less reserved around them, though it is obvious to them that he is in poor spirits for some reason. Mrs. Dashwood believes this is because his mother has put pressure on him to take up a profession and distinguish himself; Edward says he has no desire to live anything but a quiet, private life, though his mother will not accept this. Small talk follows, about money and character and judging people; then, Marianne remarks that Edward is reserved, and this brings back the dejection they noticed in him earlier in the day."
27,"

Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.  His
visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own
enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect.  It was evident that he was
unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished
her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of
inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very
uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted
one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning
before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to
promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to
themselves.  But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour
door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself
come out.

""I am going into the village to see my horses,"" said he, ""as you are
not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.""

                    ***

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding
country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the
valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation
than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had
exceedingly pleased him.  This was a subject which ensured Marianne's
attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of
these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had
particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, ""You
must not enquire too far, Marianne--remember I have no knowledge in the
picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste
if we come to particulars.  I shall call hills steep, which ought to be
bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and
rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be
indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.  You must be
satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give.  I call it a
very fine country--the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine
timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug--with rich meadows
and several neat farm houses scattered here and there.  It exactly
answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with
utility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire
it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey
moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.  I know nothing of
the picturesque.""

""I am afraid it is but too true,"" said Marianne; ""but why should you
boast of it?""

""I suspect,"" said Elinor, ""that to avoid one kind of affectation,
Edward here falls into another.  Because he believes many people
pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really
feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater
indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he
possesses.  He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own.""

""It is very true,"" said Marianne, ""that admiration of landscape scenery
is become a mere jargon.  Every body pretends to feel and tries to
describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what
picturesque beauty was.  I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I
have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to
describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and
meaning.""

""I am convinced,"" said Edward, ""that you really feel all the delight in
a fine prospect which you profess to feel.  But, in return, your sister
must allow me to feel no more than I profess.  I like a fine prospect,
but not on picturesque principles.  I do not like crooked, twisted,
blasted trees.  I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and
flourishing.  I do not like ruined, tattered cottages.  I am not fond
of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms.  I have more pleasure in a
snug farm-house than a watch-tower--and a troop of tidy, happy villages
please me better than the finest banditti in the world.""

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her
sister.  Elinor only laughed.

The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained
thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.
She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,
his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait
of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.

""I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,"" she cried.  ""Is that
Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some.  But I should
have thought her hair had been darker.""

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt--but when she saw
how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought
could not be surpassed by his.  He coloured very deeply, and giving a
momentary glance at Elinor, replied, ""Yes; it is my sister's hair.  The
setting always casts a different shade on it, you know.""

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise.  That the hair
was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;
the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne
considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must
have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.
She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and
affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of
something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every
opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all
doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.

Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of
mind still more settled.  He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own
forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little
offence it had given her sister.

Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the
cottage, came to take a survey of the guest.  With the assistance of
his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name
of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery
against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their
acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately
sprung.  But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant
looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions,
extended.

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to
dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.
On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor,
towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished
to engage them for both.

""You MUST drink tea with us to night,"" said he, ""for we shall be quite
alone--and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a
large party.""

Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity.  ""And who knows but you may raise
a dance,"" said she.  ""And that will tempt YOU, Miss Marianne.""

""A dance!"" cried Marianne.  ""Impossible! Who is to dance?""

""Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.--What!
you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be
nameless is gone!""

""I wish with all my soul,"" cried Sir John, ""that Willoughby were among
us again.""

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.  ""And who
is Willoughby?"" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he
was sitting.

She gave him a brief reply.  Marianne's countenance was more
communicative.  Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning
of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him
before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round
her, and said, in a whisper, ""I have been guessing.  Shall I tell you
my guess?""

""What do you mean?""

""Shall I tell you.""

""Certainly.""

""Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.""

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at
the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,

""Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope...I am sure
you will like him.""

""I do not doubt it,"" replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness
and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her
acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing
between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to
mention it.


","It is painful to Elinor that Edward is so obviously unhappy, and doesn't show the same affection for her he once did; she is confused by his mixed signals and alternation of happy and dejected spirits. They discuss the countryside, which Edward admires, but cannot appreciate as Marianne does, with such romantic conviction. Then, Marianne notices a ring Edward is wearing, with a lock of hair in it; she asks if it is the hair of Edward's sister, making him blush. Marianne and Elinor see that the hair looks exactly like Elinor's, but Elinor is puzzled since she never gave him any of her hair. Mrs. Jennings and Sir John come by to meet Edward, and decide that he must be the Mr. F. that Margaret hinted about. They are invited for tea and dinner at Barton Park, and of course accept the invitations. Sir John mentions Willoughby, and Edward manages to find out that Marianne likes him, although there is little discussion of him."
28,"

In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.

""I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,
if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its
subject.  I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again.""

""Thank you,"" cried Lucy warmly, ""for breaking the ice; you have set my
heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended
you by what I told you that Monday.""

""Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,"" and Elinor spoke
it with the truest sincerity, ""nothing could be farther from my
intention than to give you such an idea.  Could you have a motive for
the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?""

""And yet I do assure you,"" replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of
meaning, ""there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your
manner that made me quite uncomfortable.  I felt sure that you was
angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for
having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs.  But I am
very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not
blame me.  If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my
heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of
my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am
sure.""

""Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,
to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall
never have reason to repent it.  Your case is a very unfortunate one;
you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have
need of all your mutual affection to support you under them.  Mr.
Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother.""

""He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to
marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect
of more without a sigh.  I have been always used to a very small
income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too
well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his
mother might give him if he married to please her.  We must wait, it
may be for many years.  With almost every other man in the world, it
would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy
nothing can deprive me of I know.""

""That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly
supported by the same trust in your's.  If the strength of your
reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under
many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement,
your situation would have been pitiable, indeed.""

Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance
from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.

""Edward's love for me,"" said Lucy, ""has been pretty well put to the
test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and
it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt
it now.  I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm
on that account from the first.""

Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.

Lucy went on.  ""I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from
our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the
world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for
suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been
the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any
lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked
more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at
Longstaple than he used to be.  I do not mean to say that I am
particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case
I am sure I could not be deceived.""

""All this,"" thought Elinor, ""is very pretty; but it can impose upon
neither of us.""

""But what,"" said she after a short silence, ""are your views? or have
you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a
melancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to
this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which
it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a
while by owning the truth?""

""If we could be certain that it would be only for a while!  But Mrs.
Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger
upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and
the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination
for hasty measures.""

""And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness
beyond reason.""

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

""Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?"" asked Elinor.

""Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
brother--silly and a great coxcomb.""

""A great coxcomb!"" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those
words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.-- ""Oh, they are talking of
their favourite beaux, I dare say.""

""No sister,"" cried Lucy, ""you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux
are NOT great coxcombs.""

""I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not,"" said Mrs. Jennings,
laughing heartily; ""for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved
young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little
creature, there is no finding out who SHE likes.""

""Oh,"" cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, ""I dare
say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss
Dashwood's.""

Elinor blushed in spite of herself.  Lucy bit her lip, and looked
angrily at her sister.  A mutual silence took place for some time.
Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne
was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent
concerto--

""I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my
head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into
the secret, for you are a party concerned.  I dare say you have seen
enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other
profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he
can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind
enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard
to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living;
which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not
likely to live a great while.  That would be enough for us to marry
upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.""

""I should always be happy,"" replied Elinor, ""to show any mark of my
esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my
interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary?  He is
brother to Mrs. John Dashwood--THAT must be recommendation enough to
her husband.""

""But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into
orders.""

""Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little.""

They were again silent for many minutes.  At length Lucy exclaimed with
a deep sigh,

""I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at
once by dissolving the engagement.  We seem so beset with difficulties
on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we
should be happier perhaps in the end.  But you will not give me your
advice, Miss Dashwood?""

""No,"" answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
feelings, ""on such a subject I certainly will not.  You know very well
that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the
side of your wishes.""

""Indeed you wrong me,"" replied Lucy, with great solemnity; ""I know
nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do
really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all
means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be
more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it
immediately.""

Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and
replied, ""This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any
opinion on the subject had I formed one.  It raises my influence much
too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too
much for an indifferent person.""

""'Tis because you are an indifferent person,"" said Lucy, with some
pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, ""that your
judgment might justly have such weight with me.  If you could be
supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion
would not be worth having.""

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might
provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and
was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.  Another
pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and
Lucy was still the first to end it.

""Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?"" said she with all
her accustomary complacency.

""Certainly not.""

""I am sorry for that,"" returned the other, while her eyes brightened at
the information, ""it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you
there!  But I dare say you will go for all that.  To be sure, your
brother and sister will ask you to come to them.""

""It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do.""

""How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.
Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who
have been wanting us to visit them these several years!  But I only go
for the sake of seeing Edward.  He will be there in February, otherwise
London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it.""

Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first
rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore
at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for
nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other
less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table
with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without
affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not
even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere
affection on HER side would have given, for self-interest alone could
induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so
thoroughly aware that he was weary.

From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when
entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it,
and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness
whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the
former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility
would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which
Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond
what the first invitation implied.  Their favour increased; they could
not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of
their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the
absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was
in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay
nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of
that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private
balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.


","Elinor broaches the subject of Lucy's engagement, on the pretense of wanting to be of more help to Lucy; Lucy admits that she is of a jealous nature, and Elinor does all that she can to get Lucy to believe that she has no designs on Edward. Elinor advises Lucy that to reveal the engagement to Edward's family might lead to his disinheritance in favor of his brother, who is rather foolish, and that to encourage Edward into the church so that they might marry would also prove unsuccessful. Lucy, frustrated, says that maybe she should call off the engagement because there are too many difficulties; Elinor says she should not advise this, though Lucy flatters Elinor as if she were a close advisor, and says whatever Elinor says she will do. Their conversation comes to an uneasy end, and though Elinor has made a good attempt to try and prove that she is not interested in Edward, it is not certain whether this has worked. The Miss Steeles end up staying at Barton Park for two months, because of Lady Middleton's favor of them. Elinor tries to avoid speaking of Edward with Lucy, since she is fully aware of Lucy's jealousy and thinks Lucy's confidences self-indulgent."
29,"

Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of
the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without
a settled habitation of her own.  Since the death of her husband, who
had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had
resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman
Square.  Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to
turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very
unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her.
Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the
animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave
a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself
to be speaking their united inclinations.  The reason alleged was their
determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the
year.  Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and
repeated her invitation immediately.

""Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg
you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon
it.  Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't
put myself at all out of my way for you.  It will only be sending Betty
by the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT.  We three shall be able to
go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like
to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my
daughters.  I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had
such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will
think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't
get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it
shall not be my fault.  I shall speak a good word for you to all the
young men, you may depend upon it.""

""I have a notion,"" said Sir John, ""that Miss Marianne would not object
to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it.  It is very
hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss
Dashwood does not wish it.  So I would advise you two, to set off for
town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss
Dashwood about it.""

""Nay,"" cried Mrs. Jennings, ""I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of
Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the
more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for
them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk
to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back.  But one or
the other, if not both of them, I must have.  Lord bless me! how do you
think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till
this winter to have Charlotte with me.  Come, Miss Marianne, let us
strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her
mind by and bye, why so much the better.""

""I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you,"" said Marianne, with warmth:
""your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give
me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,
to be able to accept it.  But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I
feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made
less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should
tempt me to leave her.  It should not, must not be a struggle.""

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare
them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw
to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her
eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct
opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's
decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any
support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not
approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had
particular reasons to avoid.  Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her
mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the
latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had
never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain
the motive of her own disinclination for going to London.  That
Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.
Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook
every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be
most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,
was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object
to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to
witness.

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such
an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her
daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to
herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of
their declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both
accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual
cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,
from this separation.

""I am delighted with the plan,"" she cried, ""it is exactly what I could
wish.  Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.
When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and
happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret
so improved when you come back again!  I have a little plan of
alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without
any inconvenience to any one.  It is very right that you SHOULD go to
town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life
acquainted with the manners and amusements of London.  You will be
under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to
you I can have no doubt.  And in all probability you will see your
brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,
when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly
estranged from each other.""

""Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,"" said Elinor, ""you
have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which
occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,
cannot be so easily removed.""

Marianne's countenance sunk.

""And what,"" said Mrs. Dashwood, ""is my dear prudent Elinor going to
suggest?  What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward?  Do let
me hear a word about the expense of it.""

""My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or
whose protection will give us consequence.""

""That is very true,"" replied her mother, ""but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing
at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady
Middleton.""

""If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,"" said
Marianne, ""at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation.  I
have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every
unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort.""

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards
the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in
persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved
within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go
likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left
to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should
be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her
domestic hours.  To this determination she was the more easily
reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was
not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any
unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.

""I will have you BOTH go,"" said Mrs. Dashwood; ""these objections are
nonsensical.  You will have much pleasure in being in London, and
especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to
anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of
sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her
acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family.""

Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her
mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the
shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this
attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin
her design by saying, as calmly as she could, ""I like Edward Ferrars
very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of
the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am
ever known to them or not.""

Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing.  Marianne lifted up her eyes in
astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held
her tongue.

After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the
invitation should be fully accepted.  Mrs. Jennings received the
information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness
and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her.  Sir John was
delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of
being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in
London, was something.  Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being
delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for
the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in
their lives as this intelligence made them.

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with
less reluctance than she had expected to feel.  With regard to herself,
it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and
when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her
sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all
her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she
could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow
herself to distrust the consequence.

Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the
perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone.  Her
unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;
and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.
Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of
the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of
eternal.

Their departure took place in the first week in January.  The
Middletons were to follow in about a week.  The Miss Steeles kept their
station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the
family.


","Mrs. Jennings invites Marianne and Elinor to spend the winter with her in London; Elinor isn't excited by the prospect, though Marianne wants to go for the chance of seeing Willoughby. Mrs. Dashwood urges them to go and enjoy themselves; Marianne is determined to go, and Elinor decides she must go too, because Marianne is often uncivil to Mrs. Jennings and needs Elinor's guidance and good judgment. They accept Mrs. Jennings' invitation, and leave in the first week of January."
30,"

The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.  Their estate
was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of
their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so
respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their
surrounding acquaintance.  The late owner of this estate was a single
man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his
life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister.  But her
death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great
alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received
into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal
inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to
bequeath it.  In the society of his nephew and niece, and their
children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent.  His
attachment to them all increased.  The constant attention of Mr. and
Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from
interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid
comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the
children added a relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present
lady, three daughters.  The son, a steady respectable young man, was
amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,
and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age.  By his own
marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his
wealth.  To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not
so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent
of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that
property, could be but small.  Their mother had nothing, and their
father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her
child, and he had only a life-interest in it.

The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other
will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure.  He was neither so
unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;--but
he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the
bequest.  Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife
and daughters than for himself or his son;--but to his son, and his
son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as
to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear
to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or
by any sale of its valuable woods.  The whole was tied up for the
benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and
mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by
such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three
years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his
own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh
all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received
from his niece and her daughters.  He meant not to be unkind, however,
and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a
thousand pounds a-piece.

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was
cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years,
and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce
of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate
improvement.  But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was
his only one twelvemonth.  He survived his uncle no longer; and ten
thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for
his widow and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.
Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness
could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the
family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at
such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make
them comfortable.  His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,
and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might
prudently be in his power to do for them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted
and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well
respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of
his ordinary duties.  Had he married a more amiable woman, he might
have been made still more respectable than he was:--he might even have
been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and
very fond of his wife.  But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature
of himself;--more narrow-minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to
increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand
pounds a-piece.  He then really thought himself equal to it.  The
prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,
besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his
heart, and made him feel capable of generosity.-- ""Yes, he would give
them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would
be enough to make them completely easy.  Three thousand pounds! he
could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.""-- He
thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did
not repent.

No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,
without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,
arrived with her child and their attendants.  No one could dispute her
right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his
father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the
greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common
feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;--but in HER mind there was
a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of
the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of
immovable disgust.  Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with
any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the
present, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of
other people she could act when occasion required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so
earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the
arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had
not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the
propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children
determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach
with their brother.

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed
a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified
her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and
enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,
that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led
to imprudence.  She had an excellent heart;--her disposition was
affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern
them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which
one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.

Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.
She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her
joys, could have no moderation.  She was generous, amiable,
interesting: she was everything but prudent.  The resemblance between
her and her mother was strikingly great.

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but
by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished.  They encouraged each
other now in the violence of their affliction.  The agony of grief
which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought
for, was created again and again.  They gave themselves up wholly to
their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that
could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in
future.  Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could
struggle, she could exert herself.  She could consult with her brother,
could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with
proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar
exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but
as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without
having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal
her sisters at a more advanced period of life.


","We begin with a history of the Dashwood family of Sussex, England: the head of the family, old Mr. Dashwood, dies and distributes his estate among his surviving relatives: his nephew, Henry Dashwood, and his children. The children include one son, John, from a first marriage, and three daughters, Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret, from his second. Even though John and his wife already have plenty of money, old Mr. Dashwood bequeaths the family estate, Norland, to the couple's young son. However, it seems that everything will be fine for Henry and his family, since they receive a good share of the fortune. Tragically, this arrangement doesn't last long - Henry Dashwood dies, and his estate, including the money he'd recently inherited from his uncle, is re-distributed amongst his wife and children. John and his wife step in here to take control of Norland. Though his father urged him to take care of his stepmother and half-sisters, John's greedy wife convinces him to give the women as little financial help as possible. Basically, John Dashwood and his wife move right in to Norland after the funeral, and give Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters no choice but to leave their home and find a new one. Mrs. Dashwood, who, it must be said, is something of a flighty lady, wants to storm off right away, but her sensible eldest daughter, Elinor, convinces her to stay until they can figure out a new situation. The middle daughter, Marianne, is just as clever as her older sister, but she's far more emotional - no degree of cleverness can keep her romantic notions in check. About the youngest girl, Margaret, not much as said - she's as emotional as Mrs. Dashwood and Marianne, but nowhere near as smart."
31,"

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!""


","Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters remain at Norland for a number of months while they're trying to figure out what to do. She's convinced that John means well, but grows increasingly unhappy about Fanny. However, mother and daughter-in-law continue to coexist in relative peace for a single, pressing reason - Mrs. Dashwood doesn't want to move away just yet. It turns out that Elinor is in love with Fanny's brother, the mild-mannered, perfectly pleasant Edward . While Edward's mother and sister want him to become a successful, important man, these worldly things aren't so important to him - rather, he just wants to have a happy, quiet life. Mrs. Dashwood gets to know Edward a little better, and jumps to the conclusion that he and Elinor will be married in no time. She tells Marianne to get used to the idea. Personally, Marianne is very fond of Edward - she just doesn't really understand how her sister can be in love with someone so prosaic. She claims to only be able to love a more, well, dramatic and romantic man. Mrs. Dashwood laughs this off - after all, Marianne is only seventeen, and shouldn't despair at this early point in her life."
32,"

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.


","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."
33,"

The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,
and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day.  She sighed
for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if
any place could give her ease, Barton must do it.  Elinor was hardly
less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent
on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the
difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought
to acknowledge.  She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts
towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to
their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her
good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from
home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more
eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about
the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both
her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with
them.  This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy
of Miss Dashwood;--but it was inforced with so much real politeness by
Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his
manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy,
induced her to accept it with pleasure.

When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was
not very auspicious.

""Cleveland!""--she cried, with great agitation.  ""No, I cannot go to
Cleveland.""--

""You forget,"" said Elinor gently, ""that its situation is not...that it
is not in the neighbourhood of...""

""But it is in Somersetshire.--I cannot go into Somersetshire.--There,
where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to
go there.""

Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such
feelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on
others;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the
time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to
see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan
could do, and perhaps without any greater delay.  From Cleveland, which
was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not
beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant
might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no
occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be
at home in little more than three weeks' time.  As Marianne's affection
for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty,
over the imaginary evils she had started.

Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she
pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.
Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her
design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every
thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;--and
Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that
were yet to divide her from Barton.

""Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss
Dashwoods;""--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on
her, after their leaving her was settled--""for they are quite resolved
upon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when I
come back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two
cats.""

Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their
future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give
himself an escape from it;--and if so, she had soon afterwards good
reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the
window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she
was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of
particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.
The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her
observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even
changed her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by
the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep
herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with
agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her
employment.-- Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the
interval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words
of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be
apologising for the badness of his house.  This set the matter beyond a
doubt.  She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so;
but supposed it to be the proper etiquette.  What Elinor said in reply
she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that
she did not think THAT any material objection;--and Mrs. Jennings
commended her in her heart for being so honest.  They then talked on
for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another
lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the
Colonel's calm voice,--

""I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.""

Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost
ready to cry out, ""Lord! what should hinder it?""--but checking her
desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.

""This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older.""

This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or
mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the
conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings
very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to
feel what she said,

""I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.""

Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that
after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave
of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away
without making her any reply!--She had not thought her old friend could
have made so indifferent a suitor.

What had really passed between them was to this effect.

""I have heard,"" said he, with great compassion, ""of the injustice your
friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand
the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering
in his engagement with a very deserving young woman.-- Have I been
rightly informed?--Is it so?--""

Elinor told him that it was.

""The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,""--he replied, with great
feeling,--""of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long
attached to each other, is terrible.-- Mrs. Ferrars does not know what
she may be doing--what she may drive her son to.  I have seen Mr.
Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with
him.  He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted
in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his
own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more.  I understand
that he intends to take orders.  Will you be so good as to tell him
that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this
day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but THAT,
perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be
nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more  valuable.-- It
is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not
make more than 200 L per annum, and though it is certainly capable of
improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very
comfortable income.  Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting
it to him, will be very great.  Pray assure him of it.""

Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been
greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.
The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as
hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and
SHE, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her
emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different
cause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might
have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence,
and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together
prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly
expressed.  She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of
Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew
them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with
pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office
to another.  But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no
one could so well perform it as himself.  It was an office in short,
from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an
obligation from HER, she would have been very glad to be spared
herself;-- but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining
it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her
means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition.
Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard
his address from Miss Steele.  She could undertake therefore to inform
him of it, in the course of the day.  After this had been settled,
Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so
respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and THEN it was that he
mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent;--an
evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very
light of, at least as far as regarded its size.

""The smallness of the house,"" said she, ""I cannot imagine any
inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and
income.""

By which the Colonel was surprised to find that SHE was considering Mr.
Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for
he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such
an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle
on--and he said so.

""This little rectory CAN do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable
as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry.  I am sorry to say that
my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive.
If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve
him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do,
if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I
could be at present.  What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all,
since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal,
his only object of happiness.  His marriage must still be a distant
good;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.--""

Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the
delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what
really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at
the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may
perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less
properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.


","Both Elinor and Marianne are anxious to leave London and go home to Barton. They're invited to go visit the Palmers at Cleveland with Mrs. Jennings, and Elinor accepts, thinking that it'll be better than staying in town. Marianne, however, is of a different opinion - remember, Cleveland isn't too far away from Willoughby's home. However, practicality wins out - since Cleveland is on the way home to Barton, they might as well stop there for a little while. Mrs. Jennings urges the girls to return with her to London after the Cleveland visit, but they insist that they must go home afterwards. Colonel Brandon stops by to visit after their plan is settled, and Mrs. Jennings sighs, asking him what they shall do once Elinor and Marianne have gone back to Barton. Elinor and Colonel Brandon go aside to speak in private, and Mrs. Jennings is dying to know what they say - could he be proposing? She's thrilled. She assumes that the marriage is in the bag. What actually happened, however, is a very different story. Colonel Brandon is concerned about Edward and the cruel punishment inflicted on him by his mother. The Colonel has taken a liking to Edward, especially because of his friendship with the Dashwoods. He wants to offer Edward the living at Delaford, his country home. This would enable him to support himself, at least moderately. Elinor is surprised and overcome - she's incredibly grateful to the Colonel. Elinor agrees to deliver the news, saying that it will be welcome to both Edward and his bride. Colonel Brandon is surprised by this development; he's not sure that the Delaford living is enough to support Edward and a wife. It's clear that the wedding will have to be in the distant future."
34,"

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.


","Elinor muses over the fact that she actually feels kind of bad for Willoughby, despite his ill deeds. She goes to check on Marianne, who's feeling much refreshed after a long nap. Mrs. Dashwood and Colonel Brandon finally arrive just then, and her mother is totally overwhelmed by tears of relief and joy. Mother and daughters are reunited, and after a brief moment of excitement, Marianne goes back to sleep with her mother watching over her. Elinor can't stop thinking about ""poor Willoughby,"" and feels bad for judging him so harshly. She dreads telling Marianne - what will it do to her sister? Will Marianne be able to love again? Then, her thoughts turn to Colonel Brandon, and she feels kind of bad for feeling bad for Willoughby - after all, the Colonel's sufferings were much worse. Marianne gets better every day, and Mrs. Dashwood is overjoyed. Elinor asks her what she's so happy about, and she responds that the Colonel has told her that he loves Marianne. Elinor is calm, composed, and attentive - Mrs. Dashwood explains that she loves the idea of Colonel Brandon marrying one of her daughters, and Marianne would probably be happier with him. Sigh, Mrs. Dashwood... she always means so well. Apparently, Colonel Brandon spilled his guts to Mrs. Dashwood in the carriage, and admitted that he has loved Marianne from the moment he met her. Elinor realizes that her mother has embellished all of this with her own fancy touches. Mrs. Dashwood gushes about how wonderful Colonel Brandon is, and Elinor acquiesces - yes, everyone agrees that Colonel Brandon is a great guy. Colonel Brandon is cautious in his hopes; he doesn't think that Marianne will shift her allegiances to him so soon after Willoughby. Mrs. Dashwood doesn't see how her daughter will be able to resist her next suitor - after all, Mrs. Dashwood herself believes that Willoughby was worthless. As far as Mrs. Dashwood is concerned, it's a done deal. She's already planning on moving the whole family closer to Delaford. Elinor feels a little anxious - after all, she doesn't want to be too close to Edward and Lucy. Elinor goes away to think all of this over; she hopes that Colonel Brandon will succeed, but she does feel a little bad for Willoughby."
35,"

Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure.  She had only two
daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and
she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the
world.  In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as
far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting
weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance.  She was
remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the
advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by
insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of
discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to
pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne
Dashwood.  She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening
of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she
sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining
at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.
It must be so.  She was perfectly convinced of it.  It would be an
excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome.  Mrs. Jennings
had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her
connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she
was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.

The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for
it supplied her with endless jokes against them both.  At the park she
laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne.  To the former
her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,
perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first
incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew
whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,
for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's
advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.

Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than
herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of
her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of
wishing to throw ridicule on his age.

""But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,
though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured.  Colonel Brandon
is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY
father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have
long outlived every sensation of the kind.  It is too ridiculous!  When
is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not
protect him?""

""Infirmity!"" said Elinor, ""do you call Colonel Brandon infirm?  I can
easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my
mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of
his limbs!""

""Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism?  and is not that the
commonest infirmity of declining life?""

""My dearest child,"" said her mother, laughing, ""at this rate you must
be in continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle
that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.""

""Mama, you are not doing me justice.  I know very well that Colonel
Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of
losing him in the course of nature.  He may live twenty years longer.
But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.""

""Perhaps,"" said Elinor, ""thirty-five and seventeen had better not have
any thing to do with matrimony together.  But if there should by any
chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should
not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his
marrying HER.""

""A woman of seven and twenty,"" said Marianne, after pausing a moment,
""can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be
uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring
herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the
provision and security of a wife.  In his marrying such a woman
therefore there would be nothing unsuitable.  It would be a compact of
convenience, and the world would be satisfied.  In my eyes it would be
no marriage at all, but that would be nothing.  To me it would seem
only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the
expense of the other.""

""It would be impossible, I know,"" replied Elinor, ""to convince you that
a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five
anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her.
But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the
constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to
complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in
one of his shoulders.""

""But he talked of flannel waistcoats,"" said Marianne; ""and with me a
flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,
rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and
the feeble.""

""Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him
half so much.  Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to
you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?""

Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, ""Mama,"" said
Marianne, ""I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot
conceal from you.  I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well.  We have now
been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come.  Nothing but
real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay.  What else
can detain him at Norland?""

""Had you any idea of his coming so soon?"" said Mrs. Dashwood.  ""I had
none.  On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the
subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of
pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his
coming to Barton.  Does Elinor expect him already?""

""I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.""

""I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her
yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed
that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the
room would be wanted for some time.""

""How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it!  But the whole of
their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how
composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the
last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no
distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an
affectionate brother to both.  Twice did I leave them purposely
together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most
unaccountably follow me out of the room.  And Elinor, in quitting
Norland and Edward, cried not as I did.  Even now her self-command is
invariable.  When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to
avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?""


","This chapter gives an extended character sketch of Mrs. Jennings. Wealthy and contented, she is anxious to see young men and women settled in life. Thus, when she spots Colonel Brandon admiring Marianne as she is playing the piano, she immediately pairs them up as a suitable couple. She voices her thoughts aloud to both Brandon and Marianne. While the Colonel ignores her remarks, Marianne expresses shock at the suggestion. She rejects the Colonel on the basis of his age and his reserved temperament. Elinor, though, does not agree with her sister."
36,"

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.


","Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters are busy attending parties and balls. Marianne is in her element. She is overjoyed in the company of Willoughby, who showers much affection and attention on her. Elinor even feels left out at times. Deprived of friends of her own age, she is often thrown in the company of Mrs. Jennings and Lady Middleton. At such times she welcomes the presence of Colonel Brandon. Brandon often talks of Marianne and asks Elinor about her sister's preferences."
37,"

Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor
regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby
neither came nor wrote.  They were engaged about the end of that time
to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept
away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party,
Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming
equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one
look of hope or one expression of pleasure.  She sat by the
drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's
arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude,
lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and
when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the
door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.

They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as
the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the
stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another
in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full
of company, and insufferably hot.  When they had paid their tribute of
politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted
to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and
inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.  After some
time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to
Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and
Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great
distance from the table.

They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived
Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest
conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman.  She soon
caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to
speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her;
and then continued his discourse with the same lady.  Elinor turned
involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by
her.  At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance
glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him
instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.

""Good heavens!"" she exclaimed, ""he is there--he is there--Oh! why does
he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?""

""Pray, pray be composed,"" cried Elinor, ""and do not betray what you
feel to every body present.  Perhaps he has not observed you yet.""

This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be
composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it
was beyond her wish.  She sat in an agony of impatience which affected
every feature.

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,
and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to
him.  He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than
Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe
her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and
asked how long they had been in town.  Elinor was robbed of all
presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word.  But
the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed.  Her face was
crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion,
""Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this?  Have you not
received my letters?  Will you not shake hands with me?""

He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he
held her hand only for a moment.  During all this time he was evidently
struggling for composure.  Elinor watched his countenance and saw its
expression becoming more tranquil.  After a moment's pause, he spoke
with calmness.

""I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,
and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find
yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home.  My card was not lost, I hope.""

""But have you not received my notes?"" cried Marianne in the wildest
anxiety.  ""Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake.  What
can be the meaning of it?  Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell
me, what is the matter?""

He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment
returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he
had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,
he recovered himself again, and after saying, ""Yes, I had the pleasure
of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so
good as to send me,"" turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined
his friend.

Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into
her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried
to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with
lavender water.

""Go to him, Elinor,"" she cried, as soon as she could speak, ""and force
him to come to me.  Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him
instantly.-- I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this
is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other.-- Oh go to him
this moment.""

""How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait.  This is
not the place for explanations.  Wait only till tomorrow.""

With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him
herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least,
with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more
privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued
incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings,
by exclamations of wretchedness.  In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby
quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne
that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that
evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm.  She instantly begged
her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was
too miserable to stay a minute longer.

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed
that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her
wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they
departed as soon the carriage could be found.  Scarcely a word was
spoken during their return to Berkeley Street.  Marianne was in a
silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings
was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room,
where hartshorn restored her a little to herself.  She was soon
undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her
sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings,
had leisure enough for thinking over the past.

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and
Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,
seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own
wishes, SHE could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or
misapprehension of any kind.  Nothing but a thorough change of
sentiment could account for it.  Her indignation would have been still
stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which
seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented
her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with
the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that
would bear investigation.  Absence might have weakened his regard, and
convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a
regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already
have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in
its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest
concern.  Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she
could ESTEEM Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in
future, her mind might be always supported.  But every circumstance
that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery
of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and
irreconcilable rupture with him.


","It takes three days for the ladies to complete their journey. The house at Portman Square is cozy and comfortable. Elinor and Marianne are given separate quarters. After settling in, Elinor sits down to write a letter to her mother. Marianne, too, writes a letter, but it is addressed to Willoughby. In the following days she waits eagerly for his visit and his letter. However, she is in for much disappointment. Colonel Brandon visits them the next day. Marianne avoids him, while Elinor engages him in a conversation. In the evening Mrs. Palmer pays them a visit. She is in high spirits and expresses pleasure at meeting the girls. Other guests of Mrs. Jennings also arrive, and they are entertained with a game of whist. Elinor is concerned over her sister's behavior. Marianne neither participates in any activity nor shows enthusiasm in entertaining the guests. Elinor decides to write to her mother regarding her sister."
38,"

DESCRIPTION OF FARMER OAK--AN INCIDENT


When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they
were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were
reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them,
extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch
of the rising sun.

His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he was a young
man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good
character.  On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to
postponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the
whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space
of Laodicean neutrality which lay between the Communion people of
the parish and the drunken section,--that is, he went to church, but
yawned privately by the time the congregation reached the Nicene
creed, and thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to
be listening to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood
in the scale of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in
tantrums, he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased,
he was rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose
moral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture.

Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak's
appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own--the mental
picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always
dressed in that way.  He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at
the base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds,
and a coat like Dr. Johnson's; his lower extremities being encased
in ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording
to each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might
stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp--their maker
being a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any
weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity.

Mr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a
small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and
intention, and a small clock as to size. This instrument being
several years older than Oak's grandfather, had the peculiarity of
going either too fast or not at all.  The smaller of its hands, too,
occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes
were told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour
they belonged to.  The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied
by thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the
other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of
the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his
neighbours' windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the
green-faced timekeepers within.  It may be mentioned that Oak's fob
being difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation
in the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height
under his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by
throwing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a
mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion required, and
drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well.

But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking across one
of his fields on a certain December morning--sunny and exceedingly
mild--might have regarded Gabriel Oak in other aspects than these.
In his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of
youth had tarried on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter
crannies some relics of the boy.  His height and breadth would
have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been
exhibited with due consideration.  But there is a way some men have,
rural and urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than
flesh and sinew: it is a way of curtailing their dimensions by their
manner of showing them.  And from a quiet modesty that would have
become a vestal, which seemed continually to impress upon him that he
had no great claim on the world's room, Oak walked unassumingly and
with a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct from a bowing of the
shoulders.  This may be said to be a defect in an individual if he
depends for his valuation more upon his appearance than upon his
capacity to wear well, which Oak did not.

He had just reached the time of life at which ""young"" is ceasing to
be the prefix of ""man"" in speaking of one.  He was at the brightest
period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were
clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence
of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse,
and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united
again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and
family.  In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor.

The field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called Norcombe
Hill.  Through a spur of this hill ran the highway between Emminster
and Chalk-Newton.  Casually glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming
down the incline before him an ornamental spring waggon, painted
yellow and gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a waggoner walking
alongside bearing a whip perpendicularly.  The waggon was laden with
household goods and window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat
a woman, young and attractive.  Gabriel had not beheld the sight for
more than half a minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill
just beneath his eyes.

""The tailboard of the waggon is gone, Miss,"" said the waggoner.

""Then I heard it fall,"" said the girl, in a soft, though not
particularly low voice.  ""I heard a noise I could not account for
when we were coming up the hill.""

""I'll run back.""

""Do,"" she answered.

The sensible horses stood--perfectly still, and the waggoner's steps
sank fainter and fainter in the distance.

The girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded by
tables and chairs with their legs upwards, backed by an oak settle,
and ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses,
together with a caged canary--all probably from the windows of the
house just vacated.  There was also a cat in a willow basket, from
the partly-opened lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and
affectionately surveyed the small birds around.

The handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, and the
only sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the canary up
and down the perches of its prison.  Then she looked attentively
downwards.  It was not at the bird, nor at the cat; it was at an
oblong package tied in paper, and lying between them.  She turned her
head to learn if the waggoner were coming.  He was not yet in sight;
and her eyes crept back to the package, her thoughts seeming to run
upon what was inside it.  At length she drew the article into her
lap, and untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was
disclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively.  She
parted her lips and smiled.

It was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet glow the
crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre upon her bright
face and dark hair.  The myrtles, geraniums, and cactuses packed
around her were fresh and green, and at such a leafless season they
invested the whole concern of horses, waggon, furniture, and girl
with a peculiar vernal charm.  What possessed her to indulge in
such a performance in the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and
unperceived farmer who were alone its spectators,--whether the smile
began as a factitious one, to test her capacity in that art,--nobody
knows; it ended certainly in a real smile.  She blushed at herself,
and seeing her reflection blush, blushed the more.

The change from the customary spot and necessary occasion of such an
act--from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a time of travelling out
of doors--lent to the idle deed a novelty it did not intrinsically
possess.  The picture was a delicate one.  Woman's prescriptive
infirmity had stalked into the sunlight, which had clothed it in the
freshness of an originality.  A cynical inference was irresistible by
Gabriel Oak as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would
have been.  There was no necessity whatever for her looking in the
glass.  She did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or press a
dimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any such intention
had been her motive in taking up the glass.  She simply observed
herself as a fair product of Nature in the feminine kind, her
thoughts seeming to glide into far-off though likely dramas in which
men would play a part--vistas of probable triumphs--the smiles being
of a phase suggesting that hearts were imagined as lost and won.
Still, this was but conjecture, and the whole series of actions was
so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any
part in them at all.

The waggoner's steps were heard returning.  She put the glass in the
paper, and the whole again into its place.

When the waggon had passed on, Gabriel withdrew from his point of
espial, and descending into the road, followed the vehicle to the
turnpike-gate some way beyond the bottom of the hill, where the
object of his contemplation now halted for the payment of toll.
About twenty steps still remained between him and the gate, when he
heard a dispute.  It was a difference concerning twopence between the
persons with the waggon and the man at the toll-bar.

""Mis'ess's niece is upon the top of the things, and she says that's
enough that I've offered ye, you great miser, and she won't pay any
more.""  These were the waggoner's words.

""Very well; then mis'ess's niece can't pass,"" said the turnpike-keeper,
closing the gate.

Oak looked from one to the other of the disputants, and fell into
a reverie.  There was something in the tone of twopence remarkably
insignificant.  Threepence had a definite value as money--it was an
appreciable infringement on a day's wages, and, as such, a higgling
matter; but twopence--""Here,"" he said, stepping forward and handing
twopence to the gatekeeper; ""let the young woman pass.""  He looked up
at her then; she heard his words, and looked down.

Gabriel's features adhered throughout their form so exactly to the
middle line between the beauty of St. John and the ugliness of Judas
Iscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended, that
not a single lineament could be selected and called worthy either of
distinction or notoriety.  The red-jacketed and dark-haired maiden
seemed to think so too, for she carelessly glanced over him, and told
her man to drive on.  She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on
a minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably she felt
none, for in gaining her a passage he had lost her her point, and we
know how women take a favour of that kind.

The gatekeeper surveyed the retreating vehicle.  ""That's a
handsome maid,"" he said to Oak.

""But she has her faults,"" said Gabriel.

""True, farmer.""

""And the greatest of them is--well, what it is always.""

""Beating people down? ay, 'tis so.""

""O no.""

""What, then?""

Gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveller's
indifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her performance
over the hedge, and said, ""Vanity.""



","Meet Farmer Gabriel Oak, a nice young man with a big smile. And if he wasn't already adorable, the dude spends his days taking care of a flock of cute little sheep. Awwwww. The members of Oak's community have mixed opinions about him, but these opinions seem to be more connected to their own moods than anything Oak does. Hardy's narrator continues to describe Oak as an overall good guy. He might be a little clueless about certain things--like buying a watch that actually works--but the important thing to know is that Oak is 28 and still single. While walking through some fields one day, Oak sees a pretty woman sitting on top of a horse cart and waiting for a man to repair part of the cart. After looking around to see if anyone's watching, the woman unwraps a little parcel and pulls out a mirror, which she uses to check her appearance. In other words, she's self-consciousness enough to know that this is a vain thing to do, but too proud to resist. Oak sees her do it, though, and he knows that she's not doing it for any purpose other than to look at herself. It turns out that the woman isn't willing to pay the full fee to go through a toll booth, but the toll booth guy is holding firm on his price. After watching for a while, Gabriel steps forward and pays the remaining amount of her fee himself. When the cart rides off, the tollbooth guy mentions to Gabriel that the woman was very pretty. Gabriel agrees, but also says that he thinks the woman is very vain."
39,"

RECOGNITION--A TIMID GIRL


Bathsheba withdrew into the shade.  She scarcely knew whether most to
be amused at the singularity of the meeting, or to be concerned at
its awkwardness.  There was room for a little pity, also for a very
little exultation: the former at his position, the latter at her own.
Embarrassed she was not, and she remembered Gabriel's declaration of
love to her at Norcombe only to think she had nearly forgotten it.

""Yes,"" she murmured, putting on an air of dignity, and turning again
to him with a little warmth of cheek; ""I do want a shepherd.  But--""

""He's the very man, ma'am,"" said one of the villagers, quietly.

Conviction breeds conviction.  ""Ay, that 'a is,"" said a second,
decisively.

""The man, truly!"" said a third, with heartiness.

""He's all there!"" said number four, fervidly.

""Then will you tell him to speak to the bailiff,"" said Bathsheba.

All was practical again now.  A summer eve and loneliness would have
been necessary to give the meeting its proper fulness of romance.

The bailiff was pointed out to Gabriel, who, checking the palpitation
within his breast at discovering that this Ashtoreth of strange
report was only a modification of Venus the well-known and admired,
retired with him to talk over the necessary preliminaries of hiring.

The fire before them wasted away.  ""Men,"" said Bathsheba, ""you shall
take a little refreshment after this extra work.  Will you come to
the house?""

""We could knock in a bit and a drop a good deal freer, Miss, if so be
ye'd send it to Warren's Malthouse,"" replied the spokesman.

Bathsheba then rode off into the darkness, and the men straggled on
to the village in twos and threes--Oak and the bailiff being left by
the rick alone.

""And now,"" said the bailiff, finally, ""all is settled, I think, about
your coming, and I am going home-along.  Good-night to ye, shepherd.""

""Can you get me a lodging?"" inquired Gabriel.

""That I can't, indeed,"" he said, moving past Oak as a Christian edges
past an offertory-plate when he does not mean to contribute.  ""If you
follow on the road till you come to Warren's Malthouse, where they
are all gone to have their snap of victuals, I daresay some of 'em
will tell you of a place.  Good-night to ye, shepherd.""

The bailiff who showed this nervous dread of loving his neighbour as
himself, went up the hill, and Oak walked on to the village, still
astonished at the reencounter with Bathsheba, glad of his nearness to
her, and perplexed at the rapidity with which the unpractised girl of
Norcombe had developed into the supervising and cool woman here.  But
some women only require an emergency to make them fit for one.

Obliged, to some extent, to forgo dreaming in order to find the way,
he reached the churchyard, and passed round it under the wall where
several ancient trees grew.  There was a wide margin of grass along
here, and Gabriel's footsteps were deadened by its softness, even at
this indurating period of the year.  When abreast of a trunk which
appeared to be the oldest of the old, he became aware that a figure
was standing behind it.  Gabriel did not pause in his walk, and in
another moment he accidentally kicked a loose stone. The noise was
enough to disturb the motionless stranger, who started and assumed
a careless position.

It was a slim girl, rather thinly clad.

""Good-night to you,"" said Gabriel, heartily.

""Good-night,"" said the girl to Gabriel.

The voice was unexpectedly attractive; it was the low and dulcet note
suggestive of romance; common in descriptions, rare in experience.

""I'll thank you to tell me if I'm in the way for Warren's Malthouse?""
Gabriel resumed, primarily to gain the information, indirectly to get
more of the music.

""Quite right.  It's at the bottom of the hill.  And do you know--""
The girl hesitated and then went on again.  ""Do you know how late
they keep open the Buck's Head Inn?""  She seemed to be won by
Gabriel's heartiness, as Gabriel had been won by her modulations.

""I don't know where the Buck's Head is, or anything about it.  Do you
think of going there to-night?""

""Yes--""  The woman again paused.  There was no necessity for any
continuance of speech, and the fact that she did add more seemed to
proceed from an unconscious desire to show unconcern by making a
remark, which is noticeable in the ingenuous when they are acting by
stealth.  ""You are not a Weatherbury man?"" she said, timorously.

""I am not.  I am the new shepherd--just arrived.""

""Only a shepherd--and you seem almost a farmer by your ways.""

""Only a shepherd,"" Gabriel repeated, in a dull cadence of finality.
His thoughts were directed to the past, his eyes to the feet of the
girl; and for the first time he saw lying there a bundle of some
sort.  She may have perceived the direction of his face, for she said
coaxingly,--

""You won't say anything in the parish about having seen me here, will
you--at least, not for a day or two?""

""I won't if you wish me not to,"" said Oak.

""Thank you, indeed,"" the other replied.  ""I am rather poor, and I
don't want people to know anything about me.""  Then she was silent
and shivered.

""You ought to have a cloak on such a cold night,"" Gabriel observed.
""I would advise 'ee to get indoors.""

""O no!  Would you mind going on and leaving me?  I thank you much for
what you have told me.""

""I will go on,"" he said; adding hesitatingly,--""Since you are not
very well off, perhaps you would accept this trifle from me.  It is
only a shilling, but it is all I have to spare.""

""Yes, I will take it,"" said the stranger gratefully.

She extended her hand; Gabriel his.  In feeling for each other's palm
in the gloom before the money could be passed, a minute incident
occurred which told much.  Gabriel's fingers alighted on the young
woman's wrist.  It was beating with a throb of tragic intensity.  He
had frequently felt the same quick, hard beat in the femoral artery
of his lambs when overdriven.  It suggested a consumption too great
of a vitality which, to judge from her figure and stature, was
already too little.

""What is the matter?""

""Nothing.""

""But there is?""

""No, no, no!  Let your having seen me be a secret!""

""Very well; I will.  Good-night, again.""

""Good-night.""

The young girl remained motionless by the tree, and Gabriel descended
into the village of Weatherbury, or Lower Longpuddle as it was
sometimes called.  He fancied that he had felt himself in the
penumbra of a very deep sadness when touching that slight and fragile
creature.  But wisdom lies in moderating mere impressions, and
Gabriel endeavoured to think little of this.



","The townspeople think that Oak is a real hero and basically convince Bathsheba to hire him as her shepherd. Bathsheba never lets on that she knows who Oak is. She's probably wondering how Gabriel was reduced to the low position of shepherd-for-hire. Everyone moves away to get a celebratory drink at the nearby inn. Gabriel stays behind for a moment and walks alone. He is eventually stopped by a stranger: a very slender young woman in clothes that are too thin for the cold night. He asks her the way to the malt house and she gives him directions. The girl in turn asks him how to get to an inn, but he admits he has no clue because he's new to the area. Before they part ways, the girl makes him promise not to tell anyone that he saw her. He agrees and gives her some money because he thinks she needs it, and because he is the best dude ever. They part ways and he heads to the malt house to meet up with the townspeople."
40,"

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.



","Cut to outside an army barracks building, where a young woman is throwing snowballs at a window and trying to get the attention of someone inside. When someone comes and opens the window, the young woman asks if it's Sergeant Troy. When he asks who's asking, she says that it's his wife, Fanny Robin. Troy is shocked, and he tells Fanny that she can't come see him like this. She asks whether he's glad to see her, and he says of course. Unfortunately, he says he can't come down and meet her because he's not allowed to leave the building at this time of day. Fanny wants to know when Troy is going to make good on his promise to marry her. He says that they can marry as soon as they have good clothes. She asks why he doesn't already have permission from his officers to marry, and he admits that he simply forgot. This guy doesn't sound like the most caring fiance in the world. He sounds like a jerk. When Troy goes back inside the building, Fanny can hear a bunch of men laughing with him, probably about the fact that he has a girl waiting outside his window."
41,"

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.""



","Now that she's her own boss, Bathsheba starts going to the market to sell the farm's crops. She quickly learns to speak boldly to the men there and to haggle with them over prices. Wherever she walks, she can hear men behind her asking who she is. They also talk about how soon enough, some man will marry her. She also notices, though, that there's one man in the market who pays no attention to her at all--Farmer Boldwood. When she leaves the market, Bathsheba complains to Liddy about how all the men were staring at her the whole time. She mentions, though, the man who never looked at her. Just then, a carriage passes with Farmer Boldwood inside. Bathsheba points him out as the man who didn't look at her, and Liddy says tells her who it is. They speculate that Farmer Boldwood must have gotten his heart broken when he was younger, and that's why he's so reserved."
42,"

ALL SAINTS' AND ALL SOULS'


On a week-day morning a small congregation, consisting mainly of
women and girls, rose from its knees in the mouldy nave of a church
called All Saints', in the distant barrack-town before-mentioned, at
the end of a service without a sermon.  They were about to disperse,
when a smart footstep, entering the porch and coming up the central
passage, arrested their attention.  The step echoed with a ring
unusual in a church; it was the clink of spurs.  Everybody looked.  A
young cavalry soldier in a red uniform, with the three chevrons of a
sergeant upon his sleeve, strode up the aisle, with an embarrassment
which was only the more marked by the intense vigour of his step, and
by the determination upon his face to show none.  A slight flush had
mounted his cheek by the time he had run the gauntlet between these
women; but, passing on through the chancel arch, he never paused till
he came close to the altar railing.  Here for a moment he stood
alone.

The officiating curate, who had not yet doffed his surplice,
perceived the new-comer, and followed him to the communion-space.  He
whispered to the soldier, and then beckoned to the clerk, who in his
turn whispered to an elderly woman, apparently his wife, and they
also went up the chancel steps.

""'Tis a wedding!"" murmured some of the women, brightening.  ""Let's
wait!""

The majority again sat down.

There was a creaking of machinery behind, and some of the young ones
turned their heads.  From the interior face of the west wall of the
tower projected a little canopy with a quarter-jack and small bell
beneath it, the automaton being driven by the same clock machinery
that struck the large bell in the tower.  Between the tower and the
church was a close screen, the door of which was kept shut during
services, hiding this grotesque clockwork from sight.  At present,
however, the door was open, and the egress of the jack, the blows on
the bell, and the mannikin's retreat into the nook again, were
visible to many, and audible throughout the church.

The jack had struck half-past eleven.

""Where's the woman?"" whispered some of the spectators.

The young sergeant stood still with the abnormal rigidity of the old
pillars around.  He faced the south-east, and was as silent as he was
still.

The silence grew to be a noticeable thing as the minutes went on,
and nobody else appeared, and not a soul moved.  The rattle of the
quarter-jack again from its niche, its blows for three-quarters, its
fussy retreat, were almost painfully abrupt, and caused many of the
congregation to start palpably.

""I wonder where the woman is!"" a voice whispered again.

There began now that slight shifting of feet, that artificial
coughing among several, which betrays a nervous suspense.  At length
there was a titter.  But the soldier never moved.  There he stood,
his face to the south-east, upright as a column, his cap in his hand.

The clock ticked on.  The women threw off their nervousness, and
titters and giggling became more frequent.  Then came a dead silence.
Every one was waiting for the end.  Some persons may have noticed how
extraordinarily the striking of quarters seems to quicken the flight
of time.  It was hardly credible that the jack had not got wrong with
the minutes when the rattle began again, the puppet emerged, and the
four quarters were struck fitfully as before.  One could almost be
positive that there was a malicious leer upon the hideous creature's
face, and a mischievous delight in its twitchings.  Then followed the
dull and remote resonance of the twelve heavy strokes in the tower
above.  The women were impressed, and there was no giggle this time.

The clergyman glided into the vestry, and the clerk vanished.  The
sergeant had not yet turned; every woman in the church was waiting to
see his face, and he appeared to know it.  At last he did turn, and
stalked resolutely down the nave, braving them all, with a compressed
lip.  Two bowed and toothless old almsmen then looked at each other
and chuckled, innocently enough; but the sound had a strange weird
effect in that place.

Opposite to the church was a paved square, around which several
overhanging wood buildings of old time cast a picturesque shade.  The
young man on leaving the door went to cross the square, when, in the
middle, he met a little woman.  The expression of her face, which had
been one of intense anxiety, sank at the sight of his nearly to
terror.

""Well?"" he said, in a suppressed passion, fixedly looking at her.

""Oh, Frank--I made a mistake!--I thought that church with the spire
was All Saints', and I was at the door at half-past eleven to a
minute as you said.  I waited till a quarter to twelve, and found
then that I was in All Souls'.  But I wasn't much frightened, for
I thought it could be to-morrow as well.""

""You fool, for so fooling me!  But say no more.""

""Shall it be to-morrow, Frank?"" she asked blankly.

""To-morrow!"" and he gave vent to a hoarse laugh.  ""I don't go through
that experience again for some time, I warrant you!""

""But after all,"" she expostulated in a trembling voice, ""the mistake
was not such a terrible thing!  Now, dear Frank, when shall it be?""

""Ah, when?  God knows!"" he said, with a light irony, and turning from
her walked rapidly away.



","Cut to a scene inside a church. A young man in a military jacket talks to a priest and goes up to the altar as if he's getting ready to be married. The only problem is that there doesn't seem to be a bride anywhere around. Eventually, the priest leaves. Finally, the young man turns and looks around the church. Not seeing anyone he knows, he walks out of the church and meets a young woman in a park. She says she got the church mixed up and that she hopes they can be married the next day just as easily. The dude is mad, though, and he says that he won't be ready to make another go at it for some time. The woman ends the chapter by asking when the wedding will be. The guy just says, ""God knows!"" and walks away from her."
43,"

IN THE MARKET-PLACE


On Saturday Boldwood was in Casterbridge market house as usual, when
the disturber of his dreams entered and became visible to him.  Adam
had awakened from his deep sleep, and behold! there was Eve.  The
farmer took courage, and for the first time really looked at her.

Material causes and emotional effects are not to be arranged in
regular equation.  The result from capital employed in the production
of any movement of a mental nature is sometimes as tremendous as the
cause itself is absurdly minute.  When women are in a freakish mood,
their usual intuition, either from carelessness or inherent defect,
seemingly fails to teach them this, and hence it was that Bathsheba
was fated to be astonished to-day.

Boldwood looked at her--not slily, critically, or understandingly,
but blankly at gaze, in the way a reaper looks up at a passing
train--as something foreign to his element, and but dimly understood.
To Boldwood women had been remote phenomena rather than necessary
complements--comets of such uncertain aspect, movement, and
permanence, that whether their orbits were as geometrical,
unchangeable, and as subject to laws as his own, or as absolutely
erratic as they superficially appeared, he had not deemed it his duty
to consider.

He saw her black hair, her correct facial curves and profile, and
the roundness of her chin and throat.  He saw then the side of her
eyelids, eyes, and lashes, and the shape of her ear.  Next he noticed
her figure, her skirt, and the very soles of her shoes.

Boldwood thought her beautiful, but wondered whether he was right in
his thought, for it seemed impossible that this romance in the flesh,
if so sweet as he imagined, could have been going on long without
creating a commotion of delight among men, and provoking more inquiry
than Bathsheba had done, even though that was not a little.  To the
best of his judgement neither nature nor art could improve this
perfect one of an imperfect many.  His heart began to move within
him.  Boldwood, it must be remembered, though forty years of age, had
never before inspected a woman with the very centre and force of his
glance; they had struck upon all his senses at wide angles.

Was she really beautiful?  He could not assure himself that his
opinion was true even now.  He furtively said to a neighbour, ""Is
Miss Everdene considered handsome?""

""Oh yes; she was a good deal noticed the first time she came, if you
remember.  A very handsome girl indeed.""

A man is never more credulous than in receiving favourable opinions
on the beauty of a woman he is half, or quite, in love with; a mere
child's word on the point has the weight of an R.A.'s.  Boldwood was
satisfied now.

And this charming woman had in effect said to him, ""Marry me.""  Why
should she have done that strange thing?  Boldwood's blindness to
the difference between approving of what circumstances suggest, and
originating what they do not suggest, was well matched by Bathsheba's
insensibility to the possibly great issues of little beginnings.

She was at this moment coolly dealing with a dashing young farmer,
adding up accounts with him as indifferently as if his face had been
the pages of a ledger.  It was evident that such a nature as his had
no attraction for a woman of Bathsheba's taste.  But Boldwood grew
hot down to his hands with an incipient jealousy; he trod for the
first time the threshold of ""the injured lover's hell.""  His first
impulse was to go and thrust himself between them.  This could be
done, but only in one way--by asking to see a sample of her corn.
Boldwood renounced the idea.  He could not make the request; it was
debasing loveliness to ask it to buy and sell, and jarred with his
conceptions of her.

All this time Bathsheba was conscious of having broken into that
dignified stronghold at last.  His eyes, she knew, were following her
everywhere.  This was a triumph; and had it come naturally, such a
triumph would have been the sweeter to her for this piquing delay.
But it had been brought about by misdirected ingenuity, and she
valued it only as she valued an artificial flower or a wax fruit.

Being a woman with some good sense in reasoning on subjects wherein
her heart was not involved, Bathsheba genuinely repented that a freak
which had owed its existence as much to Liddy as to herself, should
ever have been undertaken, to disturb the placidity of a man she
respected too highly to deliberately tease.

She that day nearly formed the intention of begging his pardon on
the very next occasion of their meeting.  The worst features of this
arrangement were that, if he thought she ridiculed him, an apology
would increase the offence by being disbelieved; and if he thought
she wanted him to woo her, it would read like additional evidence of
her forwardness.



","It's Saturday, and good ol' Boldwood is back in the marketplace as per usual. But now he's a smitten kitten. Bathsheba's joke Valentine has made him fall head over heels in love with her. Boldwood has never claimed to understand women, and he doesn't understand Bathsheba. We can't blame him: Bathsheba seems a little weird what with the prank love letters and all. But Boldwood is kind of weird. He asks around to find out whether Bathsheba's considered good looking. A friend says that she is, so now Boldwood feels good about approaching her. Bathsheba, meanwhile, can feel Boldwood watching her all the time now, and she considers this a bit of a triumph, since he was the only man in town who didn't admire her before."
44,"

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.



","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."
45,"

HIVING THE BEES


The Weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year. It was in
the latter part of June, and the day after the interview with Troy in
the hayfield, that Bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a
swarm in the air and guessing their probable settling place.  Not
only were they late this year, but unruly.  Sometimes throughout a
whole season all the swarms would alight on the lowest attainable
bough--such as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-tree; next
year they would, with just the same unanimity, make straight off to
the uppermost member of some tall, gaunt costard, or quarrenden,
and there defy all invaders who did not come armed with ladders and
staves to take them.

This was the case at present.  Bathsheba's eyes, shaded by one hand,
were following the ascending multitude against the unexplorable
stretch of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy
trees spoken of.  A process somewhat analogous to that of alleged
formations of the universe, time and times ago, was observable.  The
bustling swarm had swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze,
which now thickened to a nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough
and grew still denser, till it formed a solid black spot upon the
light.

The men and women being all busily engaged in saving the hay--even
Liddy had left the house for the purpose of lending a hand--Bathsheba
resolved to hive the bees herself, if possible.  She had dressed the
hive with herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made
herself impregnable with armour of leather gloves, straw hat, and
large gauze veil--once green but now faded to snuff colour--and
ascended a dozen rungs of the ladder.  At once she heard, not ten
yards off, a voice that was beginning to have a strange power in
agitating her.

""Miss Everdene, let me assist you; you should not attempt such a
thing alone.""

Troy was just opening the garden gate.

Bathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and empty hive, pulled the
skirt of her dress tightly round her ankles in a tremendous flurry,
and as well as she could slid down the ladder.  By the time she
reached the bottom Troy was there also, and he stooped to pick up
the hive.

""How fortunate I am to have dropped in at this moment!"" exclaimed the
sergeant.

She found her voice in a minute.  ""What! and will you shake them in
for me?"" she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a faltering way;
though, for a timid girl, it would have seemed a brave way enough.

""Will I!"" said Troy.  ""Why, of course I will.  How blooming you are
to-day!""  Troy flung down his cane and put his foot on the ladder to
ascend.

""But you must have on the veil and gloves, or you'll be stung
fearfully!""

""Ah, yes.  I must put on the veil and gloves.  Will you kindly show
me how to fix them properly?""

""And you must have the broad-brimmed hat, too, for your cap has no
brim to keep the veil off, and they'd reach your face.""

""The broad-brimmed hat, too, by all means.""

So a whimsical fate ordered that her hat should be taken off--veil
and all attached--and placed upon his head, Troy tossing his own into
a gooseberry bush.  Then the veil had to be tied at its lower edge
round his collar and the gloves put on him.

He looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried
as she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the removal
of yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept
him off.

Bathsheba looked on from the ground whilst he was busy sweeping and
shaking the bees from the tree, holding up the hive with the other
hand for them to fall into.  She made use of an unobserved minute
whilst his attention was absorbed in the operation to arrange her
plumes a little.  He came down holding the hive at arm's length,
behind which trailed a cloud of bees.

""Upon my life,"" said Troy, through the veil, ""holding up this hive
makes one's arm ache worse than a week of sword-exercise."" When the
manoeuvre was complete he approached her.  ""Would you be good enough
to untie me and let me out? I am nearly stifled inside this silk
cage.""

To hide her embarrassment during the unwonted process of untying the
string about his neck, she said:--

""I have never seen that you spoke of.""

""What?""

""The sword-exercise.""

""Ah! would you like to?"" said Troy.

Bathsheba hesitated.  She had heard wondrous reports from time to
time by dwellers in Weatherbury, who had by chance sojourned awhile
in Casterbridge, near the barracks, of this strange and glorious
performance, the sword-exercise.  Men and boys who had peeped through
chinks or over walls into the barrack-yard returned with accounts of
its being the most flashing affair conceivable; accoutrements and
weapons glistening like stars--here, there, around--yet all by rule
and compass.  So she said mildly what she felt strongly.

""Yes; I should like to see it very much.""

""And so you shall; you shall see me go through it.""

""No!  How?""

""Let me consider.""

""Not with a walking-stick--I don't care to see that.  It must be a
real sword.""

""Yes, I know; and I have no sword here; but I think I could get one
by the evening.  Now, will you do this?""

Troy bent over her and murmured some suggestion in a low voice.

""Oh no, indeed!"" said Bathsheba, blushing. ""Thank you very much, but
I couldn't on any account.""

""Surely you might?  Nobody would know.""

She shook her head, but with a weakened negation.  ""If I were to,""
she said, ""I must bring Liddy too.  Might I not?""

Troy looked far away.  ""I don't see why you want to bring her,"" he
said coldly.

An unconscious look of assent in Bathsheba's eyes betrayed that
something more than his coldness had made her also feel that Liddy
would be superfluous in the suggested scene.  She had felt it, even
whilst making the proposal.

""Well, I won't bring Liddy--and I'll come.  But only for a very short
time,"" she added; ""a very short time.""

""It will not take five minutes,"" said Troy.



","In mid-summer, Bathsheba goes to check on her beehives to see how well the bees are making honey. And who should come running up looking to help but Sergeant Troy. She helps him put on the bee suit, and they share a cute moment. Ain't no bonding time like bonding time in a beekeeper suit. While holding the beehive, Troy mentions that this work makes his arms ache even more than his sword exercises do. Just about the slickest line ever. Bathsheba admits that she has never seen a sword exercise, and he makes a date with her to show her... in the woods... alone."
46,"

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.



","Bathsheba and Troy meet out in the forest. Without delay, Troy takes out his sword and starts showing her some super-sexy sword exercises. Then he turns toward her and tells her not to move. He proceeds to stab his sword all around her, chopping off a lock her hair but never actually touching her body. In other words, he's showing her how skilled he is. But the narrator's language in this scene makes the whole thing pretty sexual. Of course, you kind of had to talk about sex in metaphorical ways back in Hardy's time. Anything more direct would have been considered pornographic. Toward the end of the demonstration, Troy draws close to Bathsheba and kisses her on the mouth. Troy pockets the lock of her hair. Then he turns and darts back into the forest. Bathsheba cries from a combination of shame and excitement, and probably also because some dude was stabbing the air around her with a sword."
47,"

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!""



","Bathsheba returns to her house with a flushed face. Troy has kissed her for a second time! She sinks into a chair and writes a letter to Boldwood saying that there's no way she can marry him. When she walks past the kitchen, she overhears her servants talking about the possibility of her marrying Troy. She's mortified to realize how quickly word has gotten around. She scolds the women for gossiping about her, and then asks Liddy to promise her that Sergeant Troy is an honest man. She knows that he's not, but she really wants to convince herself that this is the case. Finally, Liddy helps convince her that it's worthwhile to pursue her attraction to Sergeant Troy."
48,"

AT AN UPPER WINDOW


It was very early the next morning--a time of sun and dew.  The
confused beginnings of many birds' songs spread into the healthy air,
and the wan blue of the heaven was here and there coated with thin
webs of incorporeal cloud which were of no effect in obscuring day.
All the lights in the scene were yellow as to colour, and all the
shadows were attenuated as to form.  The creeping plants about the
old manor-house were bowed with rows of heavy water drops, which
had upon objects behind them the effect of minute lenses of high
magnifying power.

Just before the clock struck five Gabriel Oak and Coggan passed the
village cross, and went on together to the fields.  They were yet
barely in view of their mistress's house, when Oak fancied he saw the
opening of a casement in one of the upper windows.  The two men were
at this moment partially screened by an elder bush, now beginning
to be enriched with black bunches of fruit, and they paused before
emerging from its shade.

A handsome man leaned idly from the lattice.  He looked east and then
west, in the manner of one who makes a first morning survey.  The
man was Sergeant Troy.  His red jacket was loosely thrown on, but
not buttoned, and he had altogether the relaxed bearing of a soldier
taking his ease.

Coggan spoke first, looking quietly at the window.

""She has married him!"" he said.

Gabriel had previously beheld the sight, and he now stood with his
back turned, making no reply.

""I fancied we should know something to-day,"" continued Coggan.  ""I
heard wheels pass my door just after dark--you were out somewhere.""
He glanced round upon Gabriel.  ""Good heavens above us, Oak, how
white your face is; you look like a corpse!""

""Do I?"" said Oak, with a faint smile.

""Lean on the gate: I'll wait a bit.""

""All right, all right.""

They stood by the gate awhile, Gabriel listlessly staring at the
ground.  His mind sped into the future, and saw there enacted in
years of leisure the scenes of repentance that would ensue from this
work of haste.  That they were married he had instantly decided.  Why
had it been so mysteriously managed?  It had become known that she
had had a fearful journey to Bath, owing to her miscalculating the
distance: that the horse had broken down, and that she had been more
than two days getting there.  It was not Bathsheba's way to do things
furtively.  With all her faults, she was candour itself.  Could she
have been entrapped?  The union was not only an unutterable grief to
him: it amazed him, notwithstanding that he had passed the preceding
week in a suspicion that such might be the issue of Troy's meeting
her away from home.  Her quiet return with Liddy had to some extent
dispersed the dread.  Just as that imperceptible motion which appears
like stillness is infinitely divided in its properties from stillness
itself, so had his hope undistinguishable from despair differed from
despair indeed.

In a few minutes they moved on again towards the house.  The sergeant
still looked from the window.

""Morning, comrades!"" he shouted, in a cheery voice, when they came
up.

Coggan replied to the greeting.  ""Bain't ye going to answer the man?""
he then said to Gabriel.  ""I'd say good morning--you needn't spend a
hapenny of meaning upon it, and yet keep the man civil.""

Gabriel soon decided too that, since the deed was done, to put the
best face upon the matter would be the greatest kindness to her he
loved.

""Good morning, Sergeant Troy,"" he returned, in a ghastly voice.

""A rambling, gloomy house this,"" said Troy, smiling.

""Why--they MAY not be married!"" suggested Coggan.  ""Perhaps she's not
there.""

Gabriel shook his head.  The soldier turned a little towards the
east, and the sun kindled his scarlet coat to an orange glow.

""But it is a nice old house,"" responded Gabriel.

""Yes--I suppose so; but I feel like new wine in an old bottle here.
My notion is that sash-windows should be put throughout, and these
old wainscoted walls brightened up a bit; or the oak cleared quite
away, and the walls papered.""

""It would be a pity, I think.""

""Well, no.  A philosopher once said in my hearing that the old
builders, who worked when art was a living thing, had no respect
for the work of builders who went before them, but pulled down and
altered as they thought fit; and why shouldn't we?  'Creation and
preservation don't do well together,' says he, 'and a million of
antiquarians can't invent a style.' My mind exactly.  I am for making
this place more modern, that we may be cheerful whilst we can.""

The military man turned and surveyed the interior of the room, to
assist his ideas of improvement in this direction.  Gabriel and
Coggan began to move on.

""Oh, Coggan,"" said Troy, as if inspired by a recollection ""do you
know if insanity has ever appeared in Mr. Boldwood's family?""

Jan reflected for a moment.

""I once heard that an uncle of his was queer in his head, but I don't
know the rights o't,"" he said.

""It is of no importance,"" said Troy, lightly.  ""Well, I shall be down
in the fields with you some time this week; but I have a few matters
to attend to first.  So good-day to you.  We shall, of course, keep
on just as friendly terms as usual.  I'm not a proud man: nobody is
ever able to say that of Sergeant Troy.  However, what is must be,
and here's half-a-crown to drink my health, men.""

Troy threw the coin dexterously across the front plot and over the
fence towards Gabriel, who shunned it in its fall, his face turning
to an angry red.  Coggan twirled his eye, edged forward, and caught
the money in its ricochet upon the road.

""Very well--you keep it, Coggan,"" said Gabriel with disdain and
almost fiercely.  ""As for me, I'll do without gifts from him!""

""Don't show it too much,"" said Coggan, musingly.  ""For if he's
married to her, mark my words, he'll buy his discharge and be our
master here.  Therefore 'tis well to say 'Friend' outwardly, though
you say 'Troublehouse' within.""

""Well--perhaps it is best to be silent; but I can't go further than
that.  I can't flatter, and if my place here is only to be kept by
smoothing him down, my place must be lost.""

A horseman, whom they had for some time seen in the distance, now
appeared close beside them.

""There's Mr. Boldwood,"" said Oak.  ""I wonder what Troy meant by his
question.""

Coggan and Oak nodded respectfully to the farmer, just checked their
paces to discover if they were wanted, and finding they were not
stood back to let him pass on.

The only signs of the terrible sorrow Boldwood had been combating
through the night, and was combating now, were the want of colour
in his well-defined face, the enlarged appearance of the veins in
his forehead and temples, and the sharper lines about his mouth.
The horse bore him away, and the very step of the animal seemed
significant of dogged despair.  Gabriel, for a minute, rose above his
own grief in noticing Boldwood's.  He saw the square figure sitting
erect upon the horse, the head turned to neither side, the elbows
steady by the hips, the brim of the hat level and undisturbed in
its onward glide, until the keen edges of Boldwood's shape sank by
degrees over the hill.  To one who knew the man and his story there
was something more striking in this immobility than in a collapse.
The clash of discord between mood and matter here was forced
painfully home to the heart; and, as in laughter there are more
dreadful phases than in tears, so was there in the steadiness of
this agonized man an expression deeper than a cry.



","While walking past Bathsheba's house, Gabriel Oak and Jan Coggan see Sergeant Troy poke his head out of Bathsheba's window. Instantly, they both know that Bathsheba has married Troy. Troy sees them and makes some small talk about the house and the weather. This is all kind of like a knife in Oak's stomach. Seemingly out of nowhere, Troy asks Coggan whether there is any history of mental illness in Farmer Boldwood's family. Coggan says there might be some, though he's not sure why Troy is asking this. Oak is finding it difficult to speak to Troy, but Coggan warns him that Troy will soon be their new boss if he's married to Bathsheba. While Coggan and Oak walk away, they see Boldwood walking by himself. Oak suddenly realizes that his own grief is not even close to being as bad as Boldwood's."
49,"

RAIN--ONE SOLITARY MEETS ANOTHER


It was now five o'clock, and the dawn was promising to break in hues
of drab and ash.

The air changed its temperature and stirred itself more vigorously.
Cool breezes coursed in transparent eddies round Oak's face.  The
wind shifted yet a point or two and blew stronger.  In ten minutes
every wind of heaven seemed to be roaming at large.  Some of the
thatching on the wheat-stacks was now whirled fantastically aloft,
and had to be replaced and weighted with some rails that lay near at
hand.  This done, Oak slaved away again at the barley.  A huge drop
of rain smote his face, the wind snarled round every corner, the
trees rocked to the bases of their trunks, and the twigs clashed in
strife.  Driving in spars at any point and on any system, inch by
inch he covered more and more safely from ruin this distracting
impersonation of seven hundred pounds.  The rain came on in earnest,
and Oak soon felt the water to be tracking cold and clammy routes
down his back.  Ultimately he was reduced well-nigh to a homogeneous
sop, and the dyes of his clothes trickled down and stood in a pool
at the foot of the ladder.  The rain stretched obliquely through the
dull atmosphere in liquid spines, unbroken in continuity between
their beginnings in the clouds and their points in him.

Oak suddenly remembered that eight months before this time he had
been fighting against fire in the same spot as desperately as he
was fighting against water now--and for a futile love of the same
woman.  As for her--But Oak was generous and true, and dismissed
his reflections.

It was about seven o'clock in the dark leaden morning when Gabriel
came down from the last stack, and thankfully exclaimed, ""It is
done!""  He was drenched, weary, and sad, and yet not so sad as
drenched and weary, for he was cheered by a sense of success in a
good cause.

Faint sounds came from the barn, and he looked that way.  Figures
stepped singly and in pairs through the doors--all walking awkwardly,
and abashed, save the foremost, who wore a red jacket, and advanced
with his hands in his pockets, whistling.  The others shambled after
with a conscience-stricken air: the whole procession was not unlike
Flaxman's group of the suitors tottering on towards the infernal
regions under the conduct of Mercury.  The gnarled shapes passed
into the village, Troy, their leader, entering the farmhouse.  Not a
single one of them had turned his face to the ricks, or apparently
bestowed one thought upon their condition.

Soon Oak too went homeward, by a different route from theirs.  In
front of him against the wet glazed surface of the lane he saw a
person walking yet more slowly than himself under an umbrella.  The
man turned and plainly started; he was Boldwood.

""How are you this morning, sir?"" said Oak.

""Yes, it is a wet day.--Oh, I am well, very well, I thank you; quite
well.""

""I am glad to hear it, sir.""

Boldwood seemed to awake to the present by degrees.  ""You look tired
and ill, Oak,"" he said then, desultorily regarding his companion.

""I am tired.  You look strangely altered, sir.""

""I?  Not a bit of it: I am well enough.  What put that into your
head?""

""I thought you didn't look quite so topping as you used to, that was
all.""

""Indeed, then you are mistaken,"" said Boldwood, shortly.  ""Nothing
hurts me.  My constitution is an iron one.""

""I've been working hard to get our ricks covered, and was barely in
time.  Never had such a struggle in my life....  Yours of course are
safe, sir.""

""Oh yes,"" Boldwood added, after an interval of silence: ""What did you
ask, Oak?""

""Your ricks are all covered before this time?""

""No.""

""At any rate, the large ones upon the stone staddles?""

""They are not.""

""Them under the hedge?""

""No.  I forgot to tell the thatcher to set about it.""

""Nor the little one by the stile?""

""Nor the little one by the stile.  I overlooked the ricks this year.""

""Then not a tenth of your corn will come to measure, sir.""

""Possibly not.""

""Overlooked them,"" repeated Gabriel slowly to himself.  It is
difficult to describe the intensely dramatic effect that announcement
had upon Oak at such a moment.  All the night he had been feeling
that the neglect he was labouring to repair was abnormal and
isolated--the only instance of the kind within the circuit of the
county.  Yet at this very time, within the same parish, a greater
waste had been going on, uncomplained of and disregarded.  A few
months earlier Boldwood's forgetting his husbandry would have been as
preposterous an idea as a sailor forgetting he was in a ship.  Oak
was just thinking that whatever he himself might have suffered from
Bathsheba's marriage, here was a man who had suffered more, when
Boldwood spoke in a changed voice--that of one who yearned to make
a confidence and relieve his heart by an outpouring.

""Oak, you know as well as I that things have gone wrong with me
lately.  I may as well own it.  I was going to get a little settled
in life; but in some way my plan has come to nothing.""

""I thought my mistress would have married you,"" said Gabriel, not
knowing enough of the full depths of Boldwood's love to keep silence
on the farmer's account, and determined not to evade discipline by
doing so on his own.  ""However, it is so sometimes, and nothing
happens that we expect,"" he added, with the repose of a man whom
misfortune had inured rather than subdued.

""I daresay I am a joke about the parish,"" said Boldwood, as if
the subject came irresistibly to his tongue, and with a miserable
lightness meant to express his indifference.

""Oh no--I don't think that.""

""--But the real truth of the matter is that there was not, as some
fancy, any jilting on--her part.  No engagement ever existed between
me and Miss Everdene.  People say so, but it is untrue: she never
promised me!""  Boldwood stood still now and turned his wild face to
Oak.  ""Oh, Gabriel,"" he continued, ""I am weak and foolish, and I
don't know what, and I can't fend off my miserable grief! ...  I had
some faint belief in the mercy of God till I lost that woman.  Yes,
He prepared a gourd to shade me, and like the prophet I thanked Him
and was glad.  But the next day He prepared a worm to smite the gourd
and wither it; and I feel it is better to die than to live!""

A silence followed.  Boldwood aroused himself from the momentary
mood of confidence into which he had drifted, and walked on again,
resuming his usual reserve.

""No, Gabriel,"" he resumed, with a carelessness which was like
the smile on the countenance of a skull: ""it was made more of by
other people than ever it was by us.  I do feel a little regret
occasionally, but no woman ever had power over me for any length of
time.  Well, good morning; I can trust you not to mention to others
what has passed between us two here.""



","It's nearly daybreak, but Oak has managed to save most of the hay and barley from the rain. Toward the end of his work, he remembers how his first visit to this part of the world plunged him into the middle of a fire. Water and fire, man. He also remembers how much he'd loved Bathsheba, even though he knew they'd never be together. When he's finished with his work, he glances toward the barn and sees some men stumbling out of it, all of them drunk or hungover. All except for Sergeant Troy, that is, who walks out whistling. It seems like the guy has a much higher tolerance for alcohol than the rest of the men. All of them walk past without thinking once about how the hay and barley got covered up during the night. Gabriel runs into Farmer Boldwood, and each of them tells the other he doesn't look so great. Gabriel mentions that he's spent all night covering the hay and barley, and adds that of course Farmer Boldwood must have had this done, too. Boldwood, though, didn't protect any of his crops from the rain and doesn't care how much money he loses. This guy is deeply depressed. Boldwood and Gabriel talk briefly about how disappointed Boldwood has been by Bathsheba's marriage to Troy. After that, Boldwood just turns and walks away."
50,"

COMING HOME--A CRY


On the turnpike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury, and about
three miles from the former place, is Yalbury Hill, one of those
steep long ascents which pervade the highways of this undulating
part of South Wessex.  In returning from market it is usual for the
farmers and other gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up.

One Saturday evening in the month of October Bathsheba's vehicle was
duly creeping up this incline.  She was sitting listlessly in the
second seat of the gig, whilst walking beside her in a farmer's
marketing suit of unusually fashionable cut was an erect, well-made
young man.  Though on foot, he held the reins and whip, and
occasionally aimed light cuts at the horse's ear with the end of the
lash, as a recreation.  This man was her husband, formerly Sergeant
Troy, who, having bought his discharge with Bathsheba's money, was
gradually transforming himself into a farmer of a spirited and very
modern school.  People of unalterable ideas still insisted upon
calling him ""Sergeant"" when they met him, which was in some degree
owing to his having still retained the well-shaped moustache of his
military days, and the soldierly bearing inseparable from his form
and training.

""Yes, if it hadn't been for that wretched rain I should have cleared
two hundred as easy as looking, my love,"" he was saying.  ""Don't you
see, it altered all the chances?  To speak like a book I once read,
wet weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our
country's history; now, isn't that true?""

""But the time of year is come for changeable weather.""

""Well, yes.  The fact is, these autumn races are the ruin of
everybody.  Never did I see such a day as 'twas!  'Tis a wild open
place, just out of Budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like
liquid misery.  Wind and rain--good Lord!  Dark?  Why, 'twas as black
as my hat before the last race was run.  'Twas five o'clock, and
you couldn't see the horses till they were almost in, leave alone
colours.  The ground was as heavy as lead, and all judgment from a
fellow's experience went for nothing.  Horses, riders, people, were
all blown about like ships at sea.  Three booths were blown over,
and the wretched folk inside crawled out upon their hands and knees;
and in the next field were as many as a dozen hats at one time.  Ay,
Pimpernel regularly stuck fast, when about sixty yards off, and when
I saw Policy stepping on, it did knock my heart against the lining
of my ribs, I assure you, my love!""

""And you mean, Frank,"" said Bathsheba, sadly--her voice was painfully
lowered from the fulness and vivacity of the previous summer--""that
you have lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by this dreadful
horse-racing?  O, Frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take
away my money so.  We shall have to leave the farm; that will be the
end of it!""

""Humbug about cruel.  Now, there 'tis again--turn on the waterworks;
that's just like you.""

""But you'll promise me not to go to Budmouth second meeting, won't
you?"" she implored.  Bathsheba was at the full depth for tears, but
she maintained a dry eye.

""I don't see why I should; in fact, if it turns out to be a fine day,
I was thinking of taking you.""

""Never, never!  I'll go a hundred miles the other way first. I hate
the sound of the very word!""

""But the question of going to see the race or staying at home has
very little to do with the matter.  Bets are all booked safely enough
before the race begins, you may depend.  Whether it is a bad race for
me or a good one, will have very little to do with our going there
next Monday.""

""But you don't mean to say that you have risked anything on this one
too!"" she exclaimed, with an agonized look.

""There now, don't you be a little fool.  Wait till you are told.
Why, Bathsheba, you have lost all the pluck and sauciness you
formerly had, and upon my life if I had known what a chicken-hearted
creature you were under all your boldness, I'd never have--I know
what.""

A flash of indignation might have been seen in Bathsheba's dark eyes
as she looked resolutely ahead after this reply.  They moved on
without further speech, some early-withered leaves from the trees
which hooded the road at this spot occasionally spinning downward
across their path to the earth.

A woman appeared on the brow of the hill.  The ridge was in a
cutting, so that she was very near the husband and wife before she
became visible.  Troy had turned towards the gig to remount, and
whilst putting his foot on the step the woman passed behind him.

Though the overshadowing trees and the approach of eventide enveloped
them in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough to discern the
extreme poverty of the woman's garb, and the sadness of her face.

""Please, sir, do you know at what time Casterbridge Union-house
closes at night?""

The woman said these words to Troy over his shoulder.

Troy started visibly at the sound of the voice; yet he seemed to
recover presence of mind sufficient to prevent himself from giving
way to his impulse to suddenly turn and face her.  He said, slowly--

""I don't know.""

The woman, on hearing him speak, quickly looked up, examined the side
of his face, and recognized the soldier under the yeoman's garb.  Her
face was drawn into an expression which had gladness and agony both
among its elements.  She uttered an hysterical cry, and fell down.

""Oh, poor thing!"" exclaimed Bathsheba, instantly preparing to alight.

""Stay where you are, and attend to the horse!"" said Troy,
peremptorily throwing her the reins and the whip.  ""Walk the horse
to the top: I'll see to the woman.""

""But I--""

""Do you hear?  Clk--Poppet!""

The horse, gig, and Bathsheba moved on.

""How on earth did you come here?  I thought you were miles away, or
dead!  Why didn't you write to me?"" said Troy to the woman, in a
strangely gentle, yet hurried voice, as he lifted her up.

""I feared to.""

""Have you any money?""

""None.""

""Good Heaven--I wish I had more to give you!  Here's--wretched--the
merest trifle.  It is every farthing I have left.  I have none but
what my wife gives me, you know, and I can't ask her now.""

The woman made no answer.

""I have only another moment,"" continued Troy; ""and now listen.  Where
are you going to-night?  Casterbridge Union?""

""Yes; I thought to go there.""

""You shan't go there; yet, wait.  Yes, perhaps for to-night; I can
do nothing better--worse luck!  Sleep there to-night, and stay there
to-morrow.  Monday is the first free day I have; and on Monday
morning, at ten exactly, meet me on Grey's Bridge just out of the
town.  I'll bring all the money I can muster.  You shan't want--I'll
see that, Fanny; then I'll get you a lodging somewhere.  Good-bye
till then.  I am a brute--but good-bye!""

After advancing the distance which completed the ascent of the
hill, Bathsheba turned her head.  The woman was upon her feet, and
Bathsheba saw her withdrawing from Troy, and going feebly down the
hill by the third milestone from Casterbridge.  Troy then came on
towards his wife, stepped into the gig, took the reins from her hand,
and without making any observation whipped the horse into a trot.  He
was rather agitated.

""Do you know who that woman was?"" said Bathsheba, looking searchingly
into his face.

""I do,"" he said, looking boldly back into hers.

""I thought you did,"" said she, with angry hauteur, and still
regarding him.  ""Who is she?""

He suddenly seemed to think that frankness would benefit neither of
the women.

""Nothing to either of us,"" he said.  ""I know her by sight.""

""What is her name?""

""How should I know her name?""

""I think you do.""

""Think if you will, and be--"" The sentence was completed by a smart
cut of the whip round Poppet's flank, which caused the animal to
start forward at a wild pace.  No more was said.



","Bathsheba and Sergeant Troy are travelling to the local market to deal with some business. Bathsheba is sitting up in a cart, while Sergeant Troy is on the road leading the horses. They argue briefly about how much of Bathsheba's money Troy has been blowing at horse races. Troy tells her that if he'd known she was such a nag he wouldn't have married her. As they travel, a homeless-looking woman walks past them and asks Troy what time the local shelter in Casterbridge closes for the night. Troy is clearly concerned by the sound of this woman's voice, but he pretends to be chill and tells her he's not sure about the closing time. When the woman sees Troy's face, she utters a cry and falls to the ground. Bathsheba tries to help, but Troy orders her to stay where she is. In a hushed voice, Troy asks the woman why she didn't just write to him for money. He then gives her every last penny he has on him. Before they part ways, Troy tells her to meet him at a place called Grey's Bridge on the next Monday. While he's saying this, he calls her Fanny. So we know that this woman is Fanny Robin, Troy's jilted ex-fiance. Finally, Troy hurries Fanny away and returns to his cart and Bathsheba. Bathsheba asks him if he knew the woman, but he denies it, saying he only knows her face from around town. Bathsheba isn't convinced, though, and she's certain that Troy has had some previous contact with this woman. Good call, Bathsheba."
51,"

TROY'S ROMANTICISM


When Troy's wife had left the house at the previous midnight his
first act was to cover the dead from sight.  This done he ascended
the stairs, and throwing himself down upon the bed dressed as he was,
he waited miserably for the morning.

Fate had dealt grimly with him through the last four-and-twenty
hours.  His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially
from his intentions regarding it.  There is always an inertia to
be overcome in striking out a new line of conduct--not more in
ourselves, it seems, than in circumscribing events, which appear as
if leagued together to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.

Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed to
add to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account,
which had been seven pounds ten.  With this money, twenty-seven
pounds ten in all, he had hastily driven from the gate that morning
to keep his appointment with Fanny Robin.

On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and
at five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower end
of the town, and sat himself upon the parapet.  The clocks struck
the hour, and no Fanny appeared.  In fact, at that moment she was
being robed in her grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union
poorhouse--the first and last tiring-women the gentle creature had
ever been honoured with.  The quarter went, the half hour.  A rush of
recollection came upon Troy as he waited: this was the second time
she had broken a serious engagement with him.  In anger he vowed
it should be the last, and at eleven o'clock, when he had lingered
and watched the stone of the bridge till he knew every lichen upon
their face and heard the chink of the ripples underneath till they
oppressed him, he jumped from his seat, went to the inn for his
gig, and in a bitter mood of indifference concerning the past, and
recklessness about the future, drove on to Budmouth races.

He reached the race-course at two o'clock, and remained either there
or in the town till nine.  But Fanny's image, as it had appeared to
him in the sombre shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to his
mind, backed up by Bathsheba's reproaches.  He vowed he would not
bet, and he kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o'clock in
the evening he had diminished his cash only to the extent of a few
shillings.

He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he was struck for the
first time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented by
illness from keeping her promise.  This time she could have made no
mistake.  He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and
made inquiries.  Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse and
came indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him.


As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arose
from the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference
to Bathsheba's whereabouts, and almost oblivious of her existence, he
stalked downstairs and left the house by the back door.  His walk was
towards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he
found a newly dug unoccupied grave--the grave dug the day before for
Fanny.  The position of this having been marked, he hastened on to
Casterbridge, only pausing and musing for a while at the hill whereon
he had last seen Fanny alive.

Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and entered a
pair of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, ""Lester, stone
and marble mason.""  Within were lying about stones of all sizes and
designs, inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons
who had not yet died.

Troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that the
want of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness.  His
method of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb was
that of an absolutely unpractised man.  He could not bring himself
to consider, calculate, or economize.  He waywardly wished for
something, and he set about obtaining it like a child in a nursery.
""I want a good tomb,"" he said to the man who stood in a little office
within the yard.  ""I want as good a one as you can give me for
twenty-seven pounds.""

It was all the money he possessed.

""That sum to include everything?""

""Everything.  Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury, and
erection.  And I want it now, at once.""

""We could not get anything special worked this week.""

""I must have it now.""

""If you would like one of these in stock it could be got ready
immediately.""

""Very well,"" said Troy, impatiently.  ""Let's see what you have.""

""The best I have in stock is this one,"" said the stone-cutter, going
into a shed.  ""Here's a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with
medallions beneath of typical subjects; here's the footstone after
the same pattern, and here's the coping to enclose the grave.  The
polishing alone of the set cost me eleven pounds--the slabs are the
best of their kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and frost
for a hundred years without flying.""

""And how much?""

""Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury for the sum
you mention.""

""Get it done to-day, and I'll pay the money now.""

The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor who wore not
a shred of mourning.  Troy then wrote the words which were to form
the inscription, settled the account and went away.  In the afternoon
he came back again, and found that the lettering was almost done.  He
waited in the yard till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the
cart and starting on its way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the
two men who were to accompany it to inquire of the sexton for the
grave of the person named in the inscription.

It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge.  He carried
rather a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily
along the road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon
he deposited his burden for a time.  Midway on his journey he met,
returning in the darkness, the men and the waggon which had conveyed
the tomb.  He merely inquired if the work was done, and, on being
assured that it was, passed on again.

Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o'clock and went
immediately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave early
in the morning.  It was on the obscure side of the tower, screened to
a great extent from the view of passers along the road--a spot which
until lately had been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of
alder, but now it was cleared and made orderly for interments, by
reason of the rapid filling of the ground elsewhere.

Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white and shapely
in the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone, and enclosing border
of marble-work uniting them.  In the midst was mould, suitable for
plants.

Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few
minutes.  When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the
light of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble, whilst
he read the inscription.  He hung his lantern on the lowest bough
of the yew-tree, and took from his basket flower-roots of several
varieties.  There were bundles of snow-drop, hyacinth and crocus
bulbs, violets and double daisies, which were to bloom in early
spring, and of carnations, pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley,
forget-me-not, summer's farewell, meadow-saffron and others, for
the later seasons of the year.

Troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face set
to work to plant them.  The snowdrops were arranged in a line on the
outside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the
grave.  The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some of
the summer flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and
forget-me-nots over her heart.  The remainder were dispersed in the
spaces between these.

Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in the
futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction
from previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity.
Deriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showed
at such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman,
together with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on
mawkishness, characteristic of the French.

It was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy's
lantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminating
power, flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud
above.  He felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and
presently one came and entered one of the holes of the lantern,
whereupon the candle sputtered and went out.  Troy was weary and
it being now not far from midnight, and the rain threatening to
increase, he resolved to leave the finishing touches of his labour
until the day should break.  He groped along the wall and over the
graves in the dark till he found himself round at the north side.
Here he entered the porch, and, reclining upon the bench within,
fell asleep.



","Now we get to find out what Troy did after parting ways with Bathsheba the night before. The first thing he did was cover up Fanny and their dead child. Next, he went up to his bed and lay awake until the next morning came. Rewind: after getting twenty pounds from Bathsheba, Troy travelled to Casterbridge with the intention of giving it to Fanny. But she never showed up for their meeting. Because he's a guy who doesn't like to be stood up, Troy left and went back to his home in Weatherbury. Little did he know what shock was waiting. Back to the present: Troy leaves his house, not caring where Bathsheba is, and goes to the open grave that's been dug for Fanny in the nearby cemetery. He takes all the money he'd been meaning to give to Fanny and spends it all on a fancy tombstone, which he gets shipped to Weatherbury from Casterbridge. After all that, he heads back to Fanny's grave with a basket full of seeds and bulbs, and starts planting all kinds of flowers around Fanny's grave. At this point, Troy feels a splash of rain on the back of one of his hands, so he stop working and goes to fall asleep in a cemetery building."
52,"

ADVENTURES BY THE SHORE


Troy wandered along towards the south.  A composite feeling, made up
of disgust with the, to him, humdrum tediousness of a farmer's life,
gloomy images of her who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a
general averseness to his wife's society, impelled him to seek a
home in any place on earth save Weatherbury.  The sad accessories of
Fanny's end confronted him as vivid pictures which threatened to be
indelible, and made life in Bathsheba's house intolerable.  At three
in the afternoon he found himself at the foot of a slope more than
a mile in length, which ran to the ridge of a range of hills lying
parallel with the shore, and forming a monotonous barrier between
the basin of cultivated country inland and the wilder scenery of the
coast.  Up the hill stretched a road nearly straight and perfectly
white, the two sides approaching each other in a gradual taper till
they met the sky at the top about two miles off.  Throughout the
length of this narrow and irksome inclined plane not a sign of life
was visible on this garish afternoon.  Troy toiled up the road with a
languor and depression greater than any he had experienced for many a
day and year before.  The air was warm and muggy, and the top seemed
to recede as he approached.

At last he reached the summit, and a wide and novel prospect burst
upon him with an effect almost like that of the Pacific upon Balboa's
gaze.  The broad steely sea, marked only by faint lines, which had
a semblance of being etched thereon to a degree not deep enough to
disturb its general evenness, stretched the whole width of his front
and round to the right, where, near the town and port of Budmouth,
the sun bristled down upon it, and banished all colour, to substitute
in its place a clear oily polish.  Nothing moved in sky, land, or
sea, except a frill of milkwhite foam along the nearer angles of the
shore, shreds of which licked the contiguous stones like tongues.

He descended and came to a small basin of sea enclosed by the cliffs.
Troy's nature freshened within him; he thought he would rest and
bathe here before going farther.  He undressed and plunged in.
Inside the cove the water was uninteresting to a swimmer, being
smooth as a pond, and to get a little of the ocean swell, Troy
presently swam between the two projecting spurs of rock which
formed the pillars of Hercules to this miniature Mediterranean.
Unfortunately for Troy a current unknown to him existed outside,
which, unimportant to craft of any burden, was awkward for a swimmer
who might be taken in it unawares.  Troy found himself carried to
the left and then round in a swoop out to sea.

He now recollected the place and its sinister character.  Many
bathers had there prayed for a dry death from time to time, and, like
Gonzalo also, had been unanswered; and Troy began to deem it possible
that he might be added to their number.  Not a boat of any kind was
at present within sight, but far in the distance Budmouth lay upon
the sea, as it were quietly regarding his efforts, and beside the
town the harbour showed its position by a dim meshwork of ropes and
spars.  After well-nigh exhausting himself in attempts to get back to
the mouth of the cove, in his weakness swimming several inches deeper
than was his wont, keeping up his breathing entirely by his nostrils,
turning upon his back a dozen times over, swimming _en papillon_, and
so on, Troy resolved as a last resource to tread water at a slight
incline, and so endeavour to reach the shore at any point, merely
giving himself a gentle impetus inwards whilst carried on in the
general direction of the tide.  This, necessarily a slow process,
he found to be not altogether so difficult, and though there was no
choice of a landing-place--the objects on shore passing by him in a
sad and slow procession--he perceptibly approached the extremity of a
spit of land yet further to the right, now well defined against the
sunny portion of the horizon.  While the swimmer's eyes were fixed
upon the spit as his only means of salvation on this side of the
Unknown, a moving object broke the outline of the extremity, and
immediately a ship's boat appeared manned with several sailor lads,
her bows towards the sea.

All Troy's vigour spasmodically revived to prolong the struggle yet a
little further.  Swimming with his right arm, he held up his left to
hail them, splashing upon the waves, and shouting with all his might.
From the position of the setting sun his white form was distinctly
visible upon the now deep-hued bosom of the sea to the east of the
boat, and the men saw him at once.  Backing their oars and putting
the boat about, they pulled towards him with a will, and in five or
six minutes from the time of his first halloo, two of the sailors
hauled him in over the stern.

They formed part of a brig's crew, and had come ashore for sand.
Lending him what little clothing they could spare among them as a
slight protection against the rapidly cooling air, they agreed to
land him in the morning; and without further delay, for it was
growing late, they made again towards the roadstead where their
vessel lay.

And now night drooped slowly upon the wide watery levels in front;
and at no great distance from them, where the shoreline curved round,
and formed a long riband of shade upon the horizon, a series of
points of yellow light began to start into existence, denoting the
spot to be the site of Budmouth, where the lamps were being lighted
along the parade.  The cluck of their oars was the only sound of any
distinctness upon the sea, and as they laboured amid the thickening
shades the lamp-lights grew larger, each appearing to send a flaming
sword deep down into the waves before it, until there arose, among
other dim shapes of the kind, the form of the vessel for which they
were bound.



","Now we're back to following Troy, who isn't walking to Budmouth at all, but rather going south toward the ocean's shore. While walking along the shore, he decides to refresh himself with a swim, and strips off his clothing. Once inside the water, Troy decides he wants to feel a bit more of an ocean swell, so he swims out of the cove he's in a quickly gets caught in a riptide. He soon realizes that his chances of getting back to land aren't all that great. Luckily for him, though, he's picked up by a group of sailors who are rowing out to a nearby ship. They tell him that, because they picked him up, they're now behind schedule. So he decides to get away from his problems by joining them and offering to work off his debt. He returns to the shore for his clothes, but finds them gone. So he goes back with the sailors in borrowed clothes and sets sail for new adventures. He's not all that concerned about people back in Weatherbury worrying after him."
53,"

OAK'S ADVANCEMENT--A GREAT HOPE


The later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the leaves lay
thick upon the turf of the glades and the mosses of the woods.
Bathsheba, having previously been living in a state of suspended
feeling which was not suspense, now lived in a mood of quietude which
was not precisely peacefulness.  While she had known him to be alive
she could have thought of his death with equanimity; but now that it
might be she had lost him, she regretted that he was not hers still.
She kept the farm going, raked in her profits without caring keenly
about them, and expended money on ventures because she had done so
in bygone days, which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitely
removed from her present.  She looked back upon that past over a
great gulf, as if she were now a dead person, having the faculty of
meditation still left in her, by means of which, like the mouldering
gentlefolk of the poet's story, she could sit and ponder what a gift
life used to be.

However, one excellent result of her general apathy was the
long-delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; but he having virtually
exercised that function for a long time already, the change, beyond
the substantial increase of wages it brought, was little more than a
nominal one addressed to the outside world.

Boldwood lived secluded and inactive.  Much of his wheat and all his
barley of that season had been spoilt by the rain.  It sprouted,
grew into intricate mats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in
armfuls.  The strange neglect which had produced this ruin and waste
became the subject of whispered talk among all the people round; and
it was elicited from one of Boldwood's men that forgetfulness had
nothing to do with it, for he had been reminded of the danger to his
corn as many times and as persistently as inferiors dared to do.
The sight of the pigs turning in disgust from the rotten ears seemed
to arouse Boldwood, and he one evening sent for Oak.  Whether it
was suggested by Bathsheba's recent act of promotion or not, the
farmer proposed at the interview that Gabriel should undertake the
superintendence of the Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba's, because
of the necessity Boldwood felt for such aid, and the impossibility
of discovering a more trustworthy man. Gabriel's malignant star was
assuredly setting fast.

Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal--for Oak was obliged to
consult her--at first languidly objected.  She considered that the
two farms together were too extensive for the observation of one
man.  Boldwood, who was apparently determined by personal rather than
commercial reasons, suggested that Oak should be furnished with a
horse for his sole use, when the plan would present no difficulty,
the two farms lying side by side.  Boldwood did not directly
communicate with her during these negotiations, only speaking to Oak,
who was the go-between throughout.  All was harmoniously arranged at
last, and we now see Oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trotting
the length and breadth of about two thousand acres in a cheerful spirit
of surveillance, as if the crops all belonged to him--the actual
mistress of the one-half and the master of the other, sitting in
their respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion.

Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a talk in the
parish that Gabriel Oak was feathering his nest fast.

""Whatever d'ye think,"" said Susan Tall, ""Gable Oak is coming it quite
the dand.  He now wears shining boots with hardly a hob in 'em, two
or three times a-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and 'a hardly knows
the name of smockfrock.  When I see people strut enough to be cut up
into bantam cocks, I stand dormant with wonder, and says no more!""

It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paid a fixed wage by
Bathsheba independent of the fluctuations of agricultural profits,
had made an engagement with Boldwood by which Oak was to receive a
share of the receipts--a small share certainly, yet it was money of
a higher quality than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way
that wages were not.  Some were beginning to consider Oak a ""near""
man, for though his condition had thus far improved, he lived in no
better style than before, occupying the same cottage, paring his own
potatoes, mending his stockings, and sometimes even making his bed
with his own hands.  But as Oak was not only provokingly indifferent
to public opinion, but a man who clung persistently to old habits and
usages, simply because they were old, there was room for doubt as to
his motives.

A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood, whose unreasoning
devotion to Bathsheba could only be characterized as a fond madness
which neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, could
weaken or destroy.  This fevered hope had grown up again like a grain
of mustard-seed during the quiet which followed the hasty conjecture
that Troy was drowned.  He nourished it fearfully, and almost shunned
the contemplation of it in earnest, lest facts should reveal the
wildness of the dream.  Bathsheba having at last been persuaded to
wear mourning, her appearance as she entered the church in that
guise was in itself a weekly addition to his faith that a time was
coming--very far off perhaps, yet surely nearing--when his waiting on
events should have its reward.  How long he might have to wait he had
not yet closely considered.  What he would try to recognize was that
the severe schooling she had been subjected to had made Bathsheba
much more considerate than she had formerly been of the feelings of
others, and he trusted that, should she be willing at any time in the
future to marry any man at all, that man would be himself.  There was
a substratum of good feeling in her: her self-reproach for the injury
she had thoughtlessly done him might be depended upon now to a much
greater extent than before her infatuation and disappointment.  It
would be possible to approach her by the channel of her good nature,
and to suggest a friendly businesslike compact between them for
fulfilment at some future day, keeping the passionate side of his
desire entirely out of her sight.  Such was Boldwood's hope.

To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps additionally
charming just now.  Her exuberance of spirit was pruned down; the
original phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too bright
for human nature's daily food, and she had been able to enter this
second poetical phase without losing much of the first in the
process.

Bathsheba's return from a two months' visit to her old aunt at
Norcombe afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext for
inquiring directly after her--now possibly in the ninth month of her
widowhood--and endeavouring to get a notion of her state of mind
regarding him.  This occurred in the middle of the haymaking, and
Boldwood contrived to be near Liddy, who was assisting in the fields.

""I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia,"" he said pleasantly.

She simpered, and wondered in her heart why he should speak so
frankly to her.

""I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence,"" he
continued, in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted neighbour
could scarcely say less about her.

""She is quite well, sir.""

""And cheerful, I suppose.""

""Yes, cheerful.""

""Fearful, did you say?""

""Oh no.  I merely said she was cheerful.""

""Tells you all her affairs?""

""No, sir.""

""Some of them?""

""Yes, sir.""

""Mrs. Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia, and very wisely,
perhaps.""

""She do, sir.  I've been with her all through her troubles, and was
with her at the time of Mr. Troy's going and all.  And if she were
to marry again I expect I should bide with her.""

""She promises that you shall--quite natural,"" said the strategic
lover, throbbing throughout him at the presumption which Liddy's
words appeared to warrant--that his darling had thought of
re-marriage.

""No--she doesn't promise it exactly.  I merely judge on my own
account.""

""Yes, yes, I understand.  When she alludes to the possibility of
marrying again, you conclude--""

""She never do allude to it, sir,"" said Liddy, thinking how very
stupid Mr. Boldwood was getting.

""Of course not,"" he returned hastily, his hope falling again.  ""You
needn't take quite such long reaches with your rake, Lydia--short
and quick ones are best.  Well, perhaps, as she is absolute mistress
again now, it is wise of her to resolve never to give up her
freedom.""

""My mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously, that she
supposed she might marry again at the end of seven years from last
year, if she cared to risk Mr. Troy's coming back and claiming her.""

""Ah, six years from the present time.  Said that she might.  She
might marry at once in every reasonable person's opinion, whatever
the lawyers may say to the contrary.""

""Have you been to ask them?"" said Liddy, innocently.

""Not I,"" said Boldwood, growing red.  ""Liddy, you needn't stay here
a minute later than you wish, so Mr. Oak says.  I am now going on a
little farther.  Good-afternoon.""

He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for this one
time in his life done anything which could be called underhand.  Poor
Boldwood had no more skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he
was uneasy with a sense of having made himself to appear stupid and,
what was worse, mean.  But he had, after all, lighted upon one fact
by way of repayment.  It was a singularly fresh and fascinating fact,
and though not without its sadness it was pertinent and real.  In
little more than six years from this time Bathsheba might certainly
marry him.  There was something definite in that hope, for admitting
that there might have been no deep thought in her words to Liddy
about marriage, they showed at least her creed on the matter.

This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind.  Six years were
a long time, but how much shorter than never, the idea he had for so
long been obliged to endure!  Jacob had served twice seven years for
Rachel: what were six for such a woman as this?  He tried to like the
notion of waiting for her better than that of winning her at once.
Boldwood felt his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, that
it was possible she had never yet known its full volume, and this
patience in delay would afford him an opportunity of giving sweet
proof on the point.  He would annihilate the six years of his life as
if they were minutes--so little did he value his time on earth beside
her love.  He would let her see, all those six years of intangible
ethereal courtship, how little care he had for anything but as it
bore upon the consummation.

Meanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the week in
which Greenhill Fair was held.  This fair was frequently attended by
the folk of Weatherbury.



","As the narrator tells us, there's at least one happy aspect to Bathsheba's newfound listlessness. She promotes Oak to the position of bailiff at her farm, which gives the guy a nice new income and a lot more control over his job. Meanwhile, it becomes widely known that Boldwood's crops have been spoiled for the season. In order to get his farm back on track, Boldwood hires Oak as a sort of consulting farmer. Bathsheba doesn't like the idea at first, but eventually gives in. It definitely looks like Oak is on the road to success. While he's running around with all this business, Bathsheba and Boldwood live alone in their houses and barely ever come out. Then Bathsheba goes on a two-month long trip. When she returns, we find out that it's been nine months since Troy's disappearance. At this point, Boldwood has decided that he's going to try and marry her again. Boldwood comes up to Liddy one day and starts asking about how Bathsheba has been doing, and if she plans on ever marrying again. Liddy totally knows what he's getting at, though, and keeps giving him evasive answers. Boldwood quickly walks away when he realizes he won't get any of the answers he wants. He's even annoyed with himself for showing too much interest. The last thing he hears is that Bathsheba would wait at least six years until she was ready to marry someone again. The news sounds horrible to Boldwood, but he also feels like he's willing to wait."
54,"THE MARCH FOLLOWING--""BATHSHEBA BOLDWOOD""


We pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a breezy day without
sunshine, frost, or dew.  On Yalbury Hill, about midway between
Weatherbury and Casterbridge, where the turnpike road passes over
the crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of
the greater number being frequently stretched afar in a northerly
direction.  The groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of
javelin-men, and two trumpeters, and in the midst were carriages, one
of which contained the high sheriff.  With the idlers, many of whom
had mounted to the top of a cutting formed for the road, were several
Weatherbury men and boys--among others Poorgrass, Coggan, and Cain
Ball.

At the end of half-an-hour a faint dust was seen in the expected
quarter, and shortly after a travelling-carriage, bringing one of the
two judges on the Western Circuit, came up the hill and halted on the
top.  The judge changed carriages whilst a flourish was blown by the
big-cheeked trumpeters, and a procession being formed of the vehicles
and javelin-men, they all proceeded towards the town, excepting the
Weatherbury men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move off
returned home again to their work.

""Joseph, I seed you squeezing close to the carriage,"" said Coggan, as
they walked.  ""Did ye notice my lord judge's face?""

""I did,"" said Poorgrass.  ""I looked hard at en, as if I would read
his very soul; and there was mercy in his eyes--or to speak with the
exact truth required of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was
towards me.""

""Well, I hope for the best,"" said Coggan, ""though bad that must be.
However, I shan't go to the trial, and I'd advise the rest of ye
that bain't wanted to bide away.  'Twill disturb his mind more than
anything to see us there staring at him as if he were a show.""

""The very thing I said this morning,"" observed Joseph, ""'Justice is
come to weigh him in the balances,' I said in my reflectious way,
'and if he's found wanting, so be it unto him,' and a bystander said
'Hear, hear!  A man who can talk like that ought to be heard.' But I
don't like dwelling upon it, for my few words are my few words, and
not much; though the speech of some men is rumoured abroad as though
by nature formed for such.""

""So 'tis, Joseph.  And now, neighbours, as I said, every man bide at
home.""

The resolution was adhered to; and all waited anxiously for the news
next day.  Their suspense was diverted, however, by a discovery which
was made in the afternoon, throwing more light on Boldwood's conduct
and condition than any details which had preceded it.

That he had been from the time of Greenhill Fair until the fatal
Christmas Eve in excited and unusual moods was known to those who had
been intimate with him; but nobody imagined that there had shown in
him unequivocal symptoms of the mental derangement which Bathsheba
and Oak, alone of all others and at different times, had momentarily
suspected.  In a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary
collection of articles.  There were several sets of ladies' dresses
in the piece, of sundry expensive materials; silks and satins,
poplins and velvets, all of colours which from Bathsheba's style of
dress might have been judged to be her favourites.  There were two
muffs, sable and ermine.  Above all there was a case of jewellery,
containing four heavy gold bracelets and several lockets and rings,
all of fine quality and manufacture.  These things had been bought in
Bath and other towns from time to time, and brought home by stealth.
They were all carefully packed in paper, and each package was
labelled ""Bathsheba Boldwood,"" a date being subjoined six years in
advance in every instance.

These somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind crazed with care and love
were the subject of discourse in Warren's malt-house when Oak entered
from Casterbridge with tidings of sentence. He came in the afternoon,
and his face, as the kiln glow shone upon it, told the tale
sufficiently well.  Boldwood, as every one supposed he would do, had
pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death.

The conviction that Boldwood had not been morally responsible for his
later acts now became general.  Facts elicited previous to the trial
had pointed strongly in the same direction, but they had not been of
sufficient weight to lead to an order for an examination into the
state of Boldwood's mind.  It was astonishing, now that a presumption
of insanity was raised, how many collateral circumstances were
remembered to which a condition of mental disease seemed to afford
the only explanation--among others, the unprecedented neglect of his
corn stacks in the previous summer.

A petition was addressed to the Home Secretary, advancing
the circumstances which appeared to justify a request for a
reconsideration of the sentence.  It was not ""numerously signed""
by the inhabitants of Casterbridge, as is usual in such cases, for
Boldwood had never made many friends over the counter.  The shops
thought it very natural that a man who, by importing direct from
the producer, had daringly set aside the first great principle of
provincial existence, namely that God made country villages to supply
customers to county towns, should have confused ideas about the
Decalogue.  The prompters were a few merciful men who had perhaps too
feelingly considered the facts latterly unearthed, and the result was
that evidence was taken which it was hoped might remove the crime in
a moral point of view, out of the category of wilful murder, and lead
it to be regarded as a sheer outcome of madness.

The upshot of the petition was waited for in Weatherbury with
solicitous interest.  The execution had been fixed for eight o'clock
on a Saturday morning about a fortnight after the sentence was
passed, and up to Friday afternoon no answer had been received.  At
that time Gabriel came from Casterbridge Gaol, whither he had been
to wish Boldwood good-bye, and turned down a by-street to avoid the
town.  When past the last house he heard a hammering, and lifting
his bowed head he looked back for a moment.  Over the chimneys he
could see the upper part of the gaol entrance, rich and glowing
in the afternoon sun, and some moving figures were there.  They
were carpenters lifting a post into a vertical position within the
parapet.  He withdrew his eyes quickly, and hastened on.

It was dark when he reached home, and half the village was out to
meet him.

""No tidings,"" Gabriel said, wearily.  ""And I'm afraid there's no
hope.  I've been with him more than two hours.""

""Do ye think he REALLY was out of his mind when he did it?"" said
Smallbury.

""I can't honestly say that I do,"" Oak replied.  ""However, that we can
talk of another time.  Has there been any change in mistress this
afternoon?""

""None at all.""

""Is she downstairs?""

""No.  And getting on so nicely as she was too.  She's but very little
better now again than she was at Christmas.  She keeps on asking
if you be come, and if there's news, till one's wearied out wi'
answering her.  Shall I go and say you've come?""

""No,"" said Oak.  ""There's a chance yet; but I couldn't stay in town
any longer--after seeing him too.  So Laban--Laban is here, isn't
he?""

""Yes,"" said Tall.

""What I've arranged is, that you shall ride to town the last thing
to-night; leave here about nine, and wait a while there, getting home
about twelve.  If nothing has been received by eleven to-night, they
say there's no chance at all.""

""I do so hope his life will be spared,"" said Liddy.  ""If it is not,
she'll go out of her mind too.  Poor thing; her sufferings have been
dreadful; she deserves anybody's pity.""

""Is she altered much?"" said Coggan.

""If you haven't seen poor mistress since Christmas, you wouldn't know
her,"" said Liddy.  ""Her eyes are so miserable that she's not the same
woman.  Only two years ago she was a romping girl, and now she's
this!""

Laban departed as directed, and at eleven o'clock that night several
of the villagers strolled along the road to Casterbridge and awaited
his arrival--among them Oak, and nearly all the rest of Bathsheba's
men.  Gabriel's anxiety was great that Boldwood might be saved, even
though in his conscience he felt that he ought to die; for there had
been qualities in the farmer which Oak loved.  At last, when they all
were weary the tramp of a horse was heard in the distance--


     First dead, as if on turf it trode,
     Then, clattering on the village road
     In other pace than forth he yode.


""We shall soon know now, one way or other."" said Coggan, and they all
stepped down from the bank on which they had been standing into the
road, and the rider pranced into the midst of them.

""Is that you, Laban?"" said Gabriel.

""Yes--'tis come.  He's not to die.  'Tis confinement during Her
Majesty's pleasure.""

""Hurrah!"" said Coggan, with a swelling heart.  ""God's above the devil
yet!""



","Three months after Boldwood's Christmas party, we hear about how Boldwood's trial has been going. The guy's only hope for survival is to be declared insane. A few of Bathsheba's workmen are chatting about whether Boldwood will be given a death sentence. While the trial is happening, some new evidence is found in Boldwood's home. Or to put it another way, there are tons of coats and scarves and other lady's clothing found in boxes marked ""Bathsheba Boldwood,"" meaning that Boldwood's fantasies of marrying her were completely obsessive. This, of course, becomes a topic of discussion in the town for weeks afterward. The people use this evidence to petition for Boldwood's cause. The man's execution date has been set. But only one day before Boldwood's date with death, he gets pardoned for being insane."
55,"A FOGGY NIGHT AND MORNING--CONCLUSION


""The most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible to
have.""

Those had been Bathsheba's words to Oak one evening, some time after
the event of the preceding f, and he meditated a full hour by
the clock upon how to carry out her wishes to the letter.

""A license--O yes, it must be a license,"" he said to himself at last.
""Very well, then; first, a license.""

On a dark night, a few days later, Oak came with mysterious steps
from the surrogate's door, in Casterbridge.  On the way home he heard
a heavy tread in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him to
be Coggan.  They walked together into the village until they came to
a little lane behind the church, leading down to the cottage of Laban
Tall, who had lately been installed as clerk of the parish, and was
yet in mortal terror at church on Sundays when he heard his lone
voice among certain hard words of the Psalms, whither no man ventured
to follow him.

""Well, good-night, Coggan,"" said Oak, ""I'm going down this way.""

""Oh!"" said Coggan, surprised; ""what's going on to-night then, make so
bold Mr. Oak?""

It seemed rather ungenerous not to tell Coggan, under the
circumstances, for Coggan had been true as steel all through the time
of Gabriel's unhappiness about Bathsheba, and Gabriel said, ""You can
keep a secret, Coggan?""

""You've proved me, and you know.""

""Yes, I have, and I do know.  Well, then, mistress and I mean to get
married to-morrow morning.""

""Heaven's high tower!  And yet I've thought of such a thing from time
to time; true, I have.  But keeping it so close!  Well, there, 'tis
no consarn of of mine, and I wish 'ee joy o' her.""

""Thank you, Coggan.  But I assure 'ee that this great hush is not
what I wished for at all, or what either of us would have wished if
it hadn't been for certain things that would make a gay wedding seem
hardly the thing.  Bathsheba has a great wish that all the parish
shall not be in church, looking at her--she's shy-like and nervous
about it, in fact--so I be doing this to humour her.""

""Ay, I see: quite right, too, I suppose I must say.  And you be now
going down to the clerk.""

""Yes; you may as well come with me.""

""I am afeard your labour in keeping it close will be throwed away,""
said Coggan, as they walked along.  ""Labe Tall's old woman will horn
it all over parish in half-an-hour.""

""So she will, upon my life; I never thought of that,"" said Oak,
pausing.  ""Yet I must tell him to-night, I suppose, for he's working
so far off, and leaves early.""

""I'll tell 'ee how we could tackle her,"" said Coggan.  ""I'll knock
and ask to speak to Laban outside the door, you standing in the
background.  Then he'll come out, and you can tell yer tale.  She'll
never guess what I want en for; and I'll make up a few words about
the farm-work, as a blind.""

This scheme was considered feasible; and Coggan advanced boldly, and
rapped at Mrs. Tall's door.  Mrs. Tall herself opened it.

""I wanted to have a word with Laban.""

""He's not at home, and won't be this side of eleven o'clock.  He've
been forced to go over to Yalbury since shutting out work.  I shall
do quite as well.""

""I hardly think you will.  Stop a moment;"" and Coggan stepped round
the corner of the porch to consult Oak.

""Who's t'other man, then?"" said Mrs. Tall.

""Only a friend,"" said Coggan.

""Say he's wanted to meet mistress near church-hatch to-morrow morning
at ten,"" said Oak, in a whisper.  ""That he must come without fail,
and wear his best clothes.""

""The clothes will floor us as safe as houses!"" said Coggan.

""It can't be helped,"" said Oak.  ""Tell her.""

So Coggan delivered the message.  ""Mind, het or wet, blow or snow,
he must come,"" added Jan.  ""'Tis very particular, indeed.  The fact
is, 'tis to witness her sign some law-work about taking shares wi'
another farmer for a long span o' years.  There, that's what 'tis,
and now I've told 'ee, Mother Tall, in a way I shouldn't ha' done
if I hadn't loved 'ee so hopeless well.""

Coggan retired before she could ask any further; and next they called
at the vicar's in a manner which excited no curiosity at all.  Then
Gabriel went home, and prepared for the morrow.


""Liddy,"" said Bathsheba, on going to bed that night, ""I want you to
call me at seven o'clock to-morrow, In case I shouldn't wake.""

""But you always do wake afore then, ma'am.""

""Yes, but I have something important to do, which I'll tell you of
when the time comes, and it's best to make sure.""

Bathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four, nor could she by any
contrivance get to sleep again.  About six, being quite positive that
her watch had stopped during the night, she could wait no longer.
She went and tapped at Liddy's door, and after some labour awoke her.

""But I thought it was I who had to call you?"" said the bewildered
Liddy.  ""And it isn't six yet.""

""Indeed it is; how can you tell such a story, Liddy?  I know it must
be ever so much past seven.  Come to my room as soon as you can; I
want you to give my hair a good brushing.""

When Liddy came to Bathsheba's room her mistress was already waiting.
Liddy could not understand this extraordinary promptness.  ""Whatever
IS going on, ma'am?"" she said.

""Well, I'll tell you,"" said Bathsheba, with a mischievous smile in
her bright eyes.  ""Farmer Oak is coming here to dine with me to-day!""

""Farmer Oak--and nobody else?--you two alone?""

""Yes.""

""But is it safe, ma'am, after what's been said?"" asked her companion,
dubiously.  ""A woman's good name is such a perishable article that--""

Bathsheba laughed with a flushed cheek, and whispered in Liddy's ear,
although there was nobody present.  Then Liddy stared and exclaimed,
""Souls alive, what news!  It makes my heart go quite bumpity-bump!""

""It makes mine rather furious, too,"" said Bathsheba.  ""However,
there's no getting out of it now!""

It was a damp disagreeable morning.  Nevertheless, at twenty minutes
to ten o'clock, Oak came out of his house, and


              Went up the hill side
              With that sort of stride
     A man puts out when walking in search of a bride,


and knocked Bathsheba's door.  Ten minutes later a large and a
smaller umbrella might have been seen moving from the same door, and
through the mist along the road to the church.  The distance was not
more than a quarter of a mile, and these two sensible persons deemed
it unnecessary to drive.  An observer must have been very close
indeed to discover that the forms under the umbrellas were those of
Oak and Bathsheba, arm-in-arm for the first time in their lives, Oak
in a greatcoat extending to his knees, and Bathsheba in a cloak that
reached her clogs.  Yet, though so plainly dressed, there was a
certain rejuvenated appearance about her:--


     As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.


Repose had again incarnadined her cheeks; and having, at Gabriel's
request, arranged her hair this morning as she had worn it years ago
on Norcombe Hill, she seemed in his eyes remarkably like a girl of
that fascinating dream, which, considering that she was now only
three or four-and-twenty, was perhaps not very wonderful.  In the
church were Tall, Liddy, and the parson, and in a remarkably short
space of time the deed was done.

The two sat down very quietly to tea in Bathsheba's parlour in the
evening of the same day, for it had been arranged that Farmer Oak
should go there to live, since he had as yet neither money, house,
nor furniture worthy of the name, though he was on a sure way towards
them, whilst Bathsheba was, comparatively, in a plethora of all
three.

Just as Bathsheba was pouring out a cup of tea, their ears were
greeted by the firing of a cannon, followed by what seemed like a
tremendous blowing of trumpets, in the front of the house.

""There!"" said Oak, laughing, ""I knew those fellows were up to
something, by the look on their faces""

Oak took up the light and went into the porch, followed by Bathsheba
with a shawl over her head.  The rays fell upon a group of male
figures gathered upon the gravel in front, who, when they saw the
newly-married couple in the porch, set up a loud ""Hurrah!"" and at the
same moment bang again went the cannon in the background, followed by
a hideous clang of music from a drum, tambourine, clarionet, serpent,
hautboy, tenor-viol, and double-bass--the only remaining relics
of the true and original Weatherbury band--venerable worm-eaten
instruments, which had celebrated in their own persons the victories
of Marlborough, under the fingers of the forefathers of those who
played them now.  The performers came forward, and marched up to the
front.

""Those bright boys, Mark Clark and Jan, are at the bottom of all
this,"" said Oak.  ""Come in, souls, and have something to eat and
drink wi' me and my wife.""

""Not to-night,"" said Mr. Clark, with evident self-denial.  ""Thank
ye all the same; but we'll call at a more seemly time.  However, we
couldn't think of letting the day pass without a note of admiration
of some sort.  If ye could send a drop of som'at down to Warren's,
why so it is.  Here's long life and happiness to neighbour Oak and
his comely bride!""

""Thank ye; thank ye all,"" said Gabriel.  ""A bit and a drop shall be
sent to Warren's for ye at once.  I had a thought that we might very
likely get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I was
saying so to my wife but now.""

""Faith,"" said Coggan, in a critical tone, turning to his companions,
""the man hev learnt to say 'my wife' in a wonderful naterel way,
considering how very youthful he is in wedlock as yet--hey,
neighbours all?""

""I never heerd a skilful old married feller of twenty years'
standing pipe 'my wife' in a more used note than 'a did,"" said Jacob
Smallbury.  ""It might have been a little more true to nater if't had
been spoke a little chillier, but that wasn't to be expected just
now.""

""That improvement will come wi' time,"" said Jan, twirling his eye.

Then Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed readily
now), and their friends turned to go.

""Yes; I suppose that's the size o't,"" said Joseph Poorgrass with a
cheerful sigh as they moved away; ""and I wish him joy o' her; though
I were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy Hosea, in my
scripture manner, which is my second nature, 'Ephraim is joined to
idols: let him alone.'  But since 'tis as 'tis, why, it might have
been worse, and I feel my thanks accordingly.""


","Gabriel and Bathsheba agree to have the plainest, most secretive wedding they can possibly have. They go through a huge hassle to keep the word from spreading all around Weatherbury. The only person Gabriel bothers telling is Jan Coggan, whom he feels he can trust. The next thing is to get a hold of the local parson, and to get hold of a marriage certificate. Bathsheba gets her servant Liddy to be a witness. Jan is Gabriel's man. And just like that, the two of them get married. It isn't long, though, before people come marching up to Bathsheba's house to congratulate them. There's only so long you can keep something like this secret in Weatherbury. The book ends with everyone being happy about the marriage, but not too happy. After all, a man is dead and another man is in jail for the rest of his life. Stuff is pretty bittersweet."
56,"

The season developed and matured.  Another year's instalment of
flowers, leaves, nightingales, thrushes, finches, and such ephemeral
creatures, took up their positions where only a year ago others had
stood in their place when these were nothing more than germs and
inorganic particles.  Rays from the sunrise drew forth the buds and
stretched them into long stalks, lifted up sap in noiseless streams,
opened petals, and sucked out scents in invisible jets and
breathings.

Dairyman Crick's household of maids and men lived on comfortably,
placidly, even merrily.  Their position was perhaps the happiest of
all positions in the social scale, being above the line at which
neediness ends, and below the line at which the _convenances_ begin
to cramp natural feelings, and the stress of threadbare modishness
makes too little of enough.

Thus passed the leafy time when arborescence seems to be the one
thing aimed at out of doors.  Tess and Clare unconsciously studied
each other, ever balanced on the edge of a passion, yet apparently
keeping out of it.  All the while they were converging, under an
irresistible law, as surely as two streams in one vale.

Tess had never in her recent life been so happy as she was now,
possibly never would be so happy again.  She was, for one thing,
physically and mentally suited among these new surroundings.  The
sapling which had rooted down to a poisonous stratum on the spot of
its sowing had been transplanted to a deeper soil.  Moreover she, and
Clare also, stood as yet on the debatable land between predilection
and love; where no profundities have been reached; no reflections
have set in, awkwardly inquiring, ""Whither does this new current tend
to carry me?  What does it mean to my future?  How does it stand
towards my past?""

Tess was the merest stray phenomenon to Angel Clare as yet--a rosy,
warming apparition which had only just acquired the attribute of
persistence in his consciousness.  So he allowed his mind to be
occupied with her, deeming his preoccupation to be no more than a
philosopher's regard of an exceedingly novel, fresh, and interesting
specimen of womankind.

They met continually; they could not help it.  They met daily in that
strange and solemn interval, the twilight of the morning, in the
violet or pink dawn; for it was necessary to rise early, so very
early, here.  Milking was done betimes; and before the milking came
the skimming, which began at a little past three.  It usually fell
to the lot of some one or other of them to wake the rest, the first
being aroused by an alarm-clock; and, as Tess was the latest arrival,
and they soon discovered that she could be depended upon not to sleep
though the alarm as others did, this task was thrust most frequently
upon her.  No sooner had the hour of three struck and whizzed,
than she left her room and ran to the dairyman's door; then up the
ladder to Angel's, calling him in a loud whisper; then woke her
fellow-milkmaids.  By the time that Tess was dressed Clare was
downstairs and out in the humid air.  The remaining maids and the
dairyman usually gave themselves another turn on the pillow, and did
not appear till a quarter of an hour later.

The gray half-tones of daybreak are not the gray half-tones of the
day's close, though the degree of their shade may be the same.  In
the twilight of the morning, light seems active, darkness passive;
in the twilight of evening it is the darkness which is active and
crescent, and the light which is the drowsy reverse.

Being so often--possibly not always by chance--the first two persons
to get up at the dairy-house, they seemed to themselves the first
persons up of all the world.  In these early days of her residence
here Tess did not skim, but went out of doors at once after rising,
where he was generally awaiting her.  The spectral, half-compounded,
aqueous light which pervaded the open mead impressed them with
a feeling of isolation, as if they were Adam and Eve.  At this
dim inceptive stage of the day Tess seemed to Clare to exhibit a
dignified largeness both of disposition and physique, an almost
regnant power, possibly because he knew that at that preternatural
time hardly any woman so well endowed in person as she was likely to
be walking in the open air within the boundaries of his horizon; very
few in all England.  Fair women are usually asleep at mid-summer
dawns.  She was close at hand, and the rest were nowhere.

The mixed, singular, luminous gloom in which they walked along
together to the spot where the cows lay often made him think of the
Resurrection hour.  He little thought that the Magdalen might be
at his side.  Whilst all the landscape was in neutral shade his
companion's face, which was the focus of his eyes, rising above the
mist stratum, seemed to have a sort of phosphorescence upon it.  She
looked ghostly, as if she were merely a soul at large.  In reality
her face, without appearing to do so, had caught the cold gleam of
day from the north-east; his own face, though he did not think of
it, wore the same aspect to her.

It was then, as has been said, that she impressed him most deeply.
She was no longer the milkmaid, but a visionary essence of woman--a
whole sex condensed into one typical form.  He called her Artemis,
Demeter, and other fanciful names half teasingly, which she did not
like because she did not understand them.

""Call me Tess,"" she would say askance; and he did.

Then it would grow lighter, and her features would become simply
feminine; they had changed from those of a divinity who could confer
bliss to those of a being who craved it.

At these non-human hours they could get quite close to the waterfowl.
Herons came, with a great bold noise as of opening doors and
shutters, out of the boughs of a plantation which they frequented at
the side of the mead; or, if already on the spot, hardily maintained
their standing in the water as the pair walked by, watching them by
moving their heads round in a slow, horizontal, passionless wheel,
like the turn of puppets by clockwork.

They could then see the faint summer fogs in layers, woolly, level,
and apparently no thicker than counterpanes, spread about the meadows
in detached remnants of small extent.  On the gray moisture of the
grass were marks where the cows had lain through the night--dark-green
islands of dry herbage the size of their carcasses, in the general
sea of dew. From each island proceeded a serpentine trail, by which
the cow had rambled away to feed after getting up, at the end of
which trail they found her; the snoring puff from her nostrils, when
she recognized them, making an intenser little fog of her own amid
the prevailing one.  Then they drove the animals back to the barton,
or sat down to milk them on the spot, as the case might require.

Or perhaps the summer fog was more general, and the meadows lay like
a white sea, out of which the scattered trees rose like dangerous
rocks.  Birds would soar through it into the upper radiance, and
hang on the wing sunning themselves, or alight on the wet rails
subdividing the mead, which now shone like glass rods.  Minute
diamonds of moisture from the mist hung, too, upon Tess's eyelashes,
and drops upon her hair, like seed pearls.  When the day grew quite
strong and commonplace these dried off her; moreover, Tess then
lost her strange and ethereal beauty; her teeth, lips, and eyes
scintillated in the sunbeams and she was again the dazzlingly fair
dairymaid only, who had to hold her own against the other women of
the world.

About this time they would hear Dairyman Crick's voice, lecturing the
non-resident milkers for arriving late, and speaking sharply to old
Deborah Fyander for not washing her hands.

""For Heaven's sake, pop thy hands under the pump, Deb!  Upon my soul,
if the London folk only knowed of thee and thy slovenly ways, they'd
swaller their milk and butter more mincing than they do a'ready; and
that's saying a good deal.""

The milking progressed, till towards the end Tess and Clare, in
common with the rest, could hear the heavy breakfast table dragged
out from the wall in the kitchen by Mrs Crick, this being the
invariable preliminary to each meal; the same horrible scrape
accompanying its return journey when the table had been cleared.


","Time passes at the dairy. Everyone's enjoying the summer weather. Tess and Angel are studying each other day by day--but not quite in love yet. Tess is happier now than she's ever been in recent memory. She and Angel see each other frequently--often they're the first ones up. And dairy farmers have to get up really early in the morning. We're talking 3:30 a.m. Being the first ones up makes them feel like they're the only two people in the world. They're like Adam and Eve. He calls her ""Artemis"" and ""Demeter"" , but she prefers to be called Tess . In the pale light of the early morning, Tess's beauty seems almost supernatural to Angel, and he seems the same to her. But then their solitude would be ended by the arrival of the other milkmen and milkmaids, and the milking would begin."
57,"

They came downstairs yawning next morning; but skimming and milking
were proceeded with as usual, and they went indoors to breakfast.
Dairyman Crick was discovered stamping about the house.  He had
received a letter, in which a customer had complained that the butter
had a twang.

""And begad, so 't have!"" said the dairyman, who held in his left hand
a wooden slice on which a lump of butter was stuck. ""Yes--taste for
yourself!""

Several of them gathered round him; and Mr Clare tasted, Tess tasted,
also the other indoor milkmaids, one or two of the milking-men, and
last of all Mrs Crick, who came out from the waiting breakfast-table.
There certainly was a twang.

The dairyman, who had thrown himself into abstraction to better
realize the taste, and so divine the particular species of noxious
weed to which it appertained, suddenly exclaimed--

""'Tis garlic! and I thought there wasn't a blade left in that mead!""

Then all the old hands remembered that a certain dry mead, into which
a few of the cows had been admitted of late, had, in years gone by,
spoilt the butter in the same way.  The dairyman had not recognized
the taste at that time, and thought the butter bewitched.

""We must overhaul that mead,"" he resumed; ""this mustn't continny!""

All having armed themselves with old pointed knives, they went out
together.  As the inimical plant could only be present in very
microscopic dimensions to have escaped ordinary observation, to
find it seemed rather a hopeless attempt in the stretch of rich
grass before them.  However, they formed themselves into line, all
assisting, owing to the importance of the search; the dairyman at
the upper end with Mr Clare, who had volunteered to help; then
Tess, Marian, Izz Huett, and Retty; then Bill Lewell, Jonathan, and
the married dairywomen--Beck Knibbs, with her wooly black hair and
rolling eyes; and flaxen Frances, consumptive from the winter damps
of the water-meads--who lived in their respective cottages.

With eyes fixed upon the ground they crept slowly across a strip of
the field, returning a little further down in such a manner that,
when they should have finished, not a single inch of the pasture but
would have fallen under the eye of some one of them.  It was a most
tedious business, not more than half a dozen shoots of garlic being
discoverable in the whole field; yet such was the herb's pungency
that probably one bite of it by one cow had been sufficient to season
the whole dairy's produce for the day.

Differing one from another in natures and moods so greatly as they
did, they yet formed, bending, a curiously uniform row--automatic,
noiseless; and an alien observer passing down the neighbouring lane
might well have been excused for massing them as ""Hodge"".  As they
crept along, stooping low to discern the plant, a soft yellow gleam
was reflected from the buttercups into their shaded faces, giving
them an elfish, moonlit aspect, though the sun was pouring upon their
backs in all the strength of noon.

Angel Clare, who communistically stuck to his rule of taking part
with the rest in everything, glanced up now and then.  It was not,
of course, by accident that he walked next to Tess.

""Well, how are you?"" he murmured.

""Very well, thank you, sir,"" she replied demurely.

As they had been discussing a score of personal matters only
half-an-hour before, the introductory style seemed a little
superfluous.  But they got no further in speech just then.  They
crept and crept, the hem of her petticoat just touching his gaiter,
and his elbow sometimes brushing hers.  At last the dairyman, who
came next, could stand it no longer.

""Upon my soul and body, this here stooping do fairly make my back
open and shut!"" he exclaimed, straightening himself slowly with an
excruciated look till quite upright.  ""And you, maidy Tess, you
wasn't well a day or two ago--this will make your head ache finely!
Don't do any more, if you feel fainty; leave the rest to finish it.""

Dairyman Crick withdrew, and Tess dropped behind.  Mr Clare also
stepped out of line, and began privateering about for the weed.  When
she found him near her, her very tension at what she had heard the
night before made her the first to speak.

""Don't they look pretty?"" she said.

""Who?""

""Izzy Huett and Retty.""

Tess had moodily decided that either of these maidens would make a
good farmer's wife, and that she ought to recommend them, and obscure
her own wretched charms.

""Pretty?  Well, yes--they are pretty girls--fresh looking.  I have
often thought so.""

""Though, poor dears, prettiness won't last long!""

""O no, unfortunately.""

""They are excellent dairywomen.""

""Yes: though not better than you.""

""They skim better than I.""

""Do they?""

Clare remained observing them--not without their observing him.

""She is colouring up,"" continued Tess heroically.

""Who?""

""Retty Priddle.""

""Oh!  Why it that?""

""Because you are looking at her.""

Self-sacrificing as her mood might be, Tess could not well go further
and cry, ""Marry one of them, if you really do want a dairywoman and
not a lady; and don't think of marrying me!""  She followed Dairyman
Crick, and had the mournful satisfaction of seeing that Clare
remained behind.

From this day she forced herself to take pains to avoid him--never
allowing herself, as formerly, to remain long in his company, even if
their juxtaposition were purely accidental.  She gave the other three
every chance.

Tess was woman enough to realize from their avowals to herself that
Angel Clare had the honour of all the dairymaids in his keeping, and
her perception of his care to avoid compromising the happiness of
either in the least degree bred a tender respect in Tess for what she
deemed, rightly or wrongly, the self-controlling sense of duty shown
by him, a quality which she had never expected to find in one of the
opposite sex, and in the absence of which more than one of the simple
hearts who were his house-mates might have gone weeping on her
pilgrimage.


","The next morning, Dairyman Crick is all in a huff because he's had a letter complaining of a funny taste in the butter. He can taste it himself, and realizes that there must be garlic in the fields that the cows have been munching. So all the dairymaids and dairymen gather up and go over every inch of the field in a row, trying to find the offending plants. This, as you can imagine, is very tedious work--like hunting meticulously for a needle in the proverbial haystack. Angel is sure to put himself next to Tess in the row, so that they can speak quietly to each other as they scour the field. After a while, Tess separates herself from the rest of the group, and Angel follows after a few minutes. Tess remarks on how pretty the other dairymaids look, especially Izz and Retty. After this, she tries to avoid Angel as much as possible, to give the other dairymaids a fair chance. After all, she thinks that she can't, in good conscience, marry anyone after having had a baby out of wedlock."
58,"

Amid the oozing fatness and warm ferments of the Froom Vale, at a
season when the rush of juices could almost be heard below the hiss
of fertilization, it was impossible that the most fanciful love
should not grow passionate.  The ready bosoms existing there were
impregnated by their surroundings.

July passed over their heads, and the Thermidorean weather which came
in its wake seemed an effort on the part of Nature to match the state
of hearts at Talbothays Dairy.  The air of the place, so fresh in the
spring and early summer, was stagnant and enervating now.  Its heavy
scents weighed upon them, and at mid-day the landscape seemed lying
in a swoon. Ethiopic scorchings browned the upper slopes of the
pastures, but there was still bright green herbage here where the
watercourses purled.  And as Clare was oppressed by the outward
heats, so was he burdened inwardly by waxing fervour of passion for
the soft and silent Tess.

The rains having passed, the uplands were dry.  The wheels of the
dairyman's spring-cart, as he sped home from market, licked up the
pulverized surface of the highway, and were followed by white ribands
of dust, as if they had set a thin powder-train on fire.  The cows
jumped wildly over the five-barred barton-gate, maddened by the
gad-fly; Dairyman Crick kept his shirt-sleeves permanently rolled up
from Monday to Saturday; open windows had no effect in ventilation
without open doors, and in the dairy-garden the blackbirds and
thrushes crept about under the currant-bushes, rather in the manner
of quadrupeds than of winged creatures.  The flies in the kitchen
were lazy, teasing, and familiar, crawling about in the unwonted
places, on the floors, into drawers, and over the backs of the
milkmaids' hands. Conversations were concerning sunstroke; while
butter-making, and still more butter-keeping, was a despair.

They milked entirely in the meads for coolness and convenience,
without driving in the cows.  During the day the animals obsequiously
followed the shadow of the smallest tree as it moved round the stem
with the diurnal roll; and when the milkers came they could hardly
stand still for the flies.

On one of these afternoons four or five unmilked cows chanced to
stand apart from the general herd, behind the corner of a hedge,
among them being Dumpling and Old Pretty, who loved Tess's hands
above those of any other maid.  When she rose from her stool under a
finished cow, Angel Clare, who had been observing her for some time,
asked her if she would take the aforesaid creatures next.  She
silently assented, and with her stool at arm's length, and the pail
against her knee, went round to where they stood.  Soon the sound of
Old Pretty's milk fizzing into the pail came through the hedge, and
then Angel felt inclined to go round the corner also, to finish off a
hard-yielding milcher who had strayed there, he being now as capable
of this as the dairyman himself.

All the men, and some of the women, when milking, dug their foreheads
into the cows and gazed into the pail.  But a few--mainly the younger
ones--rested their heads sideways.  This was Tess Durbeyfield's
habit, her temple pressing the milcher's flank, her eyes fixed on
the far end of the meadow with the quiet of one lost in meditation.
She was milking Old Pretty thus, and the sun chancing to be on the
milking-side, it shone flat upon her pink-gowned form and her white
curtain-bonnet, and upon her profile, rendering it keen as a cameo
cut from the dun background of the cow.

She did not know that Clare had followed her round, and that he sat
under his cow watching her.  The stillness of her head and features
was remarkable: she might have been in a trance, her eyes open, yet
unseeing.  Nothing in the picture moved but Old Pretty's tail and
Tess's pink hands, the latter so gently as to be a rhythmic pulsation
only, as if they were obeying a reflex stimulus, like a beating
heart.

How very lovable her face was to him.  Yet there was nothing ethereal
about it; all was real vitality, real warmth, real incarnation.  And
it was in her mouth that this culminated.  Eyes almost as deep and
speaking he had seen before, and cheeks perhaps as fair; brows as
arched, a chin and throat almost as shapely; her mouth he had seen
nothing to equal on the face of the earth.  To a young man with the
least fire in him that little upward lift in the middle of her red
top lip was distracting, infatuating, maddening.  He had never before
seen a woman's lips and teeth which forced upon his mind with such
persistent iteration the old Elizabethan simile of roses filled with
snow.  Perfect, he, as a lover, might have called them off-hand.  But
no--they were not perfect.  And it was the touch of the imperfect
upon the would-be perfect that gave the sweetness, because it was
that which gave the humanity.

Clare had studied the curves of those lips so many times that he
could reproduce them mentally with ease: and now, as they again
confronted him, clothed with colour and life, they sent an _aura_
over his flesh, a breeze through his nerves, which well nigh produced
a qualm; and actually produced, by some mysterious physiological
process, a prosaic sneeze.

She then became conscious that he was observing her; but she would
not show it by any change of position, though the curious dream-like
fixity disappeared, and a close eye might easily have discerned that
the rosiness of her face deepened, and then faded till only a tinge
of it was left.

The influence that had passed into Clare like an excitation from the
sky did not die down.  Resolutions, reticences, prudences, fears,
fell back like a defeated battalion.  He jumped up from his seat,
and, leaving his pail to be kicked over if the milcher had such a
mind, went quickly towards the desire of his eyes, and, kneeling down
beside her, clasped her in his arms.

Tess was taken completely by surprise, and she yielded to his embrace
with unreflecting inevitableness.  Having seen that it was really her
lover who had advanced, and no one else, her lips parted, and she
sank upon him in her momentary joy, with something very like an
ecstatic cry.

He had been on the point of kissing that too tempting mouth, but he
checked himself, for tender conscience' sake.

""Forgive me, Tess dear!"" he whispered.  ""I ought to have asked.
I--did not know what I was doing.  I do not mean it as a liberty.
I am devoted to you, Tessy, dearest, in all sincerity!""

Old Pretty by this time had looked round, puzzled; and seeing two
people crouching under her where, by immemorial custom, there should
have been only one, lifted her hind leg crossly.

""She is angry--she doesn't know what we mean--she'll kick over the
milk!"" exclaimed Tess, gently striving to free herself, her eyes
concerned with the quadruped's actions, her heart more deeply
concerned with herself and Clare.

She slipped up from her seat, and they stood together, his arm still
encircling her.  Tess's eyes, fixed on distance, began to fill.

""Why do you cry, my darling?"" he said.

""O--I don't know!"" she murmured.

As she saw and felt more clearly the position she was in she became
agitated and tried to withdraw.

""Well, I have betrayed my feeling, Tess, at last,"" said he, with a
curious sigh of desperation, signifying unconsciously that his heart
had outrun his judgement.  ""That I--love you dearly and truly I need
not say.  But I--it shall go no further now--it distresses you--I am
as surprised as you are.  You will not think I have presumed upon
your defencelessness--been too quick and unreflecting, will you?""

""N'--I can't tell.""

He had allowed her to free herself; and in a minute or two the
milking of each was resumed.  Nobody had beheld the gravitation of
the two into one; and when the dairyman came round by that screened
nook a few minutes later, there was not a sign to reveal that
the markedly sundered pair were more to each other than mere
acquaintance.  Yet in the interval since Crick's last view of them
something had occurred which changed the pivot of the universe for
their two natures; something which, had he known its quality, the
dairyman would have despised, as a practical man; yet which was based
upon a more stubborn and resistless tendency than a whole heap of
so-called practicalities.  A veil had been whisked aside; the tract
of each one's outlook was to have a new horizon thenceforward--for a
short time or for a long.


END OF PHASE THE THIRD





Phase the Fourth: The Consequence


","It's hot and it's July: the weather conditions for falling in love are just perfect. It's so hot that everyone's feeling it. The cows are crowding around even the smallest trees, trying to stay in the shade. The dairymaids and dairymen do the milking out in the field, rather than herding the cows into the barnyard, because it's cooler and easier. Tess picks up her stool and goes to milk one of her favorite cows, which is standing at a distance from the main part of the herd. Angel starts milking a cow that's close to it, so that he can watch her. He sneezes, and Tess becomes aware that he's there, watching her. She blushes. He jumps up, and rushes to her and hugs her. She at first relaxes into the hug, and hugs him back, but the cow gets grumpy and stamps its feet and reminds Tess that she shouldn't be hugging anyone. Angel pulls back, and admits that he loves her, and apologizes for surprising her when he should have asked first. Tess blushes and doesn't say much, and they both go back to their milking."
59,"

Her refusal, though unexpected, did not permanently daunt Clare.
His experience of women was great enough for him to be aware that
the negative often meant nothing more than the preface to the
affirmative; and it was little enough for him not to know that in
the manner of the present negative there lay a great exception to
the dallyings of coyness.  That she had already permitted him to
make love to her he read as an additional assurance, not fully
trowing that in the fields and pastures to ""sigh gratis"" is by no
means deemed waste; love-making being here more often accepted
inconsiderately and for its own sweet sake than in the carking,
anxious homes of the ambitious, where a girl's craving for an
establishment paralyzes her healthy thought of a passion as an end.

""Tess, why did you say 'no' in such a positive way?"" he asked her in
the course of a few days.

She started.

""Don't ask me.  I told you why--partly.  I am not good enough--not
worthy enough.""

""How?  Not fine lady enough?""

""Yes--something like that,"" murmured she.  ""Your friends would scorn
me.""

""Indeed, you mistake them--my father and mother.  As for my brothers,
I don't care--""  He clasped his fingers behind her back to keep her
from slipping away.  ""Now--you did not mean it, sweet?--I am sure you
did not!  You have made me so restless that I cannot read, or play,
or do anything.  I am in no hurry, Tess, but I want to know--to hear
from your own warm lips--that you will some day be mine--any time you
may choose; but some day?""

She could only shake her head and look away from him.

Clare regarded her attentively, conned the characters of her face as
if they had been hieroglyphics.  The denial seemed real.

""Then I ought not to hold you in this way--ought I?  I have no
right to you--no right to seek out where you are, or walk with you!
Honestly, Tess, do you love any other man?""

""How can you ask?"" she said, with continued self-suppression.

""I almost know that you do not.  But then, why do you repulse me?""

""I don't repulse you.  I like you to--tell me you love me; and you
may always tell me so as you go about with me--and never offend me.""

""But you will not accept me as a husband?""

""Ah--that's different--it is for your good, indeed, my dearest!
O, believe me, it is only for your sake!  I don't like to give
myself the great happiness o' promising to be yours in that
way--because--because I am SURE I ought not to do it.""

""But you will make me happy!""

""Ah--you think so, but you don't know!""

At such times as this, apprehending the grounds of her refusal to be
her modest sense of incompetence in matters social and polite, he
would say that she was wonderfully well-informed and versatile--which
was certainly true, her natural quickness and her admiration for him
having led her to pick up his vocabulary, his accent, and fragments
of his knowledge, to a surprising extent.  After these tender
contests and her victory she would go away by herself under the
remotest cow, if at milking-time, or into the sedge or into her room,
if at a leisure interval, and mourn silently, not a minute after an
apparently phlegmatic negative.

The struggle was so fearful; her own heart was so strongly on the
side of his--two ardent hearts against one poor little conscience--
that she tried to fortify her resolution by every means in her power.
She had come to Talbothays with a made-up mind.  On no account could
she agree to a step which might afterwards cause bitter rueing to her
husband for his blindness in wedding her.  And she held that what her
conscience had decided for her when her mind was unbiassed ought not
to be overruled now.

""Why don't somebody tell him all about me?"" she said.  ""It was only
forty miles off--why hasn't it reached here?  Somebody must know!""

Yet nobody seemed to know; nobody told him.

For two or three days no more was said.  She guessed from the sad
countenances of her chamber companions that they regarded her not
only as the favourite, but as the chosen; but they could see for
themselves that she did not put herself in his way.

Tess had never before known a time in which the thread of her life
was so distinctly twisted of two strands, positive pleasure and
positive pain.  At the next cheese-making the pair were again left
alone together.  The dairyman himself had been lending a hand; but
Mr Crick, as well as his wife, seemed latterly to have acquired a
suspicion of mutual interest between these two; though they walked
so circumspectly that suspicion was but of the faintest. Anyhow, the
dairyman left them to themselves.

They were breaking up the masses of curd before putting them into
the vats.  The operation resembled the act of crumbling bread on a
large scale; and amid the immaculate whiteness of the curds Tess
Durbeyfield's hands showed themselves of the pinkness of the rose.
Angel, who was filling the vats with his handful, suddenly ceased,
and laid his hands flat upon hers.  Her sleeves were rolled far above
the elbow, and bending lower he kissed the inside vein of her soft
arm.

Although the early September weather was sultry, her arm, from
her dabbling in the curds, was as cold and damp to his mouth as a
new-gathered mushroom, and tasted of the whey.  But she was such
a sheaf of susceptibilities that her pulse was accelerated by the
touch, her blood driven to her finder-ends, and the cool arms
flushed hot.  Then, as though her heart had said, ""Is coyness longer
necessary? Truth is truth between man and woman, as between man and
man,"" she lifted her eyes and they beamed devotedly into his, as her
lip rose in a tender half-smile.

""Do you know why I did that, Tess?"" he said.

""Because you love me very much!""

""Yes, and as a preliminary to a new entreaty.""

""Not AGAIN!""

She looked a sudden fear that her resistance might break down under
her own desire.

""O, Tessy!"" he went on, ""I CANNOT think why you are so tantalizing.
Why do you disappoint me so?  You seem almost like a coquette, upon
my life you do--a coquette of the first urban water!  They blow
hot and blow cold, just as you do, and it is the very last sort of
thing to expect to find in a retreat like Talbothays. ...  And yet,
dearest,"" he quickly added, observing now the remark had cut her, ""I
know you to be the most honest, spotless creature that ever lived.
So how can I suppose you a flirt?  Tess, why don't you like the idea
of being my wife, if you love me as you seem to do?""

""I have never said I don't like the idea, and I never could say it;
because--it isn't true!""

The stress now getting beyond endurance, her lip quivered, and she
was obliged to go away.  Clare was so pained and perplexed that he
ran after and caught her in the passage.

""Tell me, tell me!"" he said, passionately clasping her, in
forgetfulness of his curdy hands: ""do tell me that you won't belong
to anybody but me!""

""I will, I will tell you!"" she exclaimed.  ""And I will give you a
complete answer, if you will let me go now. I will tell you my
experiences--all about myself--all!""

""Your experiences, dear; yes, certainly; any number.""  He expressed
assent in loving satire, looking into her face.  ""My Tess, no doubt,
almost as many experiences as that wild convolvulus out there on the
garden hedge, that opened itself this morning for the first time.
Tell me anything, but don't use that wretched expression any more
about not being worthy of me.""

""I will try--not!  And I'll give you my reasons to-morrow--next
week.""

""Say on Sunday?""

""Yes, on Sunday.""

At last she got away, and did not stop in her retreat till she was in
the thicket of pollard willows at the lower side of the barton, where
she could be quite unseen.  Here Tess flung herself down upon the
rustling undergrowth of spear-grass, as upon a bed, and remained
crouching in palpitating misery broken by momentary shoots of joy,
which her fears about the ending could not altogether suppress.

In reality, she was drifting into acquiescence.  Every see-saw of her
breath, every wave of her blood, every pulse singing in her ears, was
a voice that joined with nature in revolt against her scrupulousness.
Reckless, inconsiderate acceptance of him; to close with him at the
altar, revealing nothing, and chancing discovery; to snatch ripe
pleasure before the iron teeth of pain could have time to shut upon
her: that was what love counselled; and in almost a terror of ecstasy
Tess divined that, despite her many months of lonely self-chastisement,
wrestlings, communings, schemes to lead a future of austere
isolation, love's counsel would prevail.

The afternoon advanced, and still she remained among the willows.
She heard the rattle of taking down the pails from the forked stands;
the ""waow-waow!"" which accompanied the getting together of the cows.
But she did not go to the milking.  They would see her agitation;
and the dairyman, thinking the cause to be love alone, would
good-naturedly tease her; and that harassment could not be borne.

Her lover must have guessed her overwrought state, and invented some
excuse for her non-appearance, for no inquiries were made or calls
given.  At half-past six the sun settled down upon the levels with
the aspect of a great forge in the heavens; and presently a monstrous
pumpkin-like moon arose on the other hand.  The pollard willows,
tortured out of their natural shape by incessant choppings, became
spiny-haired monsters as they stood up against it.  She went in and
upstairs without a light.

It was now Wednesday.  Thursday came, and Angel looked thoughtfully
at her from a distance, but intruded in no way upon her.  The indoor
milkmaids, Marian and the rest, seemed to guess that something
definite was afoot, for they did not force any remarks upon her in
the bedchamber.  Friday passed; Saturday.  To-morrow was the day.

""I shall give way--I shall say yes--I shall let myself marry
him--I cannot help it!"" she jealously panted, with her hot face to
the pillow that night, on hearing one of the other girls sigh his
name in her sleep.  ""I can't bear to let anybody have him but me!
Yet it is a wrong to him, and may kill him when he knows!  O my
heart--O--O--O!""


","A few days later, Angel asks why Tess said ""no"" so definitely, even after she's admitted that she loves him. Tess says that she's not a fine lady, and makes up various other excuses about not being good enough, etc. Tess almost wishes someone would tell him about her past, because she sure can't bring herself to do it. But no one around there knows about it. He keeps pressing her, and she's afraid of giving in. Finally she promises to tell him all her reasons, and all her history. Angel laughs, because what kinds of ""experiences"" can a seemingly inexperienced young girl like Tess have? She's not laughing, though, and says she'll tell him everything on Sunday. She's so agitated that she can't go help with the milking, and shuts herself up in her room, going back and forth between hope and fear. She wants to say yes, but thinks she shouldn't."
60,"

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.


","The next day, several more young men bother her with compliments about her good looks. So Tess decides to try to make herself ugly, and clips off her eyebrows and ties a handkerchief around her face as though she had a toothache. This has the desired effect--now when she passes men on the road, they mumble to each other about what an ugly girl she is. Tess arrives at the place where Marian has been working, and is happy to see her, even though it's clear that Marian's fallen on hard times, too. Marian is surprised at Tess's appearance, since she's married to a gentleman and all. Marian assumes that whatever's wrong, it must be the fault of something outside both Tess and Angel, since she won't admit that either of them has any real faults. Marian offers to help Tess to get a job at the farm where she's working, even though it's tough work and not much fun. Tess doesn't really care what she does, so long as Marian agrees not to tell anyone about Angel--Tess doesn't want Angel's name to be associated with farm labor. Tess signs an agreement with the farmer's wife to stay and work until ""Old Lady Day"" . She sends a letter to her parents telling them where she's living, but not how poor she is--she's afraid that they'd think badly of Angel if they knew."
61,"

It was evening at Emminster Vicarage.  The two customary candles were
burning under their green shades in the Vicar's study, but he had not
been sitting there.  Occasionally he came in, stirred the small fire
which sufficed for the increasing mildness of the spring, and went
out again; sometimes pausing at the front door, going on to the
drawing-room, then returning again to the front door.

It faced westward, and though gloom prevailed inside, there was still
light enough without to see with distinctness.  Mrs Clare, who had
been sitting in the drawing-room, followed him hither.

""Plenty of time yet,"" said the Vicar.  ""He doesn't reach Chalk-Newton
till six, even if the train should be punctual, and ten miles of
country-road, five of them in Crimmercrock Lane, are not jogged over
in a hurry by our old horse.""

""But he has done it in an hour with us, my dear.""

""Years ago.""

Thus they passed the minutes, each well knowing that this was only
waste of breath, the one essential being simply to wait.

At length there was a slight noise in the lane, and the old
pony-chaise appeared indeed outside the railings.  They saw alight
therefrom a form which they affected to recognize, but would actually
have passed by in the street without identifying had he not got out
of their carriage at the particular moment when a particular person
was due.

Mrs Clare rushed through the dark passage to the door, and her
husband came more slowly after her.

The new arrival, who was just about to enter, saw their anxious faces
in the doorway and the gleam of the west in their spectacles because
they confronted the last rays of day; but they could only see his
shape against the light.

""O, my boy, my boy--home again at last!"" cried Mrs Clare, who cared
no more at that moment for the stains of heterodoxy which had caused
all this separation than for the dust upon his clothes.  What woman,
indeed, among the most faithful adherents of the truth, believes the
promises and threats of the Word in the sense in which she believes
in her own children, or would not throw her theology to the wind if
weighed against their happiness?  As soon as they reached the room
where the candles were lighted she looked at his face.

""O, it is not Angel--not my son--the Angel who went away!"" she cried
in all the irony of sorrow, as she turned herself aside.

His father, too, was shocked to see him, so reduced was that figure
from its former contours by worry and the bad season that Clare had
experienced, in the climate to which he had so rashly hurried in his
first aversion to the mockery of events at home.  You could see the
skeleton behind the man, and almost the ghost behind the skeleton.
He matched Crivelli's dead _Christus_.  His sunken eye-pits were of
morbid hue, and the light in his eyes had waned.  The angular hollows
and lines of his aged ancestors had succeeded to their reign in his
face twenty years before their time.

""I was ill over there, you know,"" he said.  ""I am all right now.""

As if, however, to falsify this assertion, his legs seemed to give
way, and he suddenly sat down to save himself from falling.  It was
only a slight attack of faintness, resulting from the tedious day's
journey, and the excitement of arrival.

""Has any letter come for me lately?"" he asked.  ""I received the
last you sent on by the merest chance, and after considerable delay
through being inland; or I might have come sooner.""

""It was from your wife, we supposed?""

""It was.""

Only one other had recently come.  They had not sent it on to him,
knowing he would start for home so soon.

He hastily opened the letter produced, and was much disturbed to read
in Tess's handwriting the sentiments expressed in her last hurried
scrawl to him.


   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.

""It is quite true!"" said Angel, throwing down the letter.  ""Perhaps
she will never be reconciled to me!""

""Don't, Angel, be so anxious about a mere child of the soil!"" said
his mother.

""Child of the soil!  Well, we all are children of the soil.  I wish
she were so in the sense you mean; but let me now explain to you what
I have never explained before, that her father is a descendant in the
male line of one of the oldest Norman houses, like a good many others
who lead obscure agricultural lives in our villages, and are dubbed
'sons of the soil.'""

He soon retired to bed; and the next morning, feeling exceedingly
unwell, he remained in his room pondering.  The circumstances amid
which he had left Tess were such that though, while on the south of
the Equator and just in receipt of her loving epistle, it had seemed
the easiest thing in the world to rush back into her arms the moment
he chose to forgive her, now that he had arrived it was not so easy
as it had seemed.  She was passionate, and her present letter,
showing that her estimate of him had changed under his delay--too
justly changed, he sadly owned,--made him ask himself if it would
be wise to confront her unannounced in the presence of her parents.
Supposing that her love had indeed turned to dislike during the last
weeks of separation, a sudden meeting might lead to bitter words.

Clare therefore thought it would be best to prepare Tess and her
family by sending a line to Marlott announcing his return, and his
hope that she was still living with them there, as he had arranged
for her to do when he left England.  He despatched the inquiry that
very day, and before the week was out there came a short reply from
Mrs Durbeyfield which did not remove his embarrassment, for it bore
no address, though to his surprise it was not written from Marlott.


   SIR,

   J write these few lines to say that my Daughter is away
   from me at present, and J am not sure when she will
   return, but J will let you know as Soon as she do.
   J do not feel at liberty to tell you Where she is
   temperly biding.  J should say that me and my Family
   have left Marlott for some Time.--

   Yours,

   J. DURBEYFIELD


It was such a relief to Clare to learn that Tess was at least
apparently well that her mother's stiff reticence as to her
whereabouts did not long distress him.  They were all angry with him,
evidently.  He would wait till Mrs Durbeyfield could inform him of
Tess's return, which her letter implied to be soon.  He deserved no
more.  His had been a love ""which alters when it alteration finds"".
He had undergone some strange experiences in his absence; he had seen
the virtual Faustina in the literal Cornelia, a spiritual Lucretia in
a corporeal Phryne; he had thought of the woman taken and set in the
midst as one deserving to be stoned, and of the wife of Uriah being
made a queen; and he had asked himself why he had not judged Tess
constructively rather than biographically, by the will rather than
by the deed?

A day or two passed while he waited at his father's house for the
promised second note from Joan Durbeyfield, and indirectly to recover
a little more strength.  The strength showed signs of coming back,
but there was no sign of Joan's letter.  Then he hunted up the
old letter sent on to him in Brazil, which Tess had written from
Flintcomb-Ash, and re-read it.  The sentences touched him now as
much as when he had first perused them.


   ... I must cry to you in my trouble--I have no one
   else! ...  I think I must die if you do not come
   soon, or tell me to come to you... please, please,
   not to be just--only a little kind to me ...  If
   you would come, I could die in your arms!  I would
   be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven
   me! ... if you will send me one little line, and say,
   ""I am coming soon,"" I will bide on, Angel--O, so
   cheerfully! ... think how it do hurt my heart not to
   see you ever--ever!  Ah, if I could only make your
   dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine
   does every day and all day long, it might lead you to
   show pity to your poor lonely one. ...  I would be
   content, ay, glad, to live with you as your servant,
   if I may not as your wife; so that I could only be
   near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you
   as mine. ...  I long for only one thing in heaven
   or earth or under the earth, to meet you, my own
   dear!  Come to me--come to me, and save me from what
   threatens me!


Clare determined that he would no longer believe in her more recent
and severer regard of him, but would go and find her immediately.  He
asked his father if she had applied for any money during his absence.
His father returned a negative, and then for the first time it
occurred to Angel that her pride had stood in her way, and that she
had suffered privation.  From his remarks his parents now gathered
the real reason of the separation; and their Christianity was such
that, reprobates being their especial care, the tenderness towards
Tess which her blood, her simplicity, even her poverty, had not
engendered, was instantly excited by her sin.

Whilst he was hastily packing together a few articles for his journey
he glanced over a poor plain missive also lately come to hand--the
one from Marian and Izz Huett, beginning--

""Honour'd Sir, Look to your Wife if you do love her as much as she do
love you,"" and signed, ""From Two Well-Wishers.""


","Angel arrives at his parents' house after his long trip. Mrs. Clare is shocked to see how frail and scrawny he is after his illness. The first thing he asks is whether any letters have come from Tess. They've held her most recent letter, the angry one, and he reads it and almost despairs of ever making things up with her. He tells his parents about her being a D'Urberville, and then goes to bed. He writes to Mrs. Durbeyfield at Marlott to tell them of his return, but Mrs. Durbeyfield writes back saying that they no longer live in Marlott, that Tess isn't living with her, and that she doesn't want to say where Tess is now living. Angel figures they're all just mad at him, and doesn't worry too much about it. Angel waits to hear again from Mrs. Durbeyfield, figuring that she'd write again once she'd had a chance to tell Tess that he was back. But no note comes. Then a letter that had been forwarded to him in Brazil, but which was returned, reaches him. It's the one in which Tess begs him to hurry back, because she's being pressed to do what she doesn't want to. Angel immediately sets out to find her, especially when he sees the note sent by Marian and Izz."
62,"

The city of Wintoncester, that fine old city, aforetime capital
of Wessex, lay amidst its convex and concave downlands in all the
brightness and warmth of a July morning.  The gabled brick, tile, and
freestone houses had almost dried off for the season their integument
of lichen, the streams in the meadows were low, and in the sloping
High Street, from the West Gateway to the mediaeval cross, and from
the mediaeval cross to the bridge, that leisurely dusting and sweeping
was in progress which usually ushers in an old-fashioned market-day.

From the western gate aforesaid the highway, as every Wintoncestrian
knows, ascends a long and regular incline of the exact length of a
measured mile, leaving the houses gradually behind.  Up this road
from the precincts of the city two persons were walking rapidly,
as if unconscious of the trying ascent--unconscious through
preoccupation and not through buoyancy.  They had emerged upon this
road through a narrow, barred wicket in a high wall a little lower
down.  They seemed anxious to get out of the sight of the houses and
of their kind, and this road appeared to offer the quickest means
of doing so.  Though they were young, they walked with bowed heads,
which gait of grief the sun's rays smiled on pitilessly.

One of the pair was Angel Clare, the other a tall budding
creature--half girl, half woman--a spiritualized image of Tess,
slighter than she, but with the same beautiful eyes--Clare's
sister-in-law, 'Liza-Lu.  Their pale faces seemed to have shrunk
to half their natural size.  They moved on hand in hand, and never
spoke a word, the drooping of their heads being that of Giotto's
""Two Apostles"".

When they had nearly reached the top of the great West Hill the
clocks in the town struck eight.  Each gave a start at the notes,
and, walking onward yet a few steps, they reached the first
milestone, standing whitely on the green margin of the grass, and
backed by the down, which here was open to the road.  They entered
upon the turf, and, impelled by a force that seemed to overrule their
will, suddenly stood still, turned, and waited in paralyzed suspense
beside the stone.

The prospect from this summit was almost unlimited.  In the valley
beneath lay the city they had just left, its more prominent buildings
showing as in an isometric drawing--among them the broad cathedral
tower, with its Norman windows and immense length of aisle and nave,
the spires of St Thomas's, the pinnacled tower of the College, and,
more to the right, the tower and gables of the ancient hospice,
where to this day the pilgrim may receive his dole of bread and ale.
Behind the city swept the rotund upland of St Catherine's Hill;
further off, landscape beyond landscape, till the horizon was lost
in the radiance of the sun hanging above it.

Against these far stretches of country rose, in front of the other
city edifices, a large red-brick building, with level gray roofs,
and rows of short barred windows bespeaking captivity, the whole
contrasting greatly by its formalism with the quaint irregularities
of the Gothic erections.  It was somewhat disguised from the road in
passing it by yews and evergreen oaks, but it was visible enough up
here.  The wicket from which the pair had lately emerged was in the
wall of this structure.  From the middle of the building an ugly
flat-topped octagonal tower ascended against the east horizon, and
viewed from this spot, on its shady side and against the light, it
seemed the one blot on the city's beauty.  Yet it was with this blot,
and not with the beauty, that the two gazers were concerned.

Upon the cornice of the tower a tall staff was fixed.  Their eyes
were riveted on it.  A few minutes after the hour had struck
something moved slowly up the staff, and extended itself upon the
breeze.  It was a black flag.

""Justice"" was done, and the President of the Immortals, in Aeschylean
phrase, had ended his sport with Tess.  And the d'Urberville knights
and dames slept on in their tombs unknowing.  The two speechless
gazers bent themselves down to the earth, as if in prayer, and
remained thus a long time, absolutely motionless: the flag continued
to wave silently.  As soon as they had strength, they arose, joined
hands again, and went on.


","Angel and 'Liza-Lu are in the county capitol of Wintoncester, looking completely anguished and walking hand in hand. They stand in the street outside the prison, staring at an empty flagpole in the ugly tower. A few minutes past the hour, a black flag is raised on the pole, indicating that ""justice"" had been done Angel and 'Liza-Lu both kneel on the ground to pray. After a while, they stand, join hands again, and walk slowly away."
63,"

On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking
homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining
Vale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor.  The pair of legs that carried him
were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him
somewhat to the left of a straight line.  He occasionally gave a
smart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not
thinking of anything in particular.  An empty egg-basket was slung
upon his arm, the nap of his hat was ruffled, a patch being quite
worn away at its brim where his thumb came in taking it off.
Presently he was met by an elderly parson astride on a gray mare,
who, as he rode, hummed a wandering tune.

""Good night t'ee,"" said the man with the basket.

""Good night, Sir John,"" said the parson.

The pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round.

""Now, sir, begging your pardon; we met last market-day on this road
about this time, and I said 'Good night,' and you made reply '_Good
night, Sir John_,' as now.""

""I did,"" said the parson.

""And once before that--near a month ago.""

""I may have.""

""Then what might your meaning be in calling me 'Sir John' these
different times, when I be plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler?""

The parson rode a step or two nearer.

""It was only my whim,"" he said; and, after a moment's hesitation: ""It
was on account of a discovery I made some little time ago, whilst I
was hunting up pedigrees for the new county history.  I am Parson
Tringham, the antiquary, of Stagfoot Lane.  Don't you really know,
Durbeyfield, that you are the lineal representative of the ancient
and knightly family of the d'Urbervilles, who derive their descent
from Sir Pagan d'Urberville, that renowned knight who came from
Normandy with William the Conqueror, as appears by Battle Abbey
Roll?""

""Never heard it before, sir!""

""Well it's true.  Throw up your chin a moment, so that I may catch
the profile of your face better.  Yes, that's the d'Urberville nose
and chin--a little debased.  Your ancestor was one of the twelve
knights who assisted the Lord of Estremavilla in Normandy in his
conquest of Glamorganshire.  Branches of your family held manors over
all this part of England; their names appear in the Pipe Rolls in the
time of King Stephen.  In the reign of King John one of them was rich
enough to give a manor to the Knights Hospitallers; and in Edward the
Second's time your forefather Brian was summoned to Westminster to
attend the great Council there.  You declined a little in Oliver
Cromwell's time, but to no serious extent, and in Charles the
Second's reign you were made Knights of the Royal Oak for your
loyalty.  Aye, there have been generations of Sir Johns among
you, and if knighthood were hereditary, like a baronetcy, as it
practically was in old times, when men were knighted from father
to son, you would be Sir John now.""

""Ye don't say so!""

""In short,"" concluded the parson, decisively smacking his leg with
his switch, ""there's hardly such another family in England.""

""Daze my eyes, and isn't there?"" said Durbeyfield.  ""And here have I
been knocking about, year after year, from pillar to post, as if I
was no more than the commonest feller in the parish...  And how long
hev this news about me been knowed, Pa'son Tringham?""

The clergyman explained that, as far as he was aware, it had quite
died out of knowledge, and could hardly be said to be known at all.
His own investigations had begun on a day in the preceding spring
when, having been engaged in tracing the vicissitudes of the
d'Urberville family, he had observed Durbeyfield's name on his
waggon, and had thereupon been led to make inquiries about his
father and grandfather till he had no doubt on the subject.

""At first I resolved not to disturb you with such a useless piece of
information,"" said he.  ""However, our impulses are too strong for our
judgement sometimes.  I thought you might perhaps know something of
it all the while.""

""Well, I have heard once or twice, 'tis true, that my family had seen
better days afore they came to Blackmoor.  But I took no notice o't,
thinking it to mean that we had once kept two horses where we now
keep only one.  I've got a wold silver spoon, and a wold graven seal
at home, too; but, Lord, what's a spoon and seal? ...  And to think
that I and these noble d'Urbervilles were one flesh all the time.
'Twas said that my gr't-granfer had secrets, and didn't care to talk
of where he came from...  And where do we raise our smoke, now,
parson, if I may make so bold; I mean, where do we d'Urbervilles
live?""

""You don't live anywhere. You are extinct--as a county family.""

""That's bad.""

""Yes--what the mendacious family chronicles call extinct in the male
line--that is, gone down--gone under.""

""Then where do we lie?""

""At Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill: rows and rows of you in your vaults,
with your effigies under Purbeck-marble canopies.""

""And where be our family mansions and estates?""

""You haven't any.""

""Oh?  No lands neither?""

""None; though you once had 'em in abundance, as I said, for you
family consisted of numerous branches.  In this county there was a
seat of yours at Kingsbere, and another at Sherton, and another in
Millpond, and another at Lullstead, and another at Wellbridge.""

""And shall we ever come into our own again?""

""Ah--that I can't tell!""

""And what had I better do about it, sir?"" asked Durbeyfield, after a
pause.

""Oh--nothing, nothing; except chasten yourself with the thought of
'how are the mighty fallen.'  It is a fact of some interest to the
local historian and genealogist, nothing more.  There are several
families among the cottagers of this county of almost equal lustre.
Good night.""

""But you'll turn back and have a quart of beer wi' me on the strength
o't, Pa'son Tringham?  There's a very pretty brew in tap at The Pure
Drop--though, to be sure, not so good as at Rolliver's.""

""No, thank you--not this evening, Durbeyfield.  You've had enough
already.""  Concluding thus, the parson rode on his way, with doubts
as to his discretion in retailing this curious bit of lore.

When he was gone, Durbeyfield walked a few steps in a profound
reverie, and then sat down upon the grassy bank by the roadside,
depositing his basket before him.  In a few minutes a youth appeared
in the distance, walking in the same direction as that which had been
pursued by Durbeyfield.  The latter, on seeing him, held up his hand,
and the lad quickened his pace and came near.

""Boy, take up that basket!  I want 'ee to go on an errand for me.""

The lath-like stripling frowned.  ""Who be you, then, John
Durbeyfield, to order me about and call me 'boy'?  You know my
name as well as I know yours!""

""Do you, do you?  That's the secret--that's the secret! Now obey my
orders, and take the message I'm going to charge 'ee wi'...  Well,
Fred, I don't mind telling you that the secret is that I'm one of a
noble race--it has been just found out by me this present afternoon,
P.M.""  And as he made the announcement, Durbeyfield, declining from
his sitting position, luxuriously stretched himself out upon the bank
among the daisies.

The lad stood before Durbeyfield, and contemplated his length from
crown to toe.

""Sir John d'Urberville--that's who I am,"" continued the prostrate
man.  ""That is if knights were baronets--which they be.  'Tis
recorded in history all about me.  Dost know of such a place, lad,
as Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill?""

""Ees.  I've been there to Greenhill Fair.""

""Well, under the church of that city there lie--""

""'Tisn't a city, the place I mean; leastwise 'twaddn' when I was
there--'twas a little one-eyed, blinking sort o' place.""

""Never you mind the place, boy, that's not the question before us.
Under the church of that there parish lie my ancestors--hundreds of
'em--in coats of mail and jewels, in gr't lead coffins weighing tons
and tons.  There's not a man in the county o' South-Wessex that's
got grander and nobler skillentons in his family than I.""

""Oh?""

""Now take up that basket, and goo on to Marlott, and when you've come
to The Pure Drop Inn, tell 'em to send a horse and carriage to me
immed'ately, to carry me hwome.  And in the bottom o' the carriage
they be to put a noggin o' rum in a small bottle, and chalk it up
to my account.  And when you've done that goo on to my house with
the basket, and tell my wife to put away that washing, because she
needn't finish it, and wait till I come hwome, as I've news to tell
her.""

As the lad stood in a dubious attitude, Durbeyfield put his hand in
his pocket, and produced a shilling, one of the chronically few that
he possessed.

""Here's for your labour, lad.""

This made a difference in the young man's estimate of the position.

""Yes, Sir John.  Thank 'ee.  Anything else I can do for 'ee, Sir
John?""

""Tell 'em at hwome that I should like for supper,--well, lamb's fry
if they can get it; and if they can't, black-pot; and if they can't
get that, well chitterlings will do.""

""Yes, Sir John.""

The boy took up the basket, and as he set out the notes of a brass
band were heard from the direction of the village.

""What's that?"" said Durbeyfield.  ""Not on account o' I?""

""'Tis the women's club-walking, Sir John.  Why, your da'ter is one o'
the members.""

""To be sure--I'd quite forgot it in my thoughts of greater things!
Well, vamp on to Marlott, will ye, and order that carriage, and
maybe I'll drive round and inspect the club.""

The lad departed, and Durbeyfield lay waiting on the grass and
daisies in the evening sun.  Not a soul passed that way for a long
while, and the faint notes of the band were the only human sounds
audible within the rim of blue hills.


","The novel begins with John Durbeyfield, the poor and lazy father of Tess, walking towards his home in Marlott. He is greeted by the elderly parson Trigham and is addressed as ""Sir John"". He is very excited to learn from the parson that his ancestors came from the elite family of D'Urbervilles. He takes this revelation seriously, ignoring the information that the family no longer has fame or wealth, and demands to be called Sir. Feeling aristocratic, John also orders a carriage to take him home."
64,"

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.""


","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."
65,"

Having mounted beside her, Alec d'Urberville drove rapidly along
the crest of the first hill, chatting compliments to Tess as they
went, the cart with her box being left far behind.  Rising still, an
immense landscape stretched around them on every side; behind, the
green valley of her birth, before, a gray country of which she knew
nothing except from her first brief visit to Trantridge.  Thus they
reached the verge of an incline down which the road stretched in a
long straight descent of nearly a mile.

Ever since the accident with her father's horse Tess Durbeyfield,
courageous as she naturally was, had been exceedingly timid on
wheels; the least irregularity of motion startled her.  She began to
get uneasy at a certain recklessness in her conductor's driving.

""You will go down slow, sir, I suppose?"" she said with attempted
unconcern.

D'Urberville looked round upon her, nipped his cigar with the tips of
his large white centre-teeth, and allowed his lips to smile slowly of
themselves.

""Why, Tess,"" he answered, after another whiff or two, ""it isn't a
brave bouncing girl like you who asks that?  Why, I always go down at
full gallop.  There's nothing like it for raising your spirits.""

""But perhaps you need not now?""

""Ah,"" he said, shaking his head, ""there are two to be reckoned with.
It is not me alone.  Tib has to be considered, and she has a very
queer temper.""

""Who?""

""Why, this mare.  I fancy she looked round at me in a very grim way
just then.  Didn't you notice it?""

""Don't try to frighten me, sir,"" said Tess stiffly.

""Well, I don't.  If any living man can manage this horse I can: I
won't say any living man can do it--but if such has the power, I am
he.""

""Why do you have such a horse?""

""Ah, well may you ask it!  It was my fate, I suppose. Tib has killed
one chap; and just after I bought her she nearly killed me.  And
then, take my word for it, I nearly killed her.  But she's touchy
still, very touchy; and one's life is hardly safe behind her
sometimes.""

They were just beginning to descend; and it was evident that the
horse, whether of her own will or of his (the latter being the more
likely), knew so well the reckless performance expected of her that
she hardly required a hint from behind.

Down, down, they sped, the wheels humming like a top, the dog-cart
rocking right and left, its axis acquiring a slightly oblique set
in relation to the line of progress; the figure of the horse rising
and falling in undulations before them.  Sometimes a wheel was off
the ground, it seemed, for many yards; sometimes a stone was sent
spinning over the hedge, and flinty sparks from the horse's hoofs
outshone the daylight.  The aspect of the straight road enlarged with
their advance, the two banks dividing like a splitting stick; one
rushing past at each shoulder.

The wind blew through Tess's white muslin to her very skin, and her
washed hair flew out behind.  She was determined to show no open
fear, but she clutched d'Urberville's rein-arm.

""Don't touch my arm!  We shall be thrown out if you do!  Hold on
round my waist!""

She grasped his waist, and so they reached the bottom.

""Safe, thank God, in spite of your fooling!"" said she, her face on
fire.

""Tess--fie! that's temper!"" said d'Urberville.

""'Tis truth.""

""Well, you need not let go your hold of me so thanklessly the moment
you feel yourself our of danger.""

She had not considered what she had been doing; whether he were man
or woman, stick or stone, in her involuntary hold on him.  Recovering
her reserve, she sat without replying, and thus they reached the
summit of another declivity.

""Now then, again!"" said d'Urberville.

""No, no!"" said Tess.  ""Show more sense, do, please.""

""But when people find themselves on one of the highest points in the
county, they must get down again,"" he retorted.

He loosened rein, and away they went a second time.  D'Urberville
turned his face to her as they rocked, and said, in playful raillery:
""Now then, put your arms round my waist again, as you did before, my
Beauty.""

""Never!"" said Tess independently, holding on as well as she could
without touching him.

""Let me put one little kiss on those holmberry lips, Tess, or even on
that warmed cheek, and I'll stop--on my honour, I will!""

Tess, surprised beyond measure, slid farther back still on her seat,
at which he urged the horse anew, and rocked her the more.

""Will nothing else do?"" she cried at length, in desperation, her
large eyes staring at him like those of a wild animal.  This dressing
her up so prettily by her mother had apparently been to lamentable
purpose.

""Nothing, dear Tess,"" he replied.

""Oh, I don't know--very well; I don't mind!"" she panted miserably.

He drew rein, and as they slowed he was on the point of imprinting
the desired salute, when, as if hardly yet aware of her own modesty,
she dodged aside.  His arms being occupied with the reins there was
left him no power to prevent her manoeuvre.

""Now, damn it--I'll break both our necks!"" swore her capriciously
passionate companion.  ""So you can go from your word like that, you
young witch, can you?""

""Very well,"" said Tess, ""I'll not move since you be so determined!
But I--thought you would be kind to me, and protect me, as my
kinsman!""

""Kinsman be hanged!  Now!""

""But I don't want anybody to kiss me, sir!"" she implored, a big
tear beginning to roll down her face, and the corners of her mouth
trembling in her attempts not to cry.  ""And I wouldn't ha' come if
I had known!""

He was inexorable, and she sat still, and d'Urberville gave her the
kiss of mastery.  No sooner had he done so than she flushed with
shame, took out her handkerchief, and wiped the spot on her cheek
that had been touched by his lips.  His ardour was nettled at the
sight, for the act on her part had been unconsciously done.

""You are mighty sensitive for a cottage girl!"" said the young man.

Tess made no reply to this remark, of which, indeed, she did not
quite comprehend the drift, unheeding the snub she had administered
by her instinctive rub upon her cheek.  She had, in fact, undone the
kiss, as far as such a thing was physically possible.  With a dim
sense that he was vexed she looked steadily ahead as they trotted on
near Melbury Down and Wingreen, till she saw, to her consternation,
that there was yet another descent to be undergone.

""You shall be made sorry for that!"" he resumed, his injured tone
still remaining, as he flourished the whip anew.  ""Unless, that is,
you agree willingly to let me do it again, and no handkerchief.""

She sighed. ""Very well, sir!"" she said.  ""Oh--let me get my hat!""

At the moment of speaking her hat had blown off into the road, their
present speed on the upland being by no means slow.  D'Urberville
pulled up, and said he would get it for her, but Tess was down on the
other side.

She turned back and picked up the article.

""You look prettier with it off, upon my soul, if that's possible,"" he
said, contemplating her over the back of the vehicle.  ""Now then, up
again!  What's the matter?""

The hat was in place and tied, but Tess had not stepped forward.

""No, sir,"" she said, revealing the red and ivory of her mouth as her
eye lit in defiant triumph; ""not again, if I know it!""

""What--you won't get up beside me?""

""No; I shall walk.""

""'Tis five or six miles yet to Trantridge.""

""I don't care if 'tis dozens.  Besides, the cart is behind.""

""You artful hussy!  Now, tell me--didn't you make that hat blow off
on purpose?  I'll swear you did!""

Her strategic silence confirmed his suspicion.

Then d'Urberville cursed and swore at her, and called her everything
he could think of for the trick.  Turning the horse suddenly he tried
to drive back upon her, and so hem her in between the gig and the
hedge.  But he could not do this short of injuring her.

""You ought to be ashamed of yourself for using such wicked words!""
cried Tess with spirit, from the top of the hedge into which she had
scrambled.  ""I don't like 'ee at all!  I hate and detest you!  I'll
go back to mother, I will!""

D'Urberville's bad temper cleared up at sight of hers; and he laughed
heartily.

""Well, I like you all the better,"" he said.  ""Come, let there be
peace.  I'll never do it any more against your will.  My life upon
it now!""

Still Tess could not be induced to remount.  She did not, however,
object to his keeping his gig alongside her; and in this manner, at
a slow pace, they advanced towards the village of Trantridge.  From
time to time d'Urberville exhibited a sort of fierce distress at
the sight of the tramping he had driven her to undertake by his
misdemeanour.  She might in truth have safely trusted him now; but he
had forfeited her confidence for the time, and she kept on the ground
progressing thoughtfully, as if wondering whether it would be wiser
to return home.  Her resolve, however, had been taken, and it seemed
vacillating even to childishness to abandon it now, unless for graver
reasons.  How could she face her parents, get back her box, and
disconcert the whole scheme for the rehabilitation of her family on
such sentimental grounds?

A few minutes later the chimneys of The Slopes appeared in view, and
in a snug nook to the right the poultry-farm and cottage of Tess'
destination.


","Tess leaves with Alec for Trantridge. His reckless driving makes Tess uneasy. She asks him to be more careful, and he demands a kiss to oblige her, revealing his true nature. Tess immediately wipes her cheek after Alec forcibly plants a kiss on it. This action outrages Alec. Shortly afterwards, Tess's hat blows off, and she gets off the cart to retrieve it. Then she refuses to get back in the cart with Alec, for she is upset over his amorous advances and his anger. Tess is determined to walk the rest of the way, and Alec grows even more furious at her audacity. While walking, Tess ponders returning home, for she cannot trust her employer."
66,"

The community of fowls to which Tess had been appointed as
supervisor, purveyor, nurse, surgeon, and friend made its
headquarters in an old thatched cottage standing in an enclosure that
had once been a garden, but was now a trampled and sanded square.
The house was overrun with ivy, its chimney being enlarged by the
boughs of the parasite to the aspect of a ruined tower.  The lower
rooms were entirely given over to the birds, who walked about them
with a proprietary air, as though the place had been built by
themselves, and not by certain dusty copyholders who now lay east
and west in the churchyard.  The descendants of these bygone owners
felt it almost as a slight to their family when the house which had
so much of their affection, had cost so much of their forefathers'
money, and had been in their possession for several generations
before the d'Urbervilles came and built here, was indifferently
turned into a fowl-house by Mrs Stoke-d'Urberville as soon as the
property fell into hand according to law.  ""'Twas good enough for
Christians in grandfather's time,"" they said.

The rooms wherein dozens of infants had wailed at their nursing now
resounded with the tapping of nascent chicks.  Distracted hens in
coops occupied spots where formerly stood chairs supporting sedate
agriculturists.  The chimney-corner and once-blazing hearth was now
filled with inverted beehives, in which the hens laid their eggs;
while out of doors the plots that each succeeding householder had
carefully shaped with his spade were torn by the cocks in wildest
fashion.

The garden in which the cottage stood was surrounded by a wall, and
could only be entered through a door.

When Tess had occupied herself about an hour the next morning in
altering and improving the arrangements, according to her skilled
ideas as the daughter of a professed poulterer, the door in the wall
opened and a servant in white cap and apron entered.  She had come
from the manor-house.

""Mrs d'Urberville wants the fowls as usual,"" she said; but perceiving
that Tess did not quite understand, she explained, ""Mis'ess is a old
lady, and blind.""

""Blind!"" said Tess.

Almost before her misgiving at the news could find time to shape
itself she took, under her companion's direction, two of the
most beautiful of the Hamburghs in her arms, and followed the
maid-servant, who had likewise taken two, to the adjacent mansion,
which, though ornate and imposing, showed traces everywhere on this
side that some occupant of its chambers could bend to the love of
dumb creatures--feathers floating within view of the front, and
hen-coops standing on the grass.

In a sitting-room on the ground-floor, ensconced in an armchair with
her back to the light, was the owner and mistress of the estate, a
white-haired woman of not more than sixty, or even less, wearing a
large cap.  She had the mobile face frequent in those whose sight
has decayed by stages, has been laboriously striven after, and
reluctantly let go, rather than the stagnant mien apparent in persons
long sightless or born blind.  Tess walked up to this lady with her
feathered charges--one sitting on each arm.

""Ah, you are the young woman come to look after my birds?"" said Mrs
d'Urberville, recognizing a new footstep.  ""I hope you will be kind
to them.  My bailiff tells me you are quite the proper person.
Well, where are they?  Ah, this is Strut!  But he is hardly so
lively to-day, is he?  He is alarmed at being handled by a stranger,
I suppose. And Phena too--yes, they are a little frightened--aren't
you, dears? But they will soon get used to you.""

While the old lady had been speaking Tess and the other maid, in
obedience to her gestures, had placed the fowls severally in her lap,
and she had felt them over from head to tail, examining their beaks,
their combs, the manes of the cocks, their wings, and their claws.
Her touch enabled her to recognize them in a moment, and to discover
if a single feather were crippled or draggled.  She handled their
crops, and knew what they had eaten, and if too little or too much;
her face enacting a vivid pantomime of the criticisms passing in her
mind.

The birds that the two girls had brought in were duly returned to the
yard, and the process was repeated till all the pet cocks and hens
had been submitted to the old woman--Hamburghs, Bantams, Cochins,
Brahmas, Dorkings, and such other sorts as were in fashion just
then--her perception of each visitor being seldom at fault as she
received the bird upon her knees.

It reminded Tess of a Confirmation, in which Mrs d'Urberville was the
bishop, the fowls the young people presented, and herself and the
maid-servant the parson and curate of the parish bringing them up.
At the end of the ceremony Mrs d'Urberville abruptly asked Tess,
wrinkling and twitching her face into undulations, ""Can you whistle?""

""Whistle, Ma'am?""

""Yes, whistle tunes.""

Tess could whistle like most other country-girls, though the
accomplishment was one which she did not care to profess in genteel
company.  However, she blandly admitted that such was the fact.

""Then you will have to practise it every day.  I had a lad who did it
very well, but he has left.  I want you to whistle to my bullfinches;
as I cannot see them, I like to hear them, and we teach 'em airs
that way.  Tell her where the cages are, Elizabeth.  You must begin
to-morrow, or they will go back in their piping. They have been
neglected these several days.""

""Mr d'Urberville whistled to 'em this morning, ma'am,"" said
Elizabeth.

""He!  Pooh!""

The old lady's face creased into furrows of repugnance, and she made
no further reply.

Thus the reception of Tess by her fancied kinswoman terminated, and
the birds were taken back to their quarters.  The girl's surprise at
Mrs d'Urberville's manner was not great; for since seeing the size of
the house she had expected no more.  But she was far from being aware
that the old lady had never heard a word of the so-called kinship.
She gathered that no great affection flowed between the blind woman
and her son.  But in that, too, she was mistaken.  Mrs d'Urberville
was not the first mother compelled to love her offspring resentfully,
and to be bitterly fond.


In spite of the unpleasant initiation of the day before, Tess
inclined to the freedom and novelty of her new position in the
morning when the sun shone, now that she was once installed there;
and she was curious to test her powers in the unexpected direction
asked of her, so as to ascertain her chance of retaining her post.
As soon as she was alone within the walled garden she sat herself
down on a coop, and seriously screwed up her mouth for the
long-neglected practice.  She found her former ability to have
degenerated to the production of a hollow rush of wind through the
lips, and no clear note at all.

She remained fruitlessly blowing and blowing, wondering how she
could have so grown out of the art which had come by nature, till
she became aware of a movement among the ivy-boughs which cloaked
the garden-wall no less then the cottage.  Looking that way she
beheld a form springing from the coping to the plot.  It was Alec
d'Urberville, whom she had not set eyes on since he had conducted
her the day before to the door of the gardener's cottage where she
had lodgings.

""Upon my honour!"" cried he, ""there was never before such a beautiful
thing in Nature or Art as you look, 'Cousin' Tess ('Cousin' had a
faint ring of mockery).  I have been watching you from over the
wall--sitting like IM-patience on a monument, and pouting up that
pretty red mouth to whistling shape, and whooing and whooing, and
privately swearing, and never being able to produce a note.  Why,
you are quite cross because you can't do it.""

""I may be cross, but I didn't swear.""

""Ah!  I understand why you are trying--those bullies!  My mother
wants you to carry on their musical education.  How selfish of her!
As if attending to these curst cocks and hens here were not enough
work for any girl.  I would flatly refuse, if I were you.""

""But she wants me particularly to do it, and to be ready by to-morrow
morning.""

""Does she?  Well then--I'll give you a lesson or two.""

""Oh no, you won't!"" said Tess, withdrawing towards the door.

""Nonsense; I don't want to touch you.  See--I'll stand on this side
of the wire-netting, and you can keep on the other; so you may feel
quite safe.  Now, look here; you screw up your lips too harshly.
There 'tis--so.""

He suited the action to the word, and whistled a line of ""Take, O
take those lips away.""  But the allusion was lost upon Tess.

""Now try,"" said d'Urberville.

She attempted to look reserved; her face put on a sculptural
severity.  But he persisted in his demand, and at last, to get rid of
him, she did put up her lips as directed for producing a clear note;
laughing distressfully, however, and then blushing with vexation that
she had laughed.

He encouraged her with ""Try again!""

Tess was quite serious, painfully serious by this time; and she
tried--ultimately and unexpectedly emitting a real round sound.
The momentary pleasure of success got the better of her; her eyes
enlarged, and she involuntarily smiled in his face.

""That's it!  Now I have started you--you'll go on beautifully.
There--I said I would not come near you; and, in spite of such
temptation as never before fell to mortal man, I'll keep my
word...  Tess, do you think my mother a queer old soul?""

""I don't know much of her yet, sir.""

""You'll find her so; she must be, to make you learn to whistle to her
bullfinches.  I am rather out of her books just now, but you will be
quite in favour if you treat her live-stock well.  Good morning.  If
you meet with any difficulties and want help here, don't go to the
bailiff, come to me.""


It was in the economy of this _regime_ that Tess Durbeyfield had
undertaken to fill a place.  Her first day's experiences were fairly
typical of those which followed through many succeeding days.  A
familiarity with Alec d'Urberville's presence--which that young man
carefully cultivated in her by playful dialogue, and by jestingly
calling her his cousin when they were alone--removed much of her
original shyness of him, without, however, implanting any feeling
which could engender shyness of a new and tenderer kind.  But she was
more pliable under his hands than a mere companionship would have
made her, owing to her unavoidable dependence upon his mother, and,
through that lady's comparative helplessness, upon him.

She soon found that whistling to the bullfinches in Mrs
d'Urberville's room was no such onerous business when she had
regained the art, for she had caught from her musical mother numerous
airs that suited those songsters admirably.  A far more satisfactory
time than when she practised in the garden was this whistling by the
cages each morning.  Unrestrained by the young man's presence she
threw up her mouth, put her lips near the bars, and piped away in
easeful grace to the attentive listeners.

Mrs d'Urberville slept in a large four-post bedstead hung with heavy
damask curtains, and the bullfinches occupied the same apartment,
where they flitted about freely at certain hours, and made little
white spots on the furniture and upholstery.  Once while Tess was at
the window where the cages were ranged, giving her lesson as usual,
she thought she heard a rustling behind the bed.  The old lady was
not present, and turning round the girl had an impression that
the toes of a pair of boots were visible below the fringe of the
curtains.  Thereupon her whistling became so disjointed that the
listener, if such there were, must have discovered her suspicion of
his presence.  She searched the curtains every morning after that,
but never found anybody within them.  Alec d'Urberville had evidently
thought better of his freak to terrify her by an ambush of that kind.


","On reaching her destination, Tess is shocked to discover that Mrs. D'Urberville is blind. She also finds the elderly woman to be cold and uncaring towards her. Tess learns from her that in addition to tending the Trantridge fowl, she is to whistle for the bullfinches every morning. Alec seizes this opportunity to teach Tess how to whistle and encourages her to practice. He tries to find reasons to spend time with her. Tess tries to ignore him and settles into her new existence."
67,"

As she drove on through Blackmoor Vale, and the landscape of her
youth began to open around her, Tess aroused herself from her stupor.
Her first thought was how would she be able to face her parents?

She reached a turnpike-gate which stood upon the highway to the
village.  It was thrown open by a stranger, not by the old man who
had kept it for many years, and to whom she had been known; he had
probably left on New Year's Day, the date when such changes were
made.  Having received no intelligence lately from her home, she
asked the turnpike-keeper for news.

""Oh--nothing, miss,"" he answered.  ""Marlott is Marlott still.  Folks
have died and that.  John Durbeyfield, too, hev had a daughter
married this week to a gentleman-farmer; not from John's own house,
you know; they was married elsewhere; the gentleman being of that
high standing that John's own folk was not considered well-be-doing
enough to have any part in it, the bridegroom seeming not to know
how't have been discovered that John is a old and ancient nobleman
himself by blood, with family skillentons in their own vaults to
this day, but done out of his property in the time o' the Romans.
However, Sir John, as we call 'n now, kept up the wedding-day as well
as he could, and stood treat to everybody in the parish; and John's
wife sung songs at The Pure Drop till past eleven o'clock.""

Hearing this, Tess felt so sick at heart that she could not decide
to go home publicly in the fly with her luggage and belongings.  She
asked the turnpike-keeper if she might deposit her things at his
house for a while, and, on his offering no objection, she dismissed
her carriage, and went on to the village alone by a back lane.

At sight of her father's chimney she asked herself how she could
possibly enter the house?  Inside that cottage her relations were
calmly supposing her far away on a wedding-tour with a comparatively
rich man, who was to conduct her to bouncing prosperity; while here
she was, friendless, creeping up to the old door quite by herself,
with no better place to go to in the world.

She did not reach the house unobserved.  Just by the garden-hedge she
was met by a girl who knew her--one of the two or three with whom she
had been intimate at school.  After making a few inquiries as to how
Tess came there, her friend, unheeding her tragic look, interrupted
with--

""But where's thy gentleman, Tess?""

Tess hastily explained that he had been called away on business, and,
leaving her interlocutor, clambered over the garden-hedge, and thus
made her way to the house.

As she went up the garden-path she heard her mother singing by the
back door, coming in sight of which she perceived Mrs Durbeyfield on
the doorstep in the act of wringing a sheet.  Having performed this
without observing Tess, she went indoors, and her daughter followed
her.

The washing-tub stood in the same old place on the same old
quarter-hogshead, and her mother, having thrown the sheet aside, was
about to plunge her arms in anew.

""Why--Tess!--my chil'--I thought you was married!--married really and
truly this time--we sent the cider--""

""Yes, mother; so I am.""

""Going to be?""

""No--I am married.""

""Married!  Then where's thy husband?""

""Oh, he's gone away for a time.""

""Gone away!  When was you married, then?  The day you said?""

""Yes, Tuesday, mother.""

""And now 'tis on'y Saturday, and he gone away?""

""Yes, he's gone.""

""What's the meaning o' that?  'Nation seize such husbands as you seem
to get, say I!""

""Mother!""  Tess went across to Joan Durbeyfield, laid her face upon
the matron's bosom, and burst into sobs.  ""I don't know how to tell
'ee, mother!  You said to me, and wrote to me, that I was not to tell
him.  But I did tell him--I couldn't help it--and he went away!""

""O you little fool--you little fool!"" burst out Mrs Durbeyfield,
splashing Tess and herself in her agitation.  ""My good God! that ever
I should ha' lived to say it, but I say it again, you little fool!""

Tess was convulsed with weeping, the tension of so many days having
relaxed at last.

""I know it--I know--I know!"" she gasped through her sobs.  ""But,
O my mother, I could not help it!  He was so good--and I felt
the wickedness of trying to blind him as to what had happened!
If--if--it were to be done again--I should do the same.  I could
not--I dared not--so sin--against him!""

""But you sinned enough to marry him first!""

""Yes, yes; that's where my misery do lie!  But I thought he could get
rid o' me by law if he were determined not to overlook it.  And O, if
you knew--if you could only half know how I loved him--how anxious I
was to have him--and how wrung I was between caring so much for him
and my wish to be fair to him!""

Tess was so shaken that she could get no further, and sank, a
helpless thing, into a chair.

""Well, well; what's done can't be undone!  I'm sure I don't know why
children o' my bringing forth should all be bigger simpletons than
other people's--not to know better than to blab such a thing as
that, when he couldn't ha' found it out till too late!""  Here Mrs
Durbeyfield began shedding tears on her own account as a mother to
be pitied.  ""What your father will say I don't know,"" she continued;
""for he's been talking about the wedding up at Rolliver's and The
Pure Drop every day since, and about his family getting back to their
rightful position through you--poor silly man!--and now you've made
this mess of it!  The Lord-a-Lord!""

As if to bring matters to a focus, Tess's father was heard
approaching at that moment.  He did not, however, enter immediately,
and Mrs Durbeyfield said that she would break the bad news to him
herself, Tess keeping out of sight for the present.  After her first
burst of disappointment Joan began to take the mishap as she had
taken Tess's original trouble, as she would have taken a wet holiday
or failure in the potato-crop; as a thing which had come upon them
irrespective of desert or folly; a chance external impingement to be
borne with; not a lesson.

Tess retreated upstairs and beheld casually that the beds had been
shifted, and new arrangements made.  Her old bed had been adapted for
two younger children.  There was no place here for her now.

The room below being unceiled she could hear most of what went on
there.  Presently her father entered, apparently carrying in a live
hen.  He was a foot-haggler now, having been obliged to sell his
second horse, and he travelled with his basket on his arm.  The hen
had been carried about this morning as it was often carried, to show
people that he was in his work, though it had lain, with its legs
tied, under the table at Rolliver's for more than an hour.

""We've just had up a story about--"" Durbeyfield began, and thereupon
related in detail to his wife a discussion which had arisen at the
inn about the clergy, originated by the fact of his daughter having
married into a clerical family. ""They was formerly styled 'sir',
like my own ancestry,"" he said, ""though nowadays their true style,
strictly speaking, is 'clerk' only.""  As Tess had wished that no
great publicity should be given to the event, he had mentioned no
particulars.  He hoped she would remove that prohibition soon.  He
proposed that the couple should take Tess's own name, d'Urberville,
as uncorrupted.  It was better than her husbands's.  He asked if any
letter had come from her that day.

Then Mrs Durbeyfield informed him that no letter had come, but Tess
unfortunately had come herself.

When at length the collapse was explained to him, a sullen
mortification, not usual with Durbeyfield, overpowered the influence
of the cheering glass.  Yet the intrinsic quality of the event moved
his touchy sensitiveness less than its conjectured effect upon the
minds of others.

""To think, now, that this was to be the end o't!"" said Sir John.
""And I with a family vault under that there church of Kingsbere as
big as Squire Jollard's ale-cellar, and my folk lying there in sixes
and sevens, as genuine county bones and marrow as any recorded in
history.  And now to be sure what they fellers at Rolliver's and The
Pure Drop will say to me!  How they'll squint and glane, and say,
'This is yer mighty match is it; this is yer getting back to the true
level of yer forefathers in King Norman's time!' I feel this is too
much, Joan; I shall put an end to myself, title and all--I can bear
it no longer! ...  But she can make him keep her if he's married
her?""

""Why, yes. But she won't think o' doing that.""

""D'ye think he really have married her?--or is it like the first--""

Poor Tess, who had heard as far as this, could not bear to hear more.
The perception that her word could be doubted even here, in her own
parental house, set her mind against the spot as nothing else could
have done.  How unexpected were the attacks of destiny!  And if her
father doubted her a little, would not neighbours and acquaintance
doubt her much?  O, she could not live long at home!

A few days, accordingly, were all that she allowed herself here, at
the end of which time she received a short note from Clare, informing
her that he had gone to the North of England to look at a farm.  In
her craving for the lustre of her true position as his wife, and to
hide from her parents the vast extent of the division between them,
she made use of this letter as her reason for again departing,
leaving them under the impression that she was setting out to join
him.  Still further to screen her husband from any imputation of
unkindness to her, she took twenty-five of the fifty pounds Clare
had given her, and handed the sum over to her mother, as if the wife
of a man like Angel Clare could well afford it, saying that it was a
slight return for the trouble and humiliation she had brought upon
them in years past.  With this assertion of her dignity she bade them
farewell; and after that there were lively doings in the Durbeyfield
household for some time on the strength of Tess's bounty, her mother
saying, and, indeed, believing, that the rupture which had arisen
between the young husband and wife had adjusted itself under their
strong feeling that they could not live apart from each other.


","Tess does not look forward to facing her family and telling them the truth about her marriage. She first tells her mother and confesses that she has told Angel the truth about her past; her mother tells her she is a fool. Her father doubts that she is really married. Her brothers and sisters have taken over her room and do 2ot want to be inconvenienced. Tess quickly realizes that she cannot stay at home for long. When she receives a letter from Angel telling her he is going up north, she pretends he has called for her. She gives her parents some of the money Angel has given her and departs."
68,"

At eleven o'clock that night, having secured a bed at one of the
hotels and telegraphed his address to his father immediately on his
arrival, he walked out into the streets of Sandbourne.  It was too
late to call on or inquire for any one, and he reluctantly postponed
his purpose till the morning.  But he could not retire to rest just
yet.

This fashionable watering-place, with its eastern and its western
stations, its piers, its groves of pines, its promenades, and its
covered gardens, was, to Angel Clare, like a fairy place suddenly
created by the stroke of a wand, and allowed to get a little dusty.
An outlying eastern tract of the enormous Egdon Waste was close at
hand, yet on the very verge of that tawny piece of antiquity such a
glittering novelty as this pleasure city had chosen to spring up.
Within the space of a mile from its outskirts every irregularity
of the soil was prehistoric, every channel an undisturbed British
trackway; not a sod having been turned there since the days of the
Caesars.  Yet the exotic had grown here, suddenly as the prophet's
gourd; and had drawn hither Tess.

By the midnight lamps he went up and down the winding way of this new
world in an old one, and could discern between the trees and against
the stars the lofty roofs, chimneys, gazebos, and towers of the
numerous fanciful residences of which the place was composed. It
was a city of detached mansions; a Mediterranean lounging-place on
the English Channel; and as seen now by night it seemed even more
imposing than it was.

The sea was near at hand, but not intrusive; it murmured, and he
thought it was the pines; the pines murmured in precisely the same
tones, and he thought they were the sea.

Where could Tess possibly be, a cottage-girl, his young wife, amidst
all this wealth and fashion?  The more he pondered, the more was he
puzzled.  Were there any cows to milk here?  There certainly were
no fields to till. She was most probably engaged to do something in
one of these large houses; and he sauntered along, looking at the
chamber-windows and their lights going out one by one, and wondered
which of them might be hers.

Conjecture was useless, and just after twelve o'clock he entered
and went to bed.   Before putting out his light he re-read Tess's
impassioned letter.  Sleep, however, he could not--so near her, yet
so far from her--and he continually lifted the window-blind and
regarded the backs of the opposite houses, and wondered behind which
of the sashes she reposed at that moment.

He might almost as well have sat up all night.  In the morning he
arose at seven, and shortly after went out, taking the direction of
the chief post-office.  At the door he met an intelligent postman
coming out with letters for the morning delivery.

""Do you know the address of a Mrs Clare?"" asked Angel.  The postman
shook his head.

Then, remembering that she would have been likely to continue the use
of her maiden name, Clare said--

""Of a Miss Durbeyfield?""

""Durbeyfield?""

This also was strange to the postman addressed.

""There's visitors coming and going every day, as you know, sir,"" he
said; ""and without the name of the house 'tis impossible to find
'em.""

One of his comrades hastening out at that moment, the name was
repeated to him.

""I know no name of Durbeyfield; but there is the name of d'Urberville
at The Herons,"" said the second.

""That's it!"" cried Clare, pleased to think that she had reverted to
the real pronunciation.  ""What place is The Herons?""

""A stylish lodging-house.  'Tis all lodging-houses here, bless 'ee.""

Clare received directions how to find the house, and hastened
thither, arriving with the milkman.  The Herons, though an ordinary
villa, stood in its own grounds, and was certainly the last place
in which one would have expected to find lodgings, so private was
its appearance.  If poor Tess was a servant here, as he feared, she
would go to the back-door to that milkman, and he was inclined to go
thither also.  However, in his doubts he turned to the front, and
rang.

The hour being early, the landlady herself opened the door.  Clare
inquired for Teresa d'Urberville or Durbeyfield.

""Mrs d'Urberville?""

""Yes.""

Tess, then, passed as a married woman, and he felt glad, even though
she had not adopted his name.

""Will you kindly tell her that a relative is anxious to see her?""

""It is rather early.  What name shall I give, sir?""

""Angel.""

""Mr Angel?""

""No; Angel.  It is my Christian name.  She'll understand.""

""I'll see if she is awake.""

He was shown into the front room--the dining-room--and looked out
through the spring curtains at the little lawn, and the rhododendrons
and other shrubs upon it.  Obviously her position was by no means so
bad as he had feared, and it crossed his mind that she must somehow
have claimed and sold the jewels to attain it.  He did not blame her
for one moment.  Soon his sharpened ear detected footsteps upon the
stairs, at which his heart thumped so painfully that he could hardly
stand firm.  ""Dear me! what will she think of me, so altered as I
am!"" he said to himself; and the door opened.

Tess appeared on the threshold--not at all as he had expected to
see her--bewilderingly otherwise, indeed.  Her great natural beauty
was, if not heightened, rendered more obvious by her attire.  She
was loosely wrapped in a cashmere dressing-gown of gray-white,
embroidered in half-mourning tints, and she wore slippers of the same
hue.  Her neck rose out of a frill of down, and her well-remembered
cable of dark-brown hair was partially coiled up in a mass at the
back of her head and partly hanging on her shoulder--the evident
result of haste.

He had held out his arms, but they had fallen again to his side;
for she had not come forward, remaining still in the opening of the
doorway.  Mere yellow skeleton that he was now, he felt the contrast
between them, and thought his appearance distasteful to her.

""Tess!"" he said huskily, ""can you forgive me for going away?  Can't
you--come to me?  How do you get to be--like this?""

""It is too late,"" said she, her voice sounding hard through the room,
her eyes shining unnaturally.

""I did not think rightly of you--I did not see you as you were!"" he
continued to plead.  ""I have learnt to since, dearest Tessy mine!""

""Too late, too late!"" she said, waving her hand in the impatience of
a person whose tortures cause every instant to seem an hour.  ""Don't
come close to me, Angel!  No--you must not.  Keep away.""

""But don't you love me, my dear wife, because I have been so pulled
down by illness?  You are not so fickle--I am come on purpose for
you--my mother and father will welcome you now!""

""Yes--O, yes, yes!  But I say, I say it is too late.""

She seemed to feel like a fugitive in a dream, who tries to move
away, but cannot.  ""Don't you know all--don't you know it?  Yet how
do you come here if you do not know?""

""I inquired here and there, and I found the way.""

""I waited and waited for you,"" she went on, her tones suddenly
resuming their old fluty pathos.  ""But you did not come!  And I wrote
to you, and you did not come! He kept on saying you would never come
any more, and that I was a foolish woman.  He was very kind to me,
and to mother, and to all of us after father's death. He--""

""I don't understand.""

""He has won me back to him.""

Clare looked at her keenly, then, gathering her meaning, flagged
like one plague-stricken, and his glance sank; it fell on her hands,
which, once rosy, were now white and more delicate.

She continued--

""He is upstairs.  I hate him now, because he told me a lie--that you
would not come again; and you HAVE come!  These clothes are what he's
put upon me: I didn't care what he did wi' me!  But--will you go
away, Angel, please, and never come any more?""

They stood fixed, their baffled hearts looking out of their eyes with
a joylessness pitiful to see.  Both seemed to implore something to
shelter them from reality.

""Ah--it is my fault!"" said Clare.

But he could not get on.  Speech was as inexpressive as silence.  But
he had a vague consciousness of one thing, though it was not clear
to him till later; that his original Tess had spiritually ceased to
recognize the body before him as hers--allowing it to drift, like a
corpse upon the current, in a direction dissociated from its living
will.

A few instants passed, and he found that Tess was gone.  His face
grew colder and more shrunken as he stood concentrated on the moment,
and a minute or two after, he found himself in the street, walking
along he did not know whither.


","At Sanbourne, Angel approaches a postman for Tess's address and is glad to find she is staying at the local lodge, a stylish place, and going by the name of Mrs. D'Urberville. It is the reader's first hint of the changes that have occurred with Tess. Angel enters the Herons and, seeing its luxury, he thinks that either Tess has sold the jewels or is working here as a maid. When Tess appears, Angel is surprised to see her expensive clothes and is overcome by her beauty. He begs for forgiveness and holds out his arms to embrace her. Tess refuses to approach him and tells him, in a tone of voice that is filled with pathos, that it is too late. Angel begs her again, and Tess then tells him that she is living in sin with Alec and pleads that he should never attempt to see her again. Broken and shattered, Angel walks out of the lodge."
69,"

On a thyme-scented, bird-hatching morning in May, between two and
three years after the return from Trantridge--silent, reconstructive
years for Tess Durbeyfield--she left her home for the second time.

Having packed up her luggage so that it could be sent to her later,
she started in a hired trap for the little town of Stourcastle,
through which it was necessary to pass on her journey, now in a
direction almost opposite to that of her first adventuring.  On the
curve of the nearest hill she looked back regretfully at Marlott and
her father's house, although she had been so anxious to get away.

Her kindred dwelling there would probably continue their daily
lives as heretofore, with no great diminution of pleasure in their
consciousness, although she would be far off, and they deprived of
her smile.  In a few days the children would engage in their games as
merrily as ever, without the sense of any gap left by her departure.
This leaving of the younger children she had decided to be for the
best; were she to remain they would probably gain less good by her
precepts than harm by her example.

She went through Stourcastle without pausing and onward to a junction
of highways, where she could await a carrier's van that ran to the
south-west; for the railways which engirdled this interior tract of
country had never yet struck across it.  While waiting, however,
there came along a farmer in his spring cart, driving approximately
in the direction that she wished to pursue.  Though he was a stranger
to her she accepted his offer of a seat beside him, ignoring that
its motive was a mere tribute to her countenance.  He was going to
Weatherbury, and by accompanying him thither she could walk the
remainder of the distance instead of travelling in the van by way of
Casterbridge.

Tess did not stop at Weatherbury, after this long drive, further than
to make a slight nondescript meal at noon at a cottage to which the
farmer recommended her.  Thence she started on foot, basket in hand,
to reach the wide upland of heath dividing this district from the
low-lying meads of a further valley in which the dairy stood that was
the aim and end of her day's pilgrimage.

Tess had never before visited this part of the country, and yet she
felt akin to the landscape.  Not so very far to the left of her she
could discern a dark patch in the scenery, which inquiry confirmed
her in supposing to be trees marking the environs of Kingsbere--in
the church of which parish the bones of her ancestors--her useless
ancestors--lay entombed.

She had no admiration for them now; she almost hated them for the
dance they had led her; not a thing of all that had been theirs did
she retain but the old seal and spoon.  ""Pooh--I have as much of
mother as father in me!"" she said.  ""All my prettiness comes from
her, and she was only a dairymaid.""

The journey over the intervening uplands and lowlands of Egdon,
when she reached them, was a more troublesome walk than she had
anticipated, the distance being actually but a few miles.  It was
two hours, owing to sundry wrong turnings, ere she found herself
on a summit commanding the long-sought-for vale, the Valley of the
Great Dairies, the valley in which milk and butter grew to rankness,
and were produced more profusely, if less delicately, than at her
home--the verdant plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom.

It was intrinsically different from the Vale of Little Dairies,
Blackmoor Vale, which, save during her disastrous sojourn at
Trantridge, she had exclusively known till now.  The world was drawn
to a larger pattern here.  The enclosures numbered fifty acres
instead of ten, the farmsteads were more extended, the groups of
cattle formed tribes hereabout; there only families.  These myriads
of cows stretching under her eyes from the far east to the far west
outnumbered any she had ever seen at one glance before. The green
lea was speckled as thickly with them as a canvas by Van Alsloot
or Sallaert with burghers.  The ripe hue of the red and dun kine
absorbed the evening sunlight, which the white-coated animals
returned to the eye in rays almost dazzling, even at the distant
elevation on which she stood.

The bird's-eye perspective before her was not so luxuriantly
beautiful, perhaps, as that other one which she knew so well; yet it
was more cheering.  It lacked the intensely blue atmosphere of the
rival vale, and its heavy soils and scents; the new air was clear,
bracing, ethereal.  The river itself, which nourished the grass
and cows of these renowned dairies, flowed not like the streams in
Blackmoor.  Those were slow, silent, often turbid; flowing over
beds of mud into which the incautious wader might sink and vanish
unawares.  The Froom waters were clear as the pure River of Life
shown to the Evangelist, rapid as the shadow of a cloud, with
pebbly shallows that prattled to the sky all day long.  There the
water-flower was the lily; the crow-foot here.

Either the change in the quality of the air from heavy to light, or
the sense of being amid new scenes where there were no invidious eyes
upon her, sent up her spirits wonderfully.  Her hopes mingled with
the sunshine in an ideal photosphere which surrounded her as she
bounded along against the soft south wind.  She heard a pleasant
voice in every breeze, and in every bird's note seemed to lurk a
joy.

Her face had latterly changed with changing states of mind,
continually fluctuating between beauty and ordinariness, according as
the thoughts were gay or grave.  One day she was pink and flawless;
another pale and tragical.  When she was pink she was feeling less
than when pale; her more perfect beauty accorded with her less
elevated mood; her more intense mood with her less perfect beauty.
It was her best face physically that was now set against the south
wind.

The irresistible, universal, automatic tendency to find sweet
pleasure somewhere, which pervades all life, from the meanest to the
highest, had at length mastered Tess.  Being even now only a young
woman of twenty, one who mentally and sentimentally had not finished
growing, it was impossible that any event should have left upon her
an impression that was not in time capable of transmutation.

And thus her spirits, and her thankfulness, and her hopes, rose
higher and higher.  She tried several ballads, but found them
inadequate; till, recollecting the psalter that her eyes had so often
wandered over of a Sunday morning before she had eaten of the tree
of knowledge, she chanted: ""O ye Sun and Moon ... O ye Stars ... ye
Green Things upon the Earth ... ye Fowls of the Air ... Beasts and
Cattle ... Children of Men ... bless ye the Lord, praise Him and
magnify Him for ever!""

She suddenly stopped and murmured: ""But perhaps I don't quite know
the Lord as yet.""

And probably the half-unconscious rhapsody was a Fetishistic
utterance in a Monotheistic setting; women whose chief companions
are the forms and forces of outdoor Nature retain in their souls far
more of the Pagan fantasy of their remote forefathers than of the
systematized religion taught their race at later date.  However, Tess
found at least approximate expression for her feelings in the old
_Benedicite_ that she had lisped from infancy; and it was enough.
Such high contentment with such a slight initial performance as that
of having started towards a means of independent living was a part of
the Durbeyfield temperament.  Tess really wished to walk uprightly,
while her father did nothing of the kind; but she resembled him in
being content with immediate and small achievements, and in having no
mind for laborious effort towards such petty social advancement as
could alone be effected by a family so heavily handicapped as the
once powerful d'Urbervilles were now.

There was, it might be said, the energy of her mother's unexpended
family, as well as the natural energy of Tess's years, rekindled
after the experience which had so overwhelmed her for the time. Let
the truth be told--women do as a rule live through such humiliations,
and regain their spirits, and again look about them with an
interested eye.  While there's life there's hope is a conviction not
so entirely unknown to the ""betrayed"" as some amiable theorists would
have us believe.

Tess Durbeyfield, then, in good heart, and full of zest for life,
descended the Egdon slopes lower and lower towards the dairy of her
pilgrimage.

The marked difference, in the final particular, between the rival
vales now showed itself.  The secret of Blackmoor was best discovered
from the heights around; to read aright the valley before her it was
necessary to descend into its midst.  When Tess had accomplished this
feat she found herself to be standing on a carpeted level, which
stretched to the east and west as far as the eye could reach.

The river had stolen from the higher tracts and brought in particles
to the vale all this horizontal land; and now, exhausted, aged, and
attenuated, lay serpentining along through the midst of its former
spoils.

Not quite sure of her direction, Tess stood still upon the hemmed
expanse of verdant flatness, like a fly on a billiard-table of
indefinite length, and of no more consequence to the surroundings
than that fly.  The sole effect of her presence upon the placid
valley so far had been to excite the mind of a solitary heron, which,
after descending to the ground not far from her path, stood with neck
erect, looking at her.

Suddenly there arose from all parts of the lowland a prolonged and
repeated call--""Waow! waow! waow!""

From the furthest east to the furthest west the cries spread as if by
contagion, accompanied in some cases by the barking of a dog.  It was
not the expression of the valley's consciousness that beautiful Tess
had arrived, but the ordinary announcement of milking-time--half-past
four o'clock, when the dairymen set about getting in the cows.

The red and white herd nearest at hand, which had been phlegmatically
waiting for the call, now trooped towards the steading in the
background, their great bags of milk swinging under them as they
walked.  Tess followed slowly in their rear, and entered the barton
by the open gate through which they had entered before her.  Long
thatched sheds stretched round the enclosure, their slopes encrusted
with vivid green moss, and their eaves supported by wooden posts
rubbed to a glossy smoothness by the flanks of infinite cows
and calves of bygone years, now passed to an oblivion almost
inconceivable in its profundity.  Between the post were ranged
the milchers, each exhibiting herself at the present moment to a
whimsical eye in the rear as a circle on two stalks, down the centre
of which a switch moved pendulum-wise; while the sun, lowering itself
behind this patient row, threw their shadows accurately inwards upon
the wall.  Thus it threw shadows of these obscure and homely figures
every evening with as much care over each contour as if it had been
the profile of a court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as
diligently as it had copied Olympian shapes on marble _facades_ long
ago, or the outline of Alexander, Caesar, and the Pharaohs.

They were the less restful cows that were stalled.  Those that would
stand still of their own will were milked in the middle of the yard,
where many of such better behaved ones stood waiting now--all prime
milchers, such as were seldom seen out of this valley, and not always
within it; nourished by the succulent feed which the water-meads
supplied at this prime season of the year.  Those of them that were
spotted with white reflected the sunshine in dazzling brilliancy,
and the polished brass knobs of their horns glittered with something
of military display.  Their large-veined udders hung ponderous as
sandbags, the teats sticking out like the legs of a gipsy's crock;
and as each animal lingered for her turn to arrive the milk oozed
forth and fell in drops to the ground.


","At the age of twenty, with new-found optimism, Tess leaves Marlott in a hired cart for Stourcastle to work at Talbothays Dairy in the Valley of the Great Dairies. Feeling ""akin"" to the area, she learns that it is in Kingsmere that the d'Urberville's originated and that their bones remain entombed in the local church. She dismisses any thoughts of grandeur"
70,"

""Now, who mid ye think I've heard news o' this morning?"" said
Dairyman Crick, as he sat down to breakfast next day, with a riddling
gaze round upon the munching men and maids. ""Now, just who mid ye
think?""

One guessed, and another guessed.  Mrs Crick did not guess, because
she knew already.

""Well,"" said the dairyman, ""'tis that slack-twisted 'hore's-bird of a
feller, Jack Dollop.  He's lately got married to a widow-woman.""

""Not Jack Dollop?  A villain--to think o' that!"" said a milker.

The name entered quickly into Tess Durbeyfield's consciousness, for
it was the name of the lover who had wronged his sweetheart, and had
afterwards been so roughly used by the young woman's mother in the
butter-churn.

""And had he married the valiant matron's daughter, as he promised?""
asked Angel Clare absently, as he turned over the newspaper he was
reading at the little table to which he was always banished by Mrs
Crick, in her sense of his gentility.

""Not he, sir.  Never meant to,"" replied the dairyman. ""As I say, 'tis
a widow-woman, and she had money, it seems--fifty poun' a year or so;
and that was all he was after.  They were married in a great hurry;
and then she told him that by marrying she had lost her fifty poun'
a year.  Just fancy the state o' my gentleman's mind at that news!
Never such a cat-and-dog life as they've been leading ever since!
Serves him well beright.  But onluckily the poor woman gets the worst
o't.""

""Well, the silly body should have told en sooner that the ghost of
her first man would trouble him,"" said Mrs Crick.

""Ay, ay,"" responded the dairyman indecisively.  ""Still, you can see
exactly how 'twas.  She wanted a home, and didn't like to run the
risk of losing him.  Don't ye think that was something like it,
maidens?""

He glanced towards the row of girls.

""She ought to ha' told him just before they went to church, when he
could hardly have backed out,"" exclaimed Marian.

""Yes, she ought,"" agreed Izz.

""She must have seen what he was after, and should ha' refused him,""
cried Retty spasmodically.

""And what do you say, my dear?"" asked the dairyman of Tess.

""I think she ought--to have told him the true state of things--or
else refused him--I don't know,"" replied Tess, the bread-and-butter
choking her.

""Be cust if I'd have done either o't,"" said Beck Knibbs, a married
helper from one of the cottages.  ""All's fair in love and war.  I'd
ha' married en just as she did, and if he'd said two words to me
about not telling him beforehand anything whatsomdever about my first
chap that I hadn't chose to tell, I'd ha' knocked him down wi' the
rolling-pin--a scram little feller like he!  Any woman could do it.""

The laughter which followed this sally was supplemented only by a
sorry smile, for form's sake, from Tess.  What was comedy to them was
tragedy to her; and she could hardly bear their mirth.  She soon rose
from table, and, with an impression that Clare would soon follow her,
went along a little wriggling path, now stepping to one side of the
irrigating channels, and now to the other, till she stood by the main
stream of the Var.  Men had been cutting the water-weeds higher up
the river, and masses of them were floating past her--moving islands
of green crow-foot, whereon she might almost have ridden; long locks
of which weed had lodged against the piles driven to keep the cows
from crossing.

Yes, there was the pain of it.  This question of a woman telling her
story--the heaviest of crosses to herself--seemed but amusement to
others.  It was as if people should laugh at martyrdom.

""Tessy!"" came from behind her, and Clare sprang across the gully,
alighting beside her feet.  ""My wife--soon!""

""No, no; I cannot.  For your sake, O Mr Clare; for your sake, I say
no!""

""Tess!""

""Still I say no!"" she repeated.

Not expecting this, he had put his arm lightly round her waist the
moment after speaking, beneath her hanging tail of hair.  (The
younger dairymaids, including Tess, breakfasted with their hair loose
on Sunday mornings before building it up extra high for attending
church, a style they could not adopt when milking with their heads
against the cows.)  If she had said ""Yes"" instead of ""No"" he
would have kissed her; it had evidently been his intention; but
her determined negative deterred his scrupulous heart.  Their
condition of domiciliary comradeship put her, as the woman, to such
disadvantage by its enforced intercourse, that he felt it unfair to
her to exercise any pressure of blandishment which he might have
honestly employed had she been better able to avoid him.  He released
her momentarily-imprisoned waist, and withheld the kiss.

It all turned on that release.  What had given her strength to refuse
him this time was solely the tale of the widow told by the dairyman;
and that would have been overcome in another moment.  But Angel said
no more; his face was perplexed; he went away.

Day after day they met--somewhat less constantly than before; and
thus two or three weeks went by.  The end of September drew near, and
she could see in his eye that he might ask her again.

His plan of procedure was different now--as though he had made up
his mind that her negatives were, after all, only coyness and youth
startled by the novelty of the proposal.  The fitful evasiveness of
her manner when the subject was under discussion countenanced the
idea.  So he played a more coaxing game; and while never going beyond
words, or attempting the renewal of caresses, he did his utmost
orally.

In this way Clare persistently wooed her in undertones like that of
the purling milk--at the cow's side, at skimmings, at butter-makings,
at cheese-makings, among broody poultry, and among farrowing pigs--as
no milkmaid was ever wooed before by such a man.

Tess knew that she must break down.  Neither a religious sense of a
certain moral validity in the previous union nor a conscientious wish
for candour could hold out against it much longer.  She loved him so
passionately, and he was so godlike in her eyes; and being, though
untrained, instinctively refined, her nature cried for his tutelary
guidance.  And thus, though Tess kept repeating to herself, ""I can
never be his wife,"" the words were vain.  A proof of her weakness lay
in the very utterance of what calm strength would not have taken the
trouble to formulate.  Every sound of his voice beginning on the old
subject stirred her with a terrifying bliss, and she coveted the
recantation she feared.

His manner was--what man's is not?--so much that of one who would
love and cherish and defend her under any conditions, changes,
charges, or revelations, that her gloom lessened as she basked in it.
The season meanwhile was drawing onward to the equinox, and though
it was still fine, the days were much shorter.  The dairy had again
worked by morning candlelight for a long time; and a fresh renewal
of Clare's pleading occurred one morning between three and four.

She had run up in her bedgown to his door to call him as usual;
then had gone back to dress and call the others; and in ten minutes
was walking to the head of the stairs with the candle in her
hand.  At the same moment he came down his steps from above in his
shirt-sleeves and put his arm across the stairway.

""Now, Miss Flirt, before you go down,"" he said peremptorily. ""It is a
fortnight since I spoke, and this won't do any longer.  You MUST tell
me what you mean, or I shall have to leave this house.  My door was
ajar just now, and I saw you.  For your own safety I must go.  You
don't know.  Well?  Is it to be yes at last?""

""I am only just up, Mr Clare, and it is too early to take me to
task!"" she pouted.  ""You need not call me Flirt.  'Tis cruel and
untrue.  Wait till by and by.  Please wait till by and by!  I will
really think seriously about it between now and then.  Let me go
downstairs!""

She looked a little like what he said she was as, holding the candle
sideways, she tried to smile away the seriousness of her words.

""Call me Angel, then, and not Mr Clare.""

""Angel.""

""Angel dearest--why not?""

""'Twould mean that I agree, wouldn't it?""

""It would only mean that you love me, even if you cannot marry me;
and you were so good as to own that long ago.""

""Very well, then, 'Angel dearest', if I MUST,"" she murmured, looking
at her candle, a roguish curl coming upon her mouth, notwithstanding
her suspense.

Clare had resolved never to kiss her until he had obtained her
promise; but somehow, as Tess stood there in her prettily tucked-up
milking gown, her hair carelessly heaped upon her head till there
should be leisure to arrange it when skimming and milking were done,
he broke his resolve, and brought his lips to her cheek for one
moment.  She passed downstairs very quickly, never looking back at
him or saying another word.  The other maids were already down,
and the subject was not pursued.  Except Marian, they all looked
wistfully and suspiciously at the pair, in the sad yellow rays which
the morning candles emitted in contrast with the first cold signals
of the dawn without.

When skimming was done--which, as the milk diminished with the
approach of autumn, was a lessening process day by day--Retty and
the rest went out.  The lovers followed them.

""Our tremulous lives are so different from theirs, are they not?"" he
musingly observed to her, as he regarded the three figures tripping
before him through the frigid pallor of opening day.

""Not so very different, I think,"" she said.

""Why do you think that?""

""There are very few women's lives that are not--tremulous,"" Tess
replied, pausing over the new word as if it impressed her.  ""There's
more in those three than you think.""

""What is in them?""

""Almost either of 'em,"" she began, ""would make--perhaps would
make--a properer wife than I.  And perhaps they love you as well
as I--almost.""

""O, Tessy!""

There were signs that it was an exquisite relief to her to hear the
impatient exclamation, though she had resolved so intrepidly to let
generosity make one bid against herself.  That was now done, and she
had not the power to attempt self-immolation a second time then.
They were joined by a milker from one of the cottages, and no more
was said on that which concerned them so deeply.  But Tess knew that
this day would decide it.

In the afternoon several of the dairyman's household and assistants
went down to the meads as usual, a long way from the dairy, where
many of the cows were milked without being driven home.  The
supply was getting less as the animals advanced in calf, and the
supernumerary milkers of the lush green season had been dismissed.

The work progressed leisurely.  Each pailful was poured into tall
cans that stood in a large spring-waggon which had been brought
upon the scene; and when they were milked, the cows trailed away.
Dairyman Crick, who was there with the rest, his wrapper gleaming
miraculously white against a leaden evening sky, suddenly looked
at his heavy watch.

""Why, 'tis later than I thought,"" he said.  ""Begad!  We shan't be
soon enough with this milk at the station, if we don't mind.  There's
no time to-day to take it home and mix it with the bulk afore sending
off.  It must go to station straight from here.  Who'll drive it
across?""

Mr Clare volunteered to do so, though it was none of his business,
asking Tess to accompany him.  The evening, though sunless, had
been warm and muggy for the season, and Tess had come out with
her milking-hood only, naked-armed and jacketless; certainly not
dressed for a drive.  She therefore replied by glancing over her
scant habiliments; but Clare gently urged her.  She assented by
relinquishing her pail and stool to the dairyman to take home, and
mounted the spring-waggon beside Clare.


","A local farm man named Jack Dollop, the same man who escaped an aspiring mother-in-law by hiding in the dairy's churn, marries a local wealthy widow but finds that her wealth evaporated upon her remarriage. All at Talbothays laugh at this tidbit of gossip and side with the despicable Dollop against the scheming widow. But Tess takes the story to heart and worries more and more about sharing her past with Angel"
71,"

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.


","Angel follows Tess to Marlott, learns that Sir John Durbeyfield has died and that the family is living at Trantridge. He pays for the headstone. After first withholding the information of Tess's whereabouts, her now well-cared for mother informs Angel, and he leaves to go to Sandbourne"
72,"Chapter VI. Smerdyakov


He did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a dining-
room in the house, the table was laid as usual in the drawing-room, which
was the largest room, and furnished with old-fashioned ostentation. The
furniture was white and very old, upholstered in old, red, silky material.
In the spaces between the windows there were mirrors in elaborate white
and gilt frames, of old-fashioned carving. On the walls, covered with
white paper, which was torn in many places, there hung two large
portraits--one of some prince who had been governor of the district thirty
years before, and the other of some bishop, also long since dead. In the
corner opposite the door there were several ikons, before which a lamp was
lighted at nightfall ... not so much for devotional purposes as to light
the room. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late, at three or four
o'clock in the morning, and would wander about the room at night or sit in
an arm-chair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept
quite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge; but usually
Smerdyakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall.

When Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had been
served. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy after dinner.
Ivan was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigory and
Smerdyakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed
in singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with laughter.
Before he entered the room, Alyosha heard the shrill laugh he knew so
well, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had only reached
the good-humored stage, and was far from being completely drunk.

""Here he is! Here he is!"" yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly delighted at
seeing Alyosha. ""Join us. Sit down. Coffee is a lenten dish, but it's hot
and good. I don't offer you brandy, you're keeping the fast. But would you
like some? No; I'd better give you some of our famous liqueur. Smerdyakov,
go to the cupboard, the second shelf on the right. Here are the keys. Look
sharp!""

Alyosha began refusing the liqueur.

""Never mind. If you won't have it, we will,"" said Fyodor Pavlovitch,
beaming. ""But stay--have you dined?""

""Yes,"" answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of bread and
drunk a glass of kvas in the Father Superior's kitchen. ""Though I should
be pleased to have some hot coffee.""

""Bravo, my darling! He'll have some coffee. Does it want warming? No, it's
boiling. It's capital coffee: Smerdyakov's making. My Smerdyakov's an
artist at coffee and at fish patties, and at fish soup, too. You must come
one day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand.... But, stay;
didn't I tell you this morning to come home with your mattress and pillow
and all? Have you brought your mattress? He he he!""

""No, I haven't,"" said Alyosha, smiling, too.

""Ah, but you were frightened, you were frightened this morning, weren't
you? There, my darling, I couldn't do anything to vex you. Do you know,
Ivan, I can't resist the way he looks one straight in the face and laughs?
It makes me laugh all over. I'm so fond of him. Alyosha, let me give you
my blessing--a father's blessing.""

Alyosha rose, but Fyodor Pavlovitch had already changed his mind.

""No, no,"" he said. ""I'll just make the sign of the cross over you, for
now. Sit still. Now we've a treat for you, in your own line, too. It'll
make you laugh. Balaam's ass has begun talking to us here--and how he
talks! How he talks!""

Balaam's ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smerdyakov. He was a young man
of about four and twenty, remarkably unsociable and taciturn. Not that he
was shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was conceited and seemed to
despise everybody.

But we must pause to say a few words about him now. He was brought up by
Grigory and Marfa, but the boy grew up ""with no sense of gratitude,"" as
Grigory expressed it; he was an unfriendly boy, and seemed to look at the
world mistrustfully. In his childhood he was very fond of hanging cats,
and burying them with great ceremony. He used to dress up in a sheet as
though it were a surplice, and sang, and waved some object over the dead
cat as though it were a censer. All this he did on the sly, with the
greatest secrecy. Grigory caught him once at this diversion and gave him a
sound beating. He shrank into a corner and sulked there for a week. ""He
doesn't care for you or me, the monster,"" Grigory used to say to Marfa,
""and he doesn't care for any one. Are you a human being?"" he said,
addressing the boy directly. ""You're not a human being. You grew from the
mildew in the bath-house.(2) That's what you are."" Smerdyakov, it appeared
afterwards, could never forgive him those words. Grigory taught him to
read and write, and when he was twelve years old, began teaching him the
Scriptures. But this teaching came to nothing. At the second or third
lesson the boy suddenly grinned.

""What's that for?"" asked Grigory, looking at him threateningly from under
his spectacles.

""Oh, nothing. God created light on the first day, and the sun, moon, and
stars on the fourth day. Where did the light come from on the first day?""

Grigory was thunderstruck. The boy looked sarcastically at his teacher.
There was something positively condescending in his expression. Grigory
could not restrain himself. ""I'll show you where!"" he cried, and gave the
boy a violent slap on the cheek. The boy took the slap without a word, but
withdrew into his corner again for some days. A week later he had his
first attack of the disease to which he was subject all the rest of his
life--epilepsy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of it, his attitude to the boy
seemed changed at once. Till then he had taken no notice of him, though he
never scolded him, and always gave him a copeck when he met him.
Sometimes, when he was in good humor, he would send the boy something
sweet from his table. But as soon as he heard of his illness, he showed an
active interest in him, sent for a doctor, and tried remedies, but the
disease turned out to be incurable. The fits occurred, on an average, once
a month, but at various intervals. The fits varied too, in violence: some
were light and some were very severe. Fyodor Pavlovitch strictly forbade
Grigory to use corporal punishment to the boy, and began allowing him to
come upstairs to him. He forbade him to be taught anything whatever for a
time, too. One day when the boy was about fifteen, Fyodor Pavlovitch
noticed him lingering by the bookcase, and reading the titles through the
glass. Fyodor Pavlovitch had a fair number of books--over a hundred--but no
one ever saw him reading. He at once gave Smerdyakov the key of the
bookcase. ""Come, read. You shall be my librarian. You'll be better sitting
reading than hanging about the courtyard. Come, read this,"" and Fyodor
Pavlovitch gave him _Evenings in a Cottage near Dikanka_.

He read a little but didn't like it. He did not once smile, and ended by
frowning.

""Why? Isn't it funny?"" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch.

Smerdyakov did not speak.

""Answer, stupid!""

""It's all untrue,"" mumbled the boy, with a grin.

""Then go to the devil! You have the soul of a lackey. Stay, here's
Smaragdov's _Universal History_. That's all true. Read that.""

But Smerdyakov did not get through ten pages of Smaragdov. He thought it
dull. So the bookcase was closed again.

Shortly afterwards Marfa and Grigory reported to Fyodor Pavlovitch that
Smerdyakov was gradually beginning to show an extraordinary
fastidiousness. He would sit before his soup, take up his spoon and look
into the soup, bend over it, examine it, take a spoonful and hold it to
the light.

""What is it? A beetle?"" Grigory would ask.

""A fly, perhaps,"" observed Marfa.

The squeamish youth never answered, but he did the same with his bread,
his meat, and everything he ate. He would hold a piece on his fork to the
light, scrutinize it microscopically, and only after long deliberation
decide to put it in his mouth.

""Ach! What fine gentlemen's airs!"" Grigory muttered, looking at him.

When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of this development in Smerdyakov he
determined to make him his cook, and sent him to Moscow to be trained. He
spent some years there and came back remarkably changed in appearance. He
looked extraordinarily old for his age. His face had grown wrinkled,
yellow, and strangely emasculate. In character he seemed almost exactly
the same as before he went away. He was just as unsociable, and showed not
the slightest inclination for any companionship. In Moscow, too, as we
heard afterwards, he had always been silent. Moscow itself had little
interest for him; he saw very little there, and took scarcely any notice
of anything. He went once to the theater, but returned silent and
displeased with it. On the other hand, he came back to us from Moscow well
dressed, in a clean coat and clean linen. He brushed his clothes most
scrupulously twice a day invariably, and was very fond of cleaning his
smart calf boots with a special English polish, so that they shone like
mirrors. He turned out a first-rate cook. Fyodor Pavlovitch paid him a
salary, almost the whole of which Smerdyakov spent on clothes, pomade,
perfumes, and such things. But he seemed to have as much contempt for the
female sex as for men; he was discreet, almost unapproachable, with them.
Fyodor Pavlovitch began to regard him rather differently. His fits were
becoming more frequent, and on the days he was ill Marfa cooked, which did
not suit Fyodor Pavlovitch at all.

""Why are your fits getting worse?"" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, looking
askance at his new cook. ""Would you like to get married? Shall I find you
a wife?""

But Smerdyakov turned pale with anger, and made no reply. Fyodor
Pavlovitch left him with an impatient gesture. The great thing was that he
had absolute confidence in his honesty. It happened once, when Fyodor
Pavlovitch was drunk, that he dropped in the muddy courtyard three
hundred-rouble notes which he had only just received. He only missed them
next day, and was just hastening to search his pockets when he saw the
notes lying on the table. Where had they come from? Smerdyakov had picked
them up and brought them in the day before.

""Well, my lad, I've never met any one like you,"" Fyodor Pavlovitch said
shortly, and gave him ten roubles. We may add that he not only believed in
his honesty, but had, for some reason, a liking for him, although the
young man looked as morosely at him as at every one and was always silent.
He rarely spoke. If it had occurred to any one to wonder at the time what
the young man was interested in, and what was in his mind, it would have
been impossible to tell by looking at him. Yet he used sometimes to stop
suddenly in the house, or even in the yard or street, and would stand
still for ten minutes, lost in thought. A physiognomist studying his face
would have said that there was no thought in it, no reflection, but only a
sort of contemplation. There is a remarkable picture by the painter
Kramskoy, called ""Contemplation."" There is a forest in winter, and on a
roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a
torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he
is not thinking; he is ""contemplating."" If any one touched him he would
start and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he
would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been
thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden
within himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period
of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards
them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he
does not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many
years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his
soul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native
village, and perhaps do both. There are a good many ""contemplatives"" among
the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and he probably
was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why.




","When Alyosha enters his father's home, his father and brother Ivan are finishing dinner and the servants attend them in the dining room. Here we're given a little background on Smerdyakov, Stinking Lizaveta's son. A quiet, sullen child, Smerdyakov was discovered to have the ""falling sickness"" ; he would fall into fits every month or so. For some reason Fyodor grew quite fond of the boy after his illness was discovered. One day, Smerdyakov was found picking through his soup, and Fyodor decided that Smerdyakov should be trained as a chef. After training in Moscow, Smerdyakov came back to be Fyodor's cook. Now 24, he is just as sullen and silent as ever."
73,"Chapter VII. The Controversy


But Balaam's ass had suddenly spoken. The subject was a strange one.
Grigory had gone in the morning to make purchases, and had heard from the
shopkeeper Lukyanov the story of a Russian soldier which had appeared in
the newspaper of that day. This soldier had been taken prisoner in some
remote part of Asia, and was threatened with an immediate agonizing death
if he did not renounce Christianity and follow Islam. He refused to deny
his faith, and was tortured, flayed alive, and died, praising and
glorifying Christ. Grigory had related the story at table. Fyodor
Pavlovitch always liked, over the dessert after dinner, to laugh and talk,
if only with Grigory. This afternoon he was in a particularly good-humored
and expansive mood. Sipping his brandy and listening to the story, he
observed that they ought to make a saint of a soldier like that, and to
take his skin to some monastery. ""That would make the people flock, and
bring the money in.""

Grigory frowned, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovitch was by no means touched,
but, as usual, was beginning to scoff. At that moment Smerdyakov, who was
standing by the door, smiled. Smerdyakov often waited at table towards the
end of dinner, and since Ivan's arrival in our town he had done so every
day.

""What are you grinning at?"" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, catching the smile
instantly, and knowing that it referred to Grigory.

""Well, my opinion is,"" Smerdyakov began suddenly and unexpectedly in a
loud voice, ""that if that laudable soldier's exploit was so very great
there would have been, to my thinking, no sin in it if he had on such an
emergency renounced, so to speak, the name of Christ and his own
christening, to save by that same his life, for good deeds, by which, in
the course of years to expiate his cowardice.""

""How could it not be a sin? You're talking nonsense. For that you'll go
straight to hell and be roasted there like mutton,"" put in Fyodor
Pavlovitch.

It was at this point that Alyosha came in, and Fyodor Pavlovitch, as we
have seen, was highly delighted at his appearance.

""We're on your subject, your subject,"" he chuckled gleefully, making
Alyosha sit down to listen.

""As for mutton, that's not so, and there'll be nothing there for this, and
there shouldn't be either, if it's according to justice,"" Smerdyakov
maintained stoutly.

""How do you mean 'according to justice'?"" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried still
more gayly, nudging Alyosha with his knee.

""He's a rascal, that's what he is!"" burst from Grigory. He looked
Smerdyakov wrathfully in the face.

""As for being a rascal, wait a little, Grigory Vassilyevitch,"" answered
Smerdyakov with perfect composure. ""You'd better consider yourself that,
once I am taken prisoner by the enemies of the Christian race, and they
demand from me to curse the name of God and to renounce my holy
christening, I am fully entitled to act by my own reason, since there
would be no sin in it.""

""But you've said that before. Don't waste words. Prove it,"" cried Fyodor
Pavlovitch.

""Soup-maker!"" muttered Grigory contemptuously.

""As for being a soup-maker, wait a bit, too, and consider for yourself,
Grigory Vassilyevitch, without abusing me. For as soon as I say to those
enemies, 'No, I'm not a Christian, and I curse my true God,' then at once,
by God's high judgment, I become immediately and specially anathema
accursed, and am cut off from the Holy Church, exactly as though I were a
heathen, so that at that very instant, not only when I say it aloud, but
when I think of saying it, before a quarter of a second has passed, I am
cut off. Is that so or not, Grigory Vassilyevitch?""

He addressed Grigory with obvious satisfaction, though he was really
answering Fyodor Pavlovitch's questions, and was well aware of it, and
intentionally pretending that Grigory had asked the questions.

""Ivan,"" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, ""stoop down for me to whisper.
He's got this all up for your benefit. He wants you to praise him. Praise
him.""

Ivan listened with perfect seriousness to his father's excited whisper.

""Stay, Smerdyakov, be quiet a minute,"" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch once more.
""Ivan, your ear again.""

Ivan bent down again with a perfectly grave face.

""I love you as I do Alyosha. Don't think I don't love you. Some brandy?""

""Yes.--But you're rather drunk yourself,"" thought Ivan, looking steadily at
his father.

He was watching Smerdyakov with great curiosity.

""You're anathema accursed, as it is,"" Grigory suddenly burst out, ""and how
dare you argue, you rascal, after that, if--""

""Don't scold him, Grigory, don't scold him,"" Fyodor Pavlovitch cut him
short.

""You should wait, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if only a short time, and listen,
for I haven't finished all I had to say. For at the very moment I become
accursed, at that same highest moment, I become exactly like a heathen,
and my christening is taken off me and becomes of no avail. Isn't that
so?""

""Make haste and finish, my boy,"" Fyodor Pavlovitch urged him, sipping from
his wine-glass with relish.

""And if I've ceased to be a Christian, then I told no lie to the enemy
when they asked whether I was a Christian or not a Christian, seeing I had
already been relieved by God Himself of my Christianity by reason of the
thought alone, before I had time to utter a word to the enemy. And if I
have already been discharged, in what manner and with what sort of justice
can I be held responsible as a Christian in the other world for having
denied Christ, when, through the very thought alone, before denying Him I
had been relieved from my christening? If I'm no longer a Christian, then
I can't renounce Christ, for I've nothing then to renounce. Who will hold
an unclean Tatar responsible, Grigory Vassilyevitch, even in heaven, for
not having been born a Christian? And who would punish him for that,
considering that you can't take two skins off one ox? For God Almighty
Himself, even if He did make the Tatar responsible, when he dies would
give him the smallest possible punishment, I imagine (since he must be
punished), judging that he is not to blame if he has come into the world
an unclean heathen, from heathen parents. The Lord God can't surely take a
Tatar and say he was a Christian? That would mean that the Almighty would
tell a real untruth. And can the Lord of Heaven and earth tell a lie, even
in one word?""

Grigory was thunderstruck and looked at the orator, his eyes nearly
starting out of his head. Though he did not clearly understand what was
said, he had caught something in this rigmarole, and stood, looking like a
man who has just hit his head against a wall. Fyodor Pavlovitch emptied
his glass and went off into his shrill laugh.

""Alyosha! Alyosha! What do you say to that! Ah, you casuist! He must have
been with the Jesuits, somewhere, Ivan. Oh, you stinking Jesuit, who
taught you? But you're talking nonsense, you casuist, nonsense, nonsense,
nonsense. Don't cry, Grigory, we'll reduce him to smoke and ashes in a
moment. Tell me this, O ass; you may be right before your enemies, but you
have renounced your faith all the same in your own heart, and you say
yourself that in that very hour you became anathema accursed. And if once
you're anathema they won't pat you on the head for it in hell. What do you
say to that, my fine Jesuit?""

""There is no doubt that I have renounced it in my own heart, but there was
no special sin in that. Or if there was sin, it was the most ordinary.""

""How's that the most ordinary?""

""You lie, accursed one!"" hissed Grigory.

""Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch,"" Smerdyakov went on, staid and
unruffled, conscious of his triumph, but, as it were, generous to the
vanquished foe. ""Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch; it is said in
the Scripture that if you have faith, even as a mustard seed, and bid a
mountain move into the sea, it will move without the least delay at your
bidding. Well, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if I'm without faith and you have so
great a faith that you are continually swearing at me, you try yourself
telling this mountain, not to move into the sea for that's a long way off,
but even to our stinking little river which runs at the bottom of the
garden. You'll see for yourself that it won't budge, but will remain just
where it is however much you shout at it, and that shows, Grigory
Vassilyevitch, that you haven't faith in the proper manner, and only abuse
others about it. Again, taking into consideration that no one in our day,
not only you, but actually no one, from the highest person to the lowest
peasant, can shove mountains into the sea--except perhaps some one man in
the world, or, at most, two, and they most likely are saving their souls
in secret somewhere in the Egyptian desert, so you wouldn't find them--if
so it be, if all the rest have no faith, will God curse all the rest? that
is, the population of the whole earth, except about two hermits in the
desert, and in His well-known mercy will He not forgive one of them? And
so I'm persuaded that though I may once have doubted I shall be forgiven
if I shed tears of repentance.""

""Stay!"" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, in a transport of delight. ""So you do
suppose there are two who can move mountains? Ivan, make a note of it,
write it down. There you have the Russian all over!""

""You're quite right in saying it's characteristic of the people's faith,""
Ivan assented, with an approving smile.

""You agree. Then it must be so, if you agree. It's true, isn't it,
Alyosha? That's the Russian faith all over, isn't it?""

""No, Smerdyakov has not the Russian faith at all,"" said Alyosha firmly and
gravely.

""I'm not talking about his faith. I mean those two in the desert, only
that idea. Surely that's Russian, isn't it?""

""Yes, that's purely Russian,"" said Alyosha smiling.

""Your words are worth a gold piece, O ass, and I'll give it to you to-day.
But as to the rest you talk nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Let me tell you,
stupid, that we here are all of little faith, only from carelessness,
because we haven't time; things are too much for us, and, in the second
place, the Lord God has given us so little time, only twenty-four hours in
the day, so that one hasn't even time to get sleep enough, much less to
repent of one's sins. While you have denied your faith to your enemies
when you'd nothing else to think about but to show your faith! So I
consider, brother, that it constitutes a sin.""

""Constitute a sin it may, but consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch,
that it only extenuates it, if it does constitute. If I had believed then
in very truth, as I ought to have believed, then it really would have been
sinful if I had not faced tortures for my faith, and had gone over to the
pagan Mohammedan faith. But, of course, it wouldn't have come to torture
then, because I should only have had to say at that instant to the
mountain, 'Move and crush the tormentor,' and it would have moved and at
the very instant have crushed him like a black-beetle, and I should have
walked away as though nothing had happened, praising and glorifying God.
But, suppose at that very moment I had tried all that, and cried to that
mountain, 'Crush these tormentors,' and it hadn't crushed them, how could
I have helped doubting, pray, at such a time, and at such a dread hour of
mortal terror? And apart from that, I should know already that I could not
attain to the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (for since the mountain
had not moved at my word, they could not think very much of my faith up
aloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world to
come). So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to no
good purpose? For, even though they had flayed my skin half off my back,
even then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my cry. And
at such a moment not only doubt might come over one but one might lose
one's reason from fear, so that one would not be able to think at all.
And, therefore, how should I be particularly to blame if not seeing my
advantage or reward there or here, I should, at least, save my skin. And
so trusting fully in the grace of the Lord I should cherish the hope that
I might be altogether forgiven.""




","The conversation turns to an incident Grigory heard in town. A Russian soldier on the borderlands had been caught by the Asians. When he refused to reject Christianity, he was flayed alive. Fyodor jokingly remarks that the soldier should be proclaimed a saint and his skin sent to a monastery to be worshipped. Grigory, who is quite devout, frowns. Then Fyodor notices that Smerdyakov is smiling and asks him to explain himself. Smerdyakov asserts that if he were in the soldier's shoes, he would have renounced Christianity before the Asians asked him to do so. Then he wouldn't have blasphemed in rejecting God. Fyodor loves Smerdyakov's twisted logic, but Grigory is furious. Smerdyakov slyly notes that not even devout Grigory has faith enough to move mountains. Fyodor enjoys Smerdyakov's argument as a great example of Russian faith, and he prods Ivan and Alyosha to agree with him."
74,"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.




","Dmitri runs around the room, shouting that he saw Grushenka headed to the house and he knows she's here. Everyone insists that she couldn't possibly have entered the house without their being aware of it. Fyodor accuses Dmitri of stealing the money intended for Grushenka and rushes at him. Dmitri grabs Fyodor by the hair, throws him to the floor, and kicks him. Ivan and Alyosha pull Dmitri away. Finally convinced that Grushenka isn't in the house, Dmitri runs off to look for her. As he leaves, he reminds Alyosha to go see Katerina. The servants help Fyodor to bed and Ivan leaves to get some air in the yard. Alyosha goes to his father, who is still out of it from drink and the beating he got from Dmitri. Fyodor tells Alyosha he can have his mother's icon and return to the monastery. He asks Alyosha to see Grushenka, but then takes back his request. He then asks Alyosha to visit him the next day. On his way out of the house, Alyosha sees Ivan, who says that he'll protect Fyodor from Dmitri."
75,"Chapter II. At His Father's


First of all, Alyosha went to his father. On the way he remembered that
his father had insisted the day before that he should come without his
brother Ivan seeing him. ""Why so?"" Alyosha wondered suddenly. ""Even if my
father has something to say to me alone, why should I go in unseen? Most
likely in his excitement yesterday he meant to say something different,""
he decided. Yet he was very glad when Marfa Ignatyevna, who opened the
garden gate to him (Grigory, it appeared, was ill in bed in the lodge),
told him in answer to his question that Ivan Fyodorovitch had gone out two
hours ago.

""And my father?""

""He is up, taking his coffee,"" Marfa answered somewhat dryly.

Alyosha went in. The old man was sitting alone at the table wearing
slippers and a little old overcoat. He was amusing himself by looking
through some accounts, rather inattentively however. He was quite alone in
the house, for Smerdyakov too had gone out marketing. Though he had got up
early and was trying to put a bold face on it, he looked tired and weak.
His forehead, upon which huge purple bruises had come out during the
night, was bandaged with a red handkerchief; his nose too had swollen
terribly in the night, and some smaller bruises covered it in patches,
giving his whole face a peculiarly spiteful and irritable look. The old
man was aware of this, and turned a hostile glance on Alyosha as he came
in.

""The coffee is cold,"" he cried harshly; ""I won't offer you any. I've
ordered nothing but a Lenten fish soup to-day, and I don't invite any one
to share it. Why have you come?""

""To find out how you are,"" said Alyosha.

""Yes. Besides, I told you to come yesterday. It's all of no consequence.
You need not have troubled. But I knew you'd come poking in directly.""

He said this with almost hostile feeling. At the same time he got up and
looked anxiously in the looking-glass (perhaps for the fortieth time that
morning) at his nose. He began, too, binding his red handkerchief more
becomingly on his forehead.

""Red's better. It's just like the hospital in a white one,"" he observed
sententiously. ""Well, how are things over there? How is your elder?""

""He is very bad; he may die to-day,"" answered Alyosha. But his father had
not listened, and had forgotten his own question at once.

""Ivan's gone out,"" he said suddenly. ""He is doing his utmost to carry off
Mitya's betrothed. That's what he is staying here for,"" he added
maliciously, and, twisting his mouth, looked at Alyosha.

""Surely he did not tell you so?"" asked Alyosha.

""Yes, he did, long ago. Would you believe it, he told me three weeks ago?
You don't suppose he too came to murder me, do you? He must have had some
object in coming.""

""What do you mean? Why do you say such things?"" said Alyosha, troubled.

""He doesn't ask for money, it's true, but yet he won't get a farthing from
me. I intend living as long as possible, you may as well know, my dear
Alexey Fyodorovitch, and so I need every farthing, and the longer I live,
the more I shall need it,"" he continued, pacing from one corner of the
room to the other, keeping his hands in the pockets of his loose greasy
overcoat made of yellow cotton material. ""I can still pass for a man at
five and fifty, but I want to pass for one for another twenty years. As I
get older, you know, I shan't be a pretty object. The wenches won't come
to me of their own accord, so I shall want my money. So I am saving up
more and more, simply for myself, my dear son Alexey Fyodorovitch. You may
as well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to the end, let me tell you.
For sin is sweet; all abuse it, but all men live in it, only others do it
on the sly, and I openly. And so all the other sinners fall upon me for
being so simple. And your paradise, Alexey Fyodorovitch, is not to my
taste, let me tell you that; and it's not the proper place for a
gentleman, your paradise, even if it exists. I believe that I fall asleep
and don't wake up again, and that's all. You can pray for my soul if you
like. And if you don't want to, don't, damn you! That's my philosophy.
Ivan talked well here yesterday, though we were all drunk. Ivan is a
conceited coxcomb, but he has no particular learning ... nor education
either. He sits silent and smiles at one without speaking--that's what
pulls him through.""

Alyosha listened to him in silence.

""Why won't he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself airs. Your
Ivan is a scoundrel! And I'll marry Grushenka in a minute if I want to.
For if you've money, Alexey Fyodorovitch, you have only to want a thing
and you can have it. That's what Ivan is afraid of, he is on the watch to
prevent me getting married and that's why he is egging on Mitya to marry
Grushenka himself. He hopes to keep me from Grushenka by that (as though I
should leave him my money if I don't marry her!). Besides if Mitya marries
Grushenka, Ivan will carry off his rich betrothed, that's what he's
reckoning on! He is a scoundrel, your Ivan!""

""How cross you are! It's because of yesterday; you had better lie down,""
said Alyosha.

""There! you say that,"" the old man observed suddenly, as though it had
struck him for the first time, ""and I am not angry with you. But if Ivan
said it, I should be angry with him. It is only with you I have good
moments, else you know I am an ill-natured man.""

""You are not ill-natured, but distorted,"" said Alyosha with a smile.

""Listen. I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitya locked up and I
don't know now what I shall decide about it. Of course in these
fashionable days fathers and mothers are looked upon as a prejudice, but
even now the law does not allow you to drag your old father about by the
hair, to kick him in the face in his own house, and brag of murdering him
outright--all in the presence of witnesses. If I liked, I could crush him
and could have him locked up at once for what he did yesterday.""

""Then you don't mean to take proceedings?""

""Ivan has dissuaded me. I shouldn't care about Ivan, but there's another
thing.""

And bending down to Alyosha, he went on in a confidential half-whisper.

""If I send the ruffian to prison, she'll hear of it and run to see him at
once. But if she hears that he has beaten me, a weak old man, within an
inch of my life, she may give him up and come to me.... For that's her
way, everything by contraries. I know her through and through! Won't you
have a drop of brandy? Take some cold coffee and I'll pour a quarter of a
glass of brandy into it, it's delicious, my boy.""

""No, thank you. I'll take that roll with me if I may,"" said Alyosha, and
taking a halfpenny French roll he put it in the pocket of his cassock.
""And you'd better not have brandy, either,"" he suggested apprehensively,
looking into the old man's face.

""You are quite right, it irritates my nerves instead of soothing them.
Only one little glass. I'll get it out of the cupboard.""

He unlocked the cupboard, poured out a glass, drank it, then locked the
cupboard and put the key back in his pocket.

""That's enough. One glass won't kill me.""

""You see you are in a better humor now,"" said Alyosha, smiling.

""Um! I love you even without the brandy, but with scoundrels I am a
scoundrel. Ivan is not going to Tchermashnya--why is that? He wants to spy
how much I give Grushenka if she comes. They are all scoundrels! But I
don't recognize Ivan, I don't know him at all. Where does he come from? He
is not one of us in soul. As though I'd leave him anything! I shan't leave
a will at all, you may as well know. And I'll crush Mitya like a beetle. I
squash black-beetles at night with my slipper; they squelch when you tread
on them. And your Mitya will squelch too. _Your_ Mitya, for you love him.
Yes, you love him and I am not afraid of your loving him. But if Ivan
loved him I should be afraid for myself at his loving him. But Ivan loves
nobody. Ivan is not one of us. People like Ivan are not our sort, my boy.
They are like a cloud of dust. When the wind blows, the dust will be
gone.... I had a silly idea in my head when I told you to come to-day; I
wanted to find out from you about Mitya. If I were to hand him over a
thousand or maybe two now, would the beggarly wretch agree to take himself
off altogether for five years or, better still, thirty-five, and without
Grushenka, and give her up once for all, eh?""

""I--I'll ask him,"" muttered Alyosha. ""If you would give him three thousand,
perhaps he--""

""That's nonsense! You needn't ask him now, no need! I've changed my mind.
It was a nonsensical idea of mine. I won't give him anything, not a penny,
I want my money myself,"" cried the old man, waving his hand. ""I'll crush
him like a beetle without it. Don't say anything to him or else he will
begin hoping. There's nothing for you to do here, you needn't stay. Is
that betrothed of his, Katerina Ivanovna, whom he has kept so carefully
hidden from me all this time, going to marry him or not? You went to see
her yesterday, I believe?""

""Nothing will induce her to abandon him.""

""There you see how dearly these fine young ladies love a rake and a
scoundrel. They are poor creatures I tell you, those pale young ladies,
very different from--Ah, if I had his youth and the looks I had then (for I
was better-looking than he at eight and twenty) I'd have been a conquering
hero just as he is. He is a low cad! But he shan't have Grushenka, anyway,
he shan't! I'll crush him!""

His anger had returned with the last words.

""You can go. There's nothing for you to do here to-day,"" he snapped
harshly.

Alyosha went up to say good-by to him, and kissed him on the shoulder.

""What's that for?"" The old man was a little surprised. ""We shall see each
other again, or do you think we shan't?""

""Not at all, I didn't mean anything.""

""Nor did I, I did not mean anything,"" said the old man, looking at him.
""Listen, listen,"" he shouted after him, ""make haste and come again and
I'll have a fish soup for you, a fine one, not like to-day. Be sure to
come! Come to-morrow, do you hear, to-morrow!""

And as soon as Alyosha had gone out of the door, he went to the cupboard
again and poured out another half-glass.

""I won't have more!"" he muttered, clearing his throat, and again he locked
the cupboard and put the key in his pocket. Then he went into his bedroom,
lay down on the bed, exhausted, and in one minute he was asleep.




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


It was very late, according to the monastery ideas, when Alyosha returned
to the hermitage; the door-keeper let him in by a special entrance. It had
struck nine o'clock--the hour of rest and repose after a day of such
agitation for all. Alyosha timidly opened the door and went into the
elder's cell where his coffin was now standing. There was no one in the
cell but Father Paissy, reading the Gospel in solitude over the coffin,
and the young novice Porfiry, who, exhausted by the previous night's
conversation and the disturbing incidents of the day, was sleeping the
deep sound sleep of youth on the floor of the other room. Though Father
Paissy heard Alyosha come in, he did not even look in his direction.
Alyosha turned to the right from the door to the corner, fell on his knees
and began to pray.

His soul was overflowing but with mingled feelings; no single sensation
stood out distinctly; on the contrary, one drove out another in a slow,
continual rotation. But there was a sweetness in his heart and, strange to
say, Alyosha was not surprised at it. Again he saw that coffin before him,
the hidden dead figure so precious to him, but the weeping and poignant
grief of the morning was no longer aching in his soul. As soon as he came
in, he fell down before the coffin as before a holy shrine, but joy, joy
was glowing in his mind and in his heart. The one window of the cell was
open, the air was fresh and cool. ""So the smell must have become stronger,
if they opened the window,"" thought Alyosha. But even this thought of the
smell of corruption, which had seemed to him so awful and humiliating a
few hours before, no longer made him feel miserable or indignant. He began
quietly praying, but he soon felt that he was praying almost mechanically.
Fragments of thought floated through his soul, flashed like stars and went
out again at once, to be succeeded by others. But yet there was reigning
in his soul a sense of the wholeness of things--something steadfast and
comforting--and he was aware of it himself. Sometimes he began praying
ardently, he longed to pour out his thankfulness and love....

But when he had begun to pray, he passed suddenly to something else, and
sank into thought, forgetting both the prayer and what had interrupted it.
He began listening to what Father Paissy was reading, but worn out with
exhaustion he gradually began to doze.

""_And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee;_"" read Father
Paissy. ""_And the mother of Jesus was there; And both Jesus was called,
and his disciples, to the marriage._""

""Marriage? What's that?... A marriage!"" floated whirling through Alyosha's
mind. ""There is happiness for her, too.... She has gone to the feast....
No, she has not taken the knife.... That was only a tragic phrase.... Well
... tragic phrases should be forgiven, they must be. Tragic phrases
comfort the heart.... Without them, sorrow would be too heavy for men to
bear. Rakitin has gone off to the back alley. As long as Rakitin broods
over his wrongs, he will always go off to the back alley.... But the high
road ... The road is wide and straight and bright as crystal, and the sun
is at the end of it.... Ah!... What's being read?""...

""_And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have
no wine_"" ... Alyosha heard.

""Ah, yes, I was missing that, and I didn't want to miss it, I love that
passage: it's Cana of Galilee, the first miracle.... Ah, that miracle! Ah,
that sweet miracle! It was not men's grief, but their joy Christ visited,
He worked His first miracle to help men's gladness.... 'He who loves men
loves their gladness, too' ... He was always repeating that, it was one of
his leading ideas.... 'There's no living without joy,' Mitya says.... Yes,
Mitya.... 'Everything that is true and good is always full of
forgiveness,' he used to say that, too"" ...

""_Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what has it to do with thee or me? Mine
hour is not yet come._

""_His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do
it_"" ...

""Do it.... Gladness, the gladness of some poor, very poor, people.... Of
course they were poor, since they hadn't wine enough even at a wedding....
The historians write that, in those days, the people living about the Lake
of Gennesaret were the poorest that can possibly be imagined ... and
another great heart, that other great being, His Mother, knew that He had
come not only to make His great terrible sacrifice. She knew that His
heart was open even to the simple, artless merrymaking of some obscure and
unlearned people, who had warmly bidden Him to their poor wedding. 'Mine
hour is not yet come,' He said, with a soft smile (He must have smiled
gently to her). And, indeed, was it to make wine abundant at poor weddings
He had come down to earth? And yet He went and did as she asked Him....
Ah, he is reading again""....

""_Jesus saith unto them, Fill the waterpots with water. And they filled
them up to the brim._

""_And he saith unto them, Draw out now and bear unto the governor of the
feast. And they bare it._

""_When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and
knew not whence it was; (but the servants which drew the water knew;) the
governor of the feast called the bridegroom,_

""_And saith unto him, Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine;
and when men have well drunk, that which is worse; but thou hast kept the
good wine until now._""

""But what's this, what's this? Why is the room growing wider?... Ah, yes
... It's the marriage, the wedding ... yes, of course. Here are the
guests, here are the young couple sitting, and the merry crowd and ...
Where is the wise governor of the feast? But who is this? Who? Again the
walls are receding.... Who is getting up there from the great table?
What!... He here, too? But he's in the coffin ... but he's here, too. He
has stood up, he sees me, he is coming here.... God!""...

Yes, he came up to him, to him, he, the little, thin old man, with tiny
wrinkles on his face, joyful and laughing softly. There was no coffin now,
and he was in the same dress as he had worn yesterday sitting with them,
when the visitors had gathered about him. His face was uncovered, his eyes
were shining. How was this, then? He, too, had been called to the feast.
He, too, at the marriage of Cana in Galilee....

""Yes, my dear, I am called, too, called and bidden,"" he heard a soft voice
saying over him. ""Why have you hidden yourself here, out of sight? You
come and join us too.""

It was his voice, the voice of Father Zossima. And it must be he, since he
called him!

The elder raised Alyosha by the hand and he rose from his knees.

""We are rejoicing,"" the little, thin old man went on. ""We are drinking the
new wine, the wine of new, great gladness; do you see how many guests?
Here are the bride and bridegroom, here is the wise governor of the feast,
he is tasting the new wine. Why do you wonder at me? I gave an onion to a
beggar, so I, too, am here. And many here have given only an onion
each--only one little onion.... What are all our deeds? And you, my gentle
one, you, my kind boy, you too have known how to give a famished woman an
onion to-day. Begin your work, dear one, begin it, gentle one!... Do you
see our Sun, do you see Him?""

""I am afraid ... I dare not look,"" whispered Alyosha.

""Do not fear Him. He is terrible in His greatness, awful in His sublimity,
but infinitely merciful. He has made Himself like unto us from love and
rejoices with us. He is changing the water into wine that the gladness of
the guests may not be cut short. He is expecting new guests, He is calling
new ones unceasingly for ever and ever.... There they are bringing new
wine. Do you see they are bringing the vessels....""

Something glowed in Alyosha's heart, something filled it till it ached,
tears of rapture rose from his soul.... He stretched out his hands,
uttered a cry and waked up.

Again the coffin, the open window, and the soft, solemn, distinct reading
of the Gospel. But Alyosha did not listen to the reading. It was strange,
he had fallen asleep on his knees, but now he was on his feet, and
suddenly, as though thrown forward, with three firm rapid steps he went
right up to the coffin. His shoulder brushed against Father Paissy without
his noticing it. Father Paissy raised his eyes for an instant from his
book, but looked away again at once, seeing that something strange was
happening to the boy. Alyosha gazed for half a minute at the coffin, at
the covered, motionless dead man that lay in the coffin, with the ikon on
his breast and the peaked cap with the octangular cross, on his head. He
had only just been hearing his voice, and that voice was still ringing in
his ears. He was listening, still expecting other words, but suddenly he
turned sharply and went out of the cell.

He did not stop on the steps either, but went quickly down; his soul,
overflowing with rapture, yearned for freedom, space, openness. The vault
of heaven, full of soft, shining stars, stretched vast and fathomless
above him. The Milky Way ran in two pale streams from the zenith to the
horizon. The fresh, motionless, still night enfolded the earth. The white
towers and golden domes of the cathedral gleamed out against the sapphire
sky. The gorgeous autumn flowers, in the beds round the house, were
slumbering till morning. The silence of earth seemed to melt into the
silence of the heavens. The mystery of earth was one with the mystery of
the stars....

Alyosha stood, gazed, and suddenly threw himself down on the earth. He did
not know why he embraced it. He could not have told why he longed so
irresistibly to kiss it, to kiss it all. But he kissed it weeping, sobbing
and watering it with his tears, and vowed passionately to love it, to love
it for ever and ever. ""Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love
those tears,"" echoed in his soul.

What was he weeping over?

Oh! in his rapture he was weeping even over those stars, which were
shining to him from the abyss of space, and ""he was not ashamed of that
ecstasy."" There seemed to be threads from all those innumerable worlds of
God, linking his soul to them, and it was trembling all over ""in contact
with other worlds."" He longed to forgive every one and for everything, and
to beg forgiveness. Oh, not for himself, but for all men, for all and for
everything. ""And others are praying for me too,"" echoed again in his soul.
But with every instant he felt clearly and, as it were, tangibly, that
something firm and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered into his
soul. It was as though some idea had seized the sovereignty of his
mind--and it was for all his life and for ever and ever. He had fallen on
the earth a weak boy, but he rose up a resolute champion, and he knew and
felt it suddenly at the very moment of his ecstasy. And never, never, all
his life long, could Alyosha forget that minute.

""Some one visited my soul in that hour,"" he used to say afterwards, with
implicit faith in his words.

Within three days he left the monastery in accordance with the words of
his elder, who had bidden him ""sojourn in the world.""





","Alyosha gets back to the monastery at 9 in the evening and visits Zosima's cell, where Father Paissy continues to read from the Gospels over Zosima's coffin. Alyosha kneels to pray and finds that instead of all of those conflicting emotions he felt earlier, he just feels a kind of ""sweetness."" Father Paissy is reading the story of the marriage at Cana, where Jesus performed his first miracle of transforming water into wine. As Alyosha drifts in and out of sleep, still praying, he enters into a kind of a trance, in which snippets of Paissy's reading mingle with his own scattered impressions of the day's events. While in this trance-like state, he sees Zosima himself appear before him, filled with joy. Zosima tells Alyosha that everyone - presumably in heaven - is at the wedding feast, everyone who gave just an onion. Suddenly Alyosha is filled with rapture and wakes up. He goes outside and falls to ground, kissing it. Three days later, Alyosha leaves the monastery as Zosima had directed him."
77,"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.






","Parfenovich then reads Dmitri a ""Resolution,"" which formally places him under arrest. After another long speech declaring his innocence, Dmitri bids farewell and offers his hand to Parfenovich, who rejects it. Grushenka says a brief good-bye to Dmitri, this time with none of the hysterics of their other encounters, and she promises to stick by him. They load Dmitri into a cart to take him back to town. Just before he leaves, Kalganov pops up and shakes his hand. Dmitri leaves, and the scene ends with Kalganov sitting in a corner, crying into his hands."
78,"Chapter VII. Ilusha


The doctor came out of the room again, muffled in his fur coat and with
his cap on his head. His face looked almost angry and disgusted, as though
he were afraid of getting dirty. He cast a cursory glance round the
passage, looking sternly at Alyosha and Kolya as he did so. Alyosha waved
from the door to the coachman, and the carriage that had brought the
doctor drove up. The captain darted out after the doctor, and, bowing
apologetically, stopped him to get the last word. The poor fellow looked
utterly crushed; there was a scared look in his eyes.

""Your Excellency, your Excellency ... is it possible?"" he began, but could
not go on and clasped his hands in despair. Yet he still gazed imploringly
at the doctor, as though a word from him might still change the poor boy's
fate.

""I can't help it, I am not God!"" the doctor answered offhand, though with
the customary impressiveness.

""Doctor ... your Excellency ... and will it be soon, soon?""

""You must be prepared for anything,"" said the doctor in emphatic and
incisive tones, and dropping his eyes, he was about to step out to the
coach.

""Your Excellency, for Christ's sake!"" the terror-stricken captain stopped
him again. ""Your Excellency! but can nothing, absolutely nothing save him
now?""

""It's not in my hands now,"" said the doctor impatiently, ""but h'm!..."" he
stopped suddenly. ""If you could, for instance ... send ... your patient
... at once, without delay"" (the words ""at once, without delay,"" the
doctor uttered with an almost wrathful sternness that made the captain
start) ""to Syracuse, the change to the new be-ne-ficial climatic
conditions might possibly effect--""

""To Syracuse!"" cried the captain, unable to grasp what was said.

""Syracuse is in Sicily,"" Kolya jerked out suddenly in explanation. The
doctor looked at him.

""Sicily! your Excellency,"" faltered the captain, ""but you've seen""--he
spread out his hands, indicating his surroundings--""mamma and my family?""

""N--no, Sicily is not the place for the family, the family should go to
Caucasus in the early spring ... your daughter must go to the Caucasus,
and your wife ... after a course of the waters in the Caucasus for her
rheumatism ... must be sent straight to Paris to the mental specialist
Lepelletier; I could give you a note to him, and then ... there might be a
change--""

""Doctor, doctor! But you see!"" The captain flung wide his hands again
despairingly, indicating the bare wooden walls of the passage.

""Well, that's not my business,"" grinned the doctor. ""I have only told you
the answer of medical science to your question as to possible treatment.
As for the rest, to my regret--""

""Don't be afraid, apothecary, my dog won't bite you,"" Kolya rapped out
loudly, noticing the doctor's rather uneasy glance at Perezvon, who was
standing in the doorway. There was a wrathful note in Kolya's voice. He
used the word apothecary instead of doctor on purpose, and, as he
explained afterwards, used it ""to insult him.""

""What's that?"" The doctor flung up his head, staring with surprise at
Kolya. ""Who's this?"" he addressed Alyosha, as though asking him to
explain.

""It's Perezvon's master, don't worry about me,"" Kolya said incisively
again.

""Perezvon?""(7) repeated the doctor, perplexed.

""He hears the bell, but where it is he cannot tell. Good-by, we shall meet
in Syracuse.""

""Who's this? Who's this?"" The doctor flew into a terrible rage.

""He is a schoolboy, doctor, he is a mischievous boy; take no notice of
him,"" said Alyosha, frowning and speaking quickly. ""Kolya, hold your
tongue!"" he cried to Krassotkin. ""Take no notice of him, doctor,"" he
repeated, rather impatiently.

""He wants a thrashing, a good thrashing!"" The doctor stamped in a perfect
fury.

""And you know, apothecary, my Perezvon might bite!"" said Kolya, turning
pale, with quivering voice and flashing eyes. ""_Ici_, Perezvon!""

""Kolya, if you say another word, I'll have nothing more to do with you,""
Alyosha cried peremptorily.

""There is only one man in the world who can command Nikolay
Krassotkin--this is the man""; Kolya pointed to Alyosha. ""I obey him, good-
by!""

He stepped forward, opened the door, and quickly went into the inner room.
Perezvon flew after him. The doctor stood still for five seconds in
amazement, looking at Alyosha; then, with a curse, he went out quickly to
the carriage, repeating aloud, ""This is ... this is ... I don't know what
it is!"" The captain darted forward to help him into the carriage. Alyosha
followed Kolya into the room. He was already by Ilusha's bedside. The sick
boy was holding his hand and calling for his father. A minute later the
captain, too, came back.

""Father, father, come ... we ..."" Ilusha faltered in violent excitement,
but apparently unable to go on, he flung his wasted arms round his father
and Kolya, uniting them in one embrace, and hugging them as tightly as he
could. The captain suddenly began to shake with dumb sobs, and Kolya's
lips and chin twitched.

""Father, father! How sorry I am for you!"" Ilusha moaned bitterly.

""Ilusha ... darling ... the doctor said ... you would be all right ... we
shall be happy ... the doctor ..."" the captain began.

""Ah, father! I know what the new doctor said to you about me.... I saw!""
cried Ilusha, and again he hugged them both with all his strength, hiding
his face on his father's shoulder.

""Father, don't cry, and when I die get a good boy, another one ... choose
one of them all, a good one, call him Ilusha and love him instead of
me....""

""Hush, old man, you'll get well,"" Krassotkin cried suddenly, in a voice
that sounded angry.

""But don't ever forget me, father,"" Ilusha went on, ""come to my grave ...
and, father, bury me by our big stone, where we used to go for our walk,
and come to me there with Krassotkin in the evening ... and Perezvon ... I
shall expect you.... Father, father!""

His voice broke. They were all three silent, still embracing. Nina was
crying quietly in her chair, and at last seeing them all crying, ""mamma,""
too, burst into tears.

""Ilusha! Ilusha!"" she exclaimed.

Krassotkin suddenly released himself from Ilusha's embrace.

""Good-by, old man, mother expects me back to dinner,"" he said quickly.
""What a pity I did not tell her! She will be dreadfully anxious.... But
after dinner I'll come back to you for the whole day, for the whole
evening, and I'll tell you all sorts of things, all sorts of things. And
I'll bring Perezvon, but now I will take him with me, because he will
begin to howl when I am away and bother you. Good-by!""

And he ran out into the passage. He didn't want to cry, but in the passage
he burst into tears. Alyosha found him crying.

""Kolya, you must be sure to keep your word and come, or he will be
terribly disappointed,"" Alyosha said emphatically.

""I will! Oh, how I curse myself for not having come before!"" muttered
Kolya, crying, and no longer ashamed of it.

At that moment the captain flew out of the room, and at once closed the
door behind him. His face looked frenzied, his lips were trembling. He
stood before the two and flung up his arms.

""I don't want a good boy! I don't want another boy!"" he muttered in a wild
whisper, clenching his teeth. ""If I forget thee, Jerusalem, may my
tongue--"" He broke off with a sob and sank on his knees before the wooden
bench. Pressing his fists against his head, he began sobbing with absurd
whimpering cries, doing his utmost that his cries should not be heard in
the room.

Kolya ran out into the street.

""Good-by, Karamazov? Will you come yourself?"" he cried sharply and angrily
to Alyosha.

""I will certainly come in the evening.""

""What was that he said about Jerusalem?... What did he mean by that?""

""It's from the Bible. 'If I forget thee, Jerusalem,' that is, if I forget
all that is most precious to me, if I let anything take its place, then
may--""

""I understand, that's enough! Mind you come! _Ici_, Perezvon!"" he cried
with positive ferocity to the dog, and with rapid strides he went home.





","OK, this is maybe the saddest part of the whole book, so get your Kleenex ready. The famous doctor, who obviously thinks he is way too important to visit a poor family like the Snegiryovs, condescendingly states that the only way the family can be saved is if they move - Ilyusha to Sicily, the daughter and the mother to the Caucasus, and the mother to Paris. His contempt angers Kolya, who threatens the doctor with an attack from Perezvon, but Alyosha calms Kolya down. Kolya returns to the room and the doctor leaves in a huff. Snegiryov tries to reassure Ilyusha, but Ilyusha already knows that nothing can be done and that there's no cure. He pulls both Kolya and Snegiryov to his tiny, consumptive body in a hug. Everybody is crying at this point. He tells Snegiryov that when he dies - sniff - Snegiryov should find another boy to be friends with - sniff - and just please don't ever forget him - sniff - just visit his grave once in a while. Sob. Kolya can't fight the tears, so he leaves the room. Kolya heads home, and Alyosha leaves as well."
79,"Chapter VII. An Historical Survey


""The medical experts have striven to convince us that the prisoner is out
of his mind and, in fact, a maniac. I maintain that he is in his right
mind, and that if he had not been, he would have behaved more cleverly. As
for his being a maniac, that I would agree with, but only in one point,
that is, his fixed idea about the three thousand. Yet I think one might
find a much simpler cause than his tendency to insanity. For my part I
agree thoroughly with the young doctor who maintained that the prisoner's
mental faculties have always been normal, and that he has only been
irritable and exasperated. The object of the prisoner's continual and
violent anger was not the sum itself; there was a special motive at the
bottom of it. That motive is jealousy!""

Here Ippolit Kirillovitch described at length the prisoner's fatal passion
for Grushenka. He began from the moment when the prisoner went to the
""young person's"" lodgings ""to beat her""--""I use his own expression,"" the
prosecutor explained--""but instead of beating her, he remained there, at
her feet. That was the beginning of the passion. At the same time the
prisoner's father was captivated by the same young person--a strange and
fatal coincidence, for they both lost their hearts to her simultaneously,
though both had known her before. And she inspired in both of them the
most violent, characteristically Karamazov passion. We have her own
confession: 'I was laughing at both of them.' Yes, the sudden desire to
make a jest of them came over her, and she conquered both of them at once.
The old man, who worshiped money, at once set aside three thousand roubles
as a reward for one visit from her, but soon after that, he would have
been happy to lay his property and his name at her feet, if only she would
become his lawful wife. We have good evidence of this. As for the
prisoner, the tragedy of his fate is evident; it is before us. But such
was the young person's 'game.' The enchantress gave the unhappy young man
no hope until the last moment, when he knelt before her, stretching out
hands that were already stained with the blood of his father and rival. It
was in that position that he was arrested. 'Send me to Siberia with him, I
have brought him to this, I am most to blame,' the woman herself cried, in
genuine remorse at the moment of his arrest.

""The talented young man, to whom I have referred already, Mr. Rakitin,
characterized this heroine in brief and impressive terms: 'She was
disillusioned early in life, deceived and ruined by a betrothed, who
seduced and abandoned her. She was left in poverty, cursed by her
respectable family, and taken under the protection of a wealthy old man,
whom she still, however, considers as her benefactor. There was perhaps
much that was good in her young heart, but it was embittered too early.
She became prudent and saved money. She grew sarcastic and resentful
against society.' After this sketch of her character it may well be
understood that she might laugh at both of them simply from mischief, from
malice.

""After a month of hopeless love and moral degradation, during which he
betrayed his betrothed and appropriated money entrusted to his honor, the
prisoner was driven almost to frenzy, almost to madness by continual
jealousy--and of whom? His father! And the worst of it was that the crazy
old man was alluring and enticing the object of his affection by means of
that very three thousand roubles, which the son looked upon as his own
property, part of his inheritance from his mother, of which his father was
cheating him. Yes, I admit it was hard to bear! It might well drive a man
to madness. It was not the money, but the fact that this money was used
with such revolting cynicism to ruin his happiness!""

Then the prosecutor went on to describe how the idea of murdering his
father had entered the prisoner's head, and illustrated his theory with
facts.

""At first he only talked about it in taverns--he was talking about it all
that month. Ah, he likes being always surrounded with company, and he
likes to tell his companions everything, even his most diabolical and
dangerous ideas; he likes to share every thought with others, and expects,
for some reason, that those he confides in will meet him with perfect
sympathy, enter into all his troubles and anxieties, take his part and not
oppose him in anything. If not, he flies into a rage and smashes up
everything in the tavern. [Then followed the anecdote about Captain
Snegiryov.] Those who heard the prisoner began to think at last that he
might mean more than threats, and that such a frenzy might turn threats
into actions.""

Here the prosecutor described the meeting of the family at the monastery,
the conversations with Alyosha, and the horrible scene of violence when
the prisoner had rushed into his father's house just after dinner.

""I cannot positively assert,"" the prosecutor continued, ""that the prisoner
fully intended to murder his father before that incident. Yet the idea had
several times presented itself to him, and he had deliberated on it--for
that we have facts, witnesses, and his own words. I confess, gentlemen of
the jury,"" he added, ""that till to-day I have been uncertain whether to
attribute to the prisoner conscious premeditation. I was firmly convinced
that he had pictured the fatal moment beforehand, but had only pictured
it, contemplating it as a possibility. He had not definitely considered
when and how he might commit the crime.

""But I was only uncertain till to-day, till that fatal document was
presented to the court just now. You yourselves heard that young lady's
exclamation, 'It is the plan, the program of the murder!' That is how she
defined that miserable, drunken letter of the unhappy prisoner. And, in
fact, from that letter we see that the whole fact of the murder was
premeditated. It was written two days before, and so we know now for a
fact that, forty-eight hours before the perpetration of his terrible
design, the prisoner swore that, if he could not get money next day, he
would murder his father in order to take the envelope with the notes from
under his pillow, as soon as Ivan had left. 'As soon as Ivan had gone
away'--you hear that; so he had thought everything out, weighing every
circumstance, and he carried it all out just as he had written it. The
proof of premeditation is conclusive; the crime must have been committed
for the sake of the money, that is stated clearly, that is written and
signed. The prisoner does not deny his signature.

""I shall be told he was drunk when he wrote it. But that does not diminish
the value of the letter, quite the contrary; he wrote when drunk what he
had planned when sober. Had he not planned it when sober, he would not
have written it when drunk. I shall be asked: Then why did he talk about
it in taverns? A man who premeditates such a crime is silent and keeps it
to himself. Yes, but he talked about it before he had formed a plan, when
he had only the desire, only the impulse to it. Afterwards he talked less
about it. On the evening he wrote that letter at the 'Metropolis' tavern,
contrary to his custom he was silent, though he had been drinking. He did
not play billiards, he sat in a corner, talked to no one. He did indeed
turn a shopman out of his seat, but that was done almost unconsciously,
because he could never enter a tavern without making a disturbance. It is
true that after he had taken the final decision, he must have felt
apprehensive that he had talked too much about his design beforehand, and
that this might lead to his arrest and prosecution afterwards. But there
was nothing for it; he could not take his words back, but his luck had
served him before, it would serve him again. He believed in his star, you
know! I must confess, too, that he did a great deal to avoid the fatal
catastrophe. 'To-morrow I shall try and borrow the money from every one,'
as he writes in his peculiar language, 'and if they won't give it to me,
there will be bloodshed.' ""

Here Ippolit Kirillovitch passed to a detailed description of all Mitya's
efforts to borrow the money. He described his visit to Samsonov, his
journey to Lyagavy. ""Harassed, jeered at, hungry, after selling his watch
to pay for the journey (though he tells us he had fifteen hundred roubles
on him--a likely story), tortured by jealousy at having left the object of
his affections in the town, suspecting that she would go to Fyodor
Pavlovitch in his absence, he returned at last to the town, to find, to
his joy, that she had not been near his father. He accompanied her himself
to her protector. (Strange to say, he doesn't seem to have been jealous of
Samsonov, which is psychologically interesting.) Then he hastens back to
his ambush in the back gardens, and there learns that Smerdyakov is in a
fit, that the other servant is ill--the coast is clear and he knows the
'signals'--what a temptation! Still he resists it; he goes off to a lady
who has for some time been residing in the town, and who is highly
esteemed among us, Madame Hohlakov. That lady, who had long watched his
career with compassion, gave him the most judicious advice, to give up his
dissipated life, his unseemly love-affair, the waste of his youth and
vigor in pot-house debauchery, and to set off to Siberia to the gold-
mines: 'that would be an outlet for your turbulent energies, your romantic
character, your thirst for adventure.' ""

After describing the result of this conversation and the moment when the
prisoner learnt that Grushenka had not remained at Samsonov's, the sudden
frenzy of the luckless man worn out with jealousy and nervous exhaustion,
at the thought that she had deceived him and was now with his father,
Ippolit Kirillovitch concluded by dwelling upon the fatal influence of
chance. ""Had the maid told him that her mistress was at Mokroe with her
former lover, nothing would have happened. But she lost her head, she
could only swear and protest her ignorance, and if the prisoner did not
kill her on the spot, it was only because he flew in pursuit of his false
mistress.

""But note, frantic as he was, he took with him a brass pestle. Why that?
Why not some other weapon? But since he had been contemplating his plan
and preparing himself for it for a whole month, he would snatch up
anything like a weapon that caught his eye. He had realized for a month
past that any object of the kind would serve as a weapon, so he instantly,
without hesitation, recognized that it would serve his purpose. So it was
by no means unconsciously, by no means involuntarily, that he snatched up
that fatal pestle. And then we find him in his father's garden--the coast
is clear, there are no witnesses, darkness and jealousy. The suspicion
that she was there, with him, with his rival, in his arms, and perhaps
laughing at him at that moment--took his breath away. And it was not mere
suspicion, the deception was open, obvious. She must be there, in that
lighted room, she must be behind the screen; and the unhappy man would
have us believe that he stole up to the window, peeped respectfully in,
and discreetly withdrew, for fear something terrible and immoral should
happen. And he tries to persuade us of that, us, who understand his
character, who know his state of mind at the moment, and that he knew the
signals by which he could at once enter the house."" At this point Ippolit
Kirillovitch broke off to discuss exhaustively the suspected connection of
Smerdyakov with the murder. He did this very circumstantially, and every
one realized that, although he professed to despise that suspicion, he
thought the subject of great importance.




","As in Chapter 6, we just have more of the prosecutor's closing statement in this chapter and not much action. The prosecutor rejects the insanity defense. He argues that Dmitri was just deeply resentful of his father, over his inheritance and over their romantic rivalry for Grushenka. As evidence of premeditation, he brings up the fact that Dmitri had shouted about his plans to kill and rob his father for months. The prosecutor finally turns to the events of the night of the murder, in which he paints a decidedly more sympathetic picture of Madame Khokhlakov's behavior. He points to Dmitri's grabbing the brass pestle as a further indication of premeditation. He then mocks the idea that Dmitri could have peeked in on his father and turned away without robbing and murdering him in the way that he had raved about for months, especially since he knew about those ""signals."" At this point, the prosecutor turns to the topic of Smerdyakov."
80,"Chapter X. The Speech For The Defense. An Argument That Cuts Both Ways


All was hushed as the first words of the famous orator rang out. The eyes
of the audience were fastened upon him. He began very simply and directly,
with an air of conviction, but not the slightest trace of conceit. He made
no attempt at eloquence, at pathos, or emotional phrases. He was like a
man speaking in a circle of intimate and sympathetic friends. His voice
was a fine one, sonorous and sympathetic, and there was something genuine
and simple in the very sound of it. But every one realized at once that
the speaker might suddenly rise to genuine pathos and ""pierce the heart
with untold power."" His language was perhaps more irregular than Ippolit
Kirillovitch's, but he spoke without long phrases, and indeed, with more
precision. One thing did not please the ladies: he kept bending forward,
especially at the beginning of his speech, not exactly bowing, but as
though he were about to dart at his listeners, bending his long spine in
half, as though there were a spring in the middle that enabled him to bend
almost at right angles.

At the beginning of his speech he spoke rather disconnectedly, without
system, one may say, dealing with facts separately, though, at the end,
these facts formed a whole. His speech might be divided into two parts,
the first consisting of criticism in refutation of the charge, sometimes
malicious and sarcastic. But in the second half he suddenly changed his
tone, and even his manner, and at once rose to pathos. The audience seemed
on the look-out for it, and quivered with enthusiasm.

He went straight to the point, and began by saying that although he
practiced in Petersburg, he had more than once visited provincial towns to
defend prisoners, of whose innocence he had a conviction or at least a
preconceived idea. ""That is what has happened to me in the present case,""
he explained. ""From the very first accounts in the newspapers I was struck
by something which strongly prepossessed me in the prisoner's favor. What
interested me most was a fact which often occurs in legal practice, but
rarely, I think, in such an extreme and peculiar form as in the present
case. I ought to formulate that peculiarity only at the end of my speech,
but I will do so at the very beginning, for it is my weakness to go to
work directly, not keeping my effects in reserve and economizing my
material. That may be imprudent on my part, but at least it's sincere.
What I have in my mind is this: there is an overwhelming chain of evidence
against the prisoner, and at the same time not one fact that will stand
criticism, if it is examined separately. As I followed the case more
closely in the papers my idea was more and more confirmed, and I suddenly
received from the prisoner's relatives a request to undertake his defense.
I at once hurried here, and here I became completely convinced. It was to
break down this terrible chain of facts, and to show that each piece of
evidence taken separately was unproved and fantastic, that I undertook the
case.""

So Fetyukovitch began.

""Gentlemen of the jury,"" he suddenly protested, ""I am new to this
district. I have no preconceived ideas. The prisoner, a man of turbulent
and unbridled temper, has not insulted me. But he has insulted perhaps
hundreds of persons in this town, and so prejudiced many people against
him beforehand. Of course I recognize that the moral sentiment of local
society is justly excited against him. The prisoner is of turbulent and
violent temper. Yet he was received in society here; he was even welcome
in the family of my talented friend, the prosecutor.""

(N.B. At these words there were two or three laughs in the audience,
quickly suppressed, but noticed by all. All of us knew that the prosecutor
received Mitya against his will, solely because he had somehow interested
his wife--a lady of the highest virtue and moral worth, but fanciful,
capricious, and fond of opposing her husband, especially in trifles.
Mitya's visits, however, had not been frequent.)

""Nevertheless I venture to suggest,"" Fetyukovitch continued, ""that in
spite of his independent mind and just character, my opponent may have
formed a mistaken prejudice against my unfortunate client. Oh, that is so
natural; the unfortunate man has only too well deserved such prejudice.
Outraged morality, and still more outraged taste, is often relentless. We
have, in the talented prosecutor's speech, heard a stern analysis of the
prisoner's character and conduct, and his severe critical attitude to the
case was evident. And, what's more, he went into psychological subtleties
into which he could not have entered, if he had the least conscious and
malicious prejudice against the prisoner. But there are things which are
even worse, even more fatal in such cases, than the most malicious and
consciously unfair attitude. It is worse if we are carried away by the
artistic instinct, by the desire to create, so to speak, a romance,
especially if God has endowed us with psychological insight. Before I
started on my way here, I was warned in Petersburg, and was myself aware,
that I should find here a talented opponent whose psychological insight
and subtlety had gained him peculiar renown in legal circles of recent
years. But profound as psychology is, it's a knife that cuts both ways.""
(Laughter among the public.) ""You will, of course, forgive me my
comparison; I can't boast of eloquence. But I will take as an example any
point in the prosecutor's speech.

""The prisoner, running away in the garden in the dark, climbed over the
fence, was seized by the servant, and knocked him down with a brass
pestle. Then he jumped back into the garden and spent five minutes over
the man, trying to discover whether he had killed him or not. And the
prosecutor refuses to believe the prisoner's statement that he ran to old
Grigory out of pity. 'No,' he says, 'such sensibility is impossible at
such a moment, that's unnatural; he ran to find out whether the only
witness of his crime was dead or alive, and so showed that he had
committed the murder, since he would not have run back for any other
reason.'

""Here you have psychology; but let us take the same method and apply it to
the case the other way round, and our result will be no less probable. The
murderer, we are told, leapt down to find out, as a precaution, whether
the witness was alive or not, yet he had left in his murdered father's
study, as the prosecutor himself argues, an amazing piece of evidence in
the shape of a torn envelope, with an inscription that there had been
three thousand roubles in it. 'If he had carried that envelope away with
him, no one in the world would have known of that envelope and of the
notes in it, and that the money had been stolen by the prisoner.' Those
are the prosecutor's own words. So on one side you see a complete absence
of precaution, a man who has lost his head and run away in a fright,
leaving that clew on the floor, and two minutes later, when he has killed
another man, we are entitled to assume the most heartless and calculating
foresight in him. But even admitting this was so, it is psychological
subtlety, I suppose, that discerns that under certain circumstances I
become as bloodthirsty and keen-sighted as a Caucasian eagle, while at the
next I am as timid and blind as a mole. But if I am so bloodthirsty and
cruelly calculating that when I kill a man I only run back to find out
whether he is alive to witness against me, why should I spend five minutes
looking after my victim at the risk of encountering other witnesses? Why
soak my handkerchief, wiping the blood off his head so that it may be
evidence against me later? If he were so cold-hearted and calculating, why
not hit the servant on the head again and again with the same pestle so as
to kill him outright and relieve himself of all anxiety about the witness?

""Again, though he ran to see whether the witness was alive, he left
another witness on the path, that brass pestle which he had taken from the
two women, and which they could always recognize afterwards as theirs, and
prove that he had taken it from them. And it is not as though he had
forgotten it on the path, dropped it through carelessness or haste, no, he
had flung away his weapon, for it was found fifteen paces from where
Grigory lay. Why did he do so? Just because he was grieved at having
killed a man, an old servant; and he flung away the pestle with a curse,
as a murderous weapon. That's how it must have been, what other reason
could he have had for throwing it so far? And if he was capable of feeling
grief and pity at having killed a man, it shows that he was innocent of
his father's murder. Had he murdered him, he would never have run to
another victim out of pity; then he would have felt differently; his
thoughts would have been centered on self-preservation. He would have had
none to spare for pity, that is beyond doubt. On the contrary, he would
have broken his skull instead of spending five minutes looking after him.
There was room for pity and good-feeling just because his conscience had
been clear till then. Here we have a different psychology. I have
purposely resorted to this method, gentlemen of the jury, to show that you
can prove anything by it. It all depends on who makes use of it.
Psychology lures even most serious people into romancing, and quite
unconsciously. I am speaking of the abuse of psychology, gentlemen.""

Sounds of approval and laughter, at the expense of the prosecutor, were
again audible in the court. I will not repeat the speech in detail; I will
only quote some passages from it, some leading points.




","Like Chapters 6-9, Chapters 10-13 consist entirely in the defense attorney's speech, with little action, if any. We give you the basic rundown of the speech over the next four chapters. In contrast to the prosecutor, Fetyukovich is quite calm, and everyone in the courtroom is impressed with his eloquence. Fetyukovich puts forward his argument that while all of the details the prosecutor presented seem convincing when taken as a whole, not one of the details can be held up as a concrete, indisputable fact. Every detail can be questioned or challenged in some way. Fetyukovich describes the prosecutor's use of psychology as a ""stick with two ends"": psychology can justify two contradictory explanations of the same thing. So on one hand the prosecutor says Dmitri recklessly left an envelope on his father's bedroom floor in his mad rush. On the other hand, he says Dmitri was methodical in making sure that Grigory was dead. Psychology paints Dmitri as both reckless and methodical at the same time. How can that be, Fetyukovich asks? Fetyukovich gets a few chuckles from the courtroom here, then he moves on."
81,"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.




","Stinking Lizaveta The girl whom Grigory sees giving birth is Lizaveta, often called ""stinking Lizaveta. Lizaveta is extremely slow-witted and cannot talk. The people of the town are appalled that someone has seduced this helpless young girl, and they agree that the only man vile enough to do so is Fyodor Pavlovich. Grigory and his wife adopt the baby, and Fyodor Pavlovich names him Smerdyakov"
82,"Chapter III. A Meeting With The Schoolboys


""Thank goodness he did not ask me about Grushenka,"" thought Alyosha, as he
left his father's house and turned towards Madame Hohlakov's, ""or I might
have to tell him of my meeting with Grushenka yesterday.""

Alyosha felt painfully that since yesterday both combatants had renewed
their energies, and that their hearts had grown hard again. ""Father is
spiteful and angry, he's made some plan and will stick to it. And what of
Dmitri? He too will be harder than yesterday, he too must be spiteful and
angry, and he too, no doubt, has made some plan. Oh, I must succeed in
finding him to-day, whatever happens.""

But Alyosha had not long to meditate. An incident occurred on the road,
which, though apparently of little consequence, made a great impression on
him. Just after he had crossed the square and turned the corner coming out
into Mihailovsky Street, which is divided by a small ditch from the High
Street (our whole town is intersected by ditches), he saw a group of
schoolboys between the ages of nine and twelve, at the bridge. They were
going home from school, some with their bags on their shoulders, others
with leather satchels slung across them, some in short jackets, others in
little overcoats. Some even had those high boots with creases round the
ankles, such as little boys spoilt by rich fathers love to wear. The whole
group was talking eagerly about something, apparently holding a council.
Alyosha had never from his Moscow days been able to pass children without
taking notice of them, and although he was particularly fond of children
of three or thereabout, he liked schoolboys of ten and eleven too. And so,
anxious as he was to-day, he wanted at once to turn aside to talk to them.
He looked into their excited rosy faces, and noticed at once that all the
boys had stones in their hands. Behind the ditch some thirty paces away,
there was another schoolboy standing by a fence. He too had a satchel at
his side. He was about ten years old, pale, delicate-looking and with
sparkling black eyes. He kept an attentive and anxious watch on the other
six, obviously his schoolfellows with whom he had just come out of school,
but with whom he had evidently had a feud.

Alyosha went up and, addressing a fair, curly-headed, rosy boy in a black
jacket, observed:

""When I used to wear a satchel like yours, I always used to carry it on my
left side, so as to have my right hand free, but you've got yours on your
right side. So it will be awkward for you to get at it.""

Alyosha had no art or premeditation in beginning with this practical
remark. But it is the only way for a grown-up person to get at once into
confidential relations with a child, or still more with a group of
children. One must begin in a serious, businesslike way so as to be on a
perfectly equal footing. Alyosha understood it by instinct.

""But he is left-handed,"" another, a fine healthy-looking boy of eleven,
answered promptly. All the others stared at Alyosha.

""He even throws stones with his left hand,"" observed a third.

At that instant a stone flew into the group, but only just grazed the
left-handed boy, though it was well and vigorously thrown by the boy
standing the other side of the ditch.

""Give it him, hit him back, Smurov,"" they all shouted. But Smurov, the
left-handed boy, needed no telling, and at once revenged himself; he threw
a stone, but it missed the boy and hit the ground. The boy the other side
of the ditch, the pocket of whose coat was visibly bulging with stones,
flung another stone at the group; this time it flew straight at Alyosha
and hit him painfully on the shoulder.

""He aimed it at you, he meant it for you. You are Karamazov, Karamazov!""
the boys shouted, laughing. ""Come, all throw at him at once!"" and six
stones flew at the boy. One struck the boy on the head and he fell down,
but at once leapt up and began ferociously returning their fire. Both
sides threw stones incessantly. Many of the group had their pockets full
too.

""What are you about! Aren't you ashamed? Six against one! Why, you'll kill
him,"" cried Alyosha.

He ran forward and met the flying stones to screen the solitary boy. Three
or four ceased throwing for a minute.

""He began first!"" cried a boy in a red shirt in an angry childish voice.
""He is a beast, he stabbed Krassotkin in class the other day with a
penknife. It bled. Krassotkin wouldn't tell tales, but he must be
thrashed.""

""But what for? I suppose you tease him.""

""There, he sent a stone in your back again, he knows you,"" cried the
children. ""It's you he is throwing at now, not us. Come, all of you, at
him again, don't miss, Smurov!"" and again a fire of stones, and a very
vicious one, began. The boy the other side of the ditch was hit in the
chest; he screamed, began to cry and ran away uphill towards Mihailovsky
Street. They all shouted: ""Aha, he is funking, he is running away. Wisp of
tow!""

""You don't know what a beast he is, Karamazov, killing is too good for
him,"" said the boy in the jacket, with flashing eyes. He seemed to be the
eldest.

""What's wrong with him?"" asked Alyosha, ""is he a tell-tale or what?""

The boys looked at one another as though derisively.

""Are you going that way, to Mihailovsky?"" the same boy went on. ""Catch him
up.... You see he's stopped again, he is waiting and looking at you.""

""He is looking at you,"" the other boys chimed in.

""You ask him, does he like a disheveled wisp of tow. Do you hear, ask him
that!""

There was a general burst of laughter. Alyosha looked at them, and they at
him.

""Don't go near him, he'll hurt you,"" cried Smurov in a warning voice.

""I shan't ask him about the wisp of tow, for I expect you tease him with
that question somehow. But I'll find out from him why you hate him so.""

""Find out then, find out,"" cried the boys, laughing.

Alyosha crossed the bridge and walked uphill by the fence, straight
towards the boy.

""You'd better look out,"" the boys called after him; ""he won't be afraid of
you. He will stab you in a minute, on the sly, as he did Krassotkin.""

The boy waited for him without budging. Coming up to him, Alyosha saw
facing him a child of about nine years old. He was an undersized weakly
boy with a thin pale face, with large dark eyes that gazed at him
vindictively. He was dressed in a rather shabby old overcoat, which he had
monstrously outgrown. His bare arms stuck out beyond his sleeves. There
was a large patch on the right knee of his trousers, and in his right boot
just at the toe there was a big hole in the leather, carefully blackened
with ink. Both the pockets of his great-coat were weighed down with
stones. Alyosha stopped two steps in front of him, looking inquiringly at
him. The boy, seeing at once from Alyosha's eyes that he wouldn't beat
him, became less defiant, and addressed him first.

""I am alone, and there are six of them. I'll beat them all, alone!"" he
said suddenly, with flashing eyes.

""I think one of the stones must have hurt you badly,"" observed Alyosha.

""But I hit Smurov on the head!"" cried the boy.

""They told me that you know me, and that you threw a stone at me on
purpose,"" said Alyosha.

The boy looked darkly at him.

""I don't know you. Do you know me?"" Alyosha continued.

""Let me alone!"" the boy cried irritably; but he did not move, as though he
were expecting something, and again there was a vindictive light in his
eyes.

""Very well, I am going,"" said Alyosha; ""only I don't know you and I don't
tease you. They told me how they tease you, but I don't want to tease you.
Good-by!""

""Monk in silk trousers!"" cried the boy, following Alyosha with the same
vindictive and defiant expression, and he threw himself into an attitude
of defense, feeling sure that now Alyosha would fall upon him; but Alyosha
turned, looked at him, and walked away. He had not gone three steps before
the biggest stone the boy had in his pocket hit him a painful blow in the
back.

""So you'll hit a man from behind! They tell the truth, then, when they say
that you attack on the sly,"" said Alyosha, turning round again. This time
the boy threw a stone savagely right into Alyosha's face; but Alyosha just
had time to guard himself, and the stone struck him on the elbow.

""Aren't you ashamed? What have I done to you?"" he cried.

The boy waited in silent defiance, certain that now Alyosha would attack
him. Seeing that even now he would not, his rage was like a little wild
beast's; he flew at Alyosha himself, and before Alyosha had time to move,
the spiteful child had seized his left hand with both of his and bit his
middle finger. He fixed his teeth in it and it was ten seconds before he
let go. Alyosha cried out with pain and pulled his finger away with all
his might. The child let go at last and retreated to his former distance.
Alyosha's finger had been badly bitten to the bone, close to the nail; it
began to bleed. Alyosha took out his handkerchief and bound it tightly
round his injured hand. He was a full minute bandaging it. The boy stood
waiting all the time. At last Alyosha raised his gentle eyes and looked at
him.

""Very well,"" he said, ""you see how badly you've bitten me. That's enough,
isn't it? Now tell me, what have I done to you?""

The boy stared in amazement.

""Though I don't know you and it's the first time I've seen you,"" Alyosha
went on with the same serenity, ""yet I must have done something to you--you
wouldn't have hurt me like this for nothing. So what have I done? How have
I wronged you, tell me?""

Instead of answering, the boy broke into a loud tearful wail and ran away.
Alyosha walked slowly after him towards Mihailovsky Street, and for a long
time he saw the child running in the distance as fast as ever, not turning
his head, and no doubt still keeping up his tearful wail. He made up his
mind to find him out as soon as he had time, and to solve this mystery.
Just now he had not the time.




","He Gets Involved with Schoolboys Alyosha sets off for Madame Khokhlakov's house. On the way, he sees a group of young bullies throwing rocks at a frail boy, who, despite his disadvantages, ferociously hurls rocks back. When the boy runs away, Alyosha runs after him, hoping to talk with him, but when Alyosha catches him, the boy hits him with a rock and bites his finger. The boy runs away again, leaving Alyosha confused and troubled, wondering what could cause such savage behavior in such a young boy"
83,"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.
","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."
84,"
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.


","Let's fastforward folks. Sometime later, we find Jim in a courtroom at an inquest, or trial. Our man is on the stand, and he's testifying about what happened the night the Patna hit whatever it was that it hit in Chapter 3. He explains that he examined the ship after impact and found a hole. That doesn't sound promising. The poor Jim starts to ramble, so the judges have to cut him off. Answer ""yes"" or ""no,"" they tell him. An embarrassed Jim shuts up right quick. That's when he notices a white man in the courtroom who keeps watching him. Who is this guy? And why does he keep showing up? As it turns out, this dude is Marlow, who will be taking over the storytelling shortly."
85,"'He heard me out with his head on one side, and I had another glimpse
through a rent in the mist in which he moved and had his being. The dim
candle spluttered within the ball of glass, and that was all I had to
see him by; at his back was the dark night with the clear stars, whose
distant glitter disposed in retreating planes lured the eye into the
depths of a greater darkness; and yet a mysterious light seemed to show
me his boyish head, as if in that moment the youth within him had, for
a moment, glowed and expired. ""You are an awful good sort to listen like
this,"" he said. ""It does me good. You don't know what it is to me. You
don't"" . . . words seemed to fail him. It was a distinct glimpse. He was
a youngster of the sort you like to see about you; of the sort you like
to imagine yourself to have been; of the sort whose appearance claims
the fellowship of these illusions you had thought gone out, extinct,
cold, and which, as if rekindled at the approach of another flame, give
a flutter deep, deep down somewhere, give a flutter of light . . . of
heat! . . . Yes; I had a glimpse of him then . . . and it was not the
last of that kind. . . . ""You don't know what it is for a fellow in my
position to be believed--make a clean breast of it to an elder man. It
is so difficult--so awfully unfair--so hard to understand.""

'The mists were closing again. I don't know how old I appeared to
him--and how much wise. Not half as old as I felt just then; not half
as uselessly wise as I knew myself to be. Surely in no other craft as in
that of the sea do the hearts of those already launched to sink or swim
go out so much to the youth on the brink, looking with shining eyes upon
that glitter of the vast surface which is only a reflection of his
own glances full of fire. There is such magnificent vagueness in
the expectations that had driven each of us to sea, such a glorious
indefiniteness, such a beautiful greed of adventures that are their own
and only reward. What we get--well, we won't talk of that; but can one
of us restrain a smile? In no other kind of life is the illusion more
wide of reality--in no other is the beginning _all_ illusion--the
disenchantment more swift--the subjugation more complete. Hadn't we all
commenced with the same desire, ended with the same knowledge, carried
the memory of the same cherished glamour through the sordid days of
imprecation? What wonder that when some heavy prod gets home the bond
is found to be close; that besides the fellowship of the craft there is
felt the strength of a wider feeling--the feeling that binds a man to a
child. He was there before me, believing that age and wisdom can find
a remedy against the pain of truth, giving me a glimpse of himself as a
young fellow in a scrape that is the very devil of a scrape, the sort
of scrape greybeards wag at solemnly while they hide a smile. And he
had been deliberating upon death--confound him! He had found that to
meditate about because he thought he had saved his life, while all its
glamour had gone with the ship in the night. What more natural! It
was tragic enough and funny enough in all conscience to call aloud for
compassion, and in what was I better than the rest of us to refuse him
my pity? And even as I looked at him the mists rolled into the rent, and
his voice spoke--

'""I was so lost, you know. It was the sort of thing one does not expect
to happen to one. It was not like a fight, for instance.""

'""It was not,"" I admitted. He appeared changed, as if he had suddenly
matured.

'""One couldn't be sure,"" he muttered.

'""Ah! You were not sure,"" I said, and was placated by the sound of
a faint sigh that passed between us like the flight of a bird in the
night.

'""Well, I wasn't,"" he said courageously. ""It was something like that
wretched story they made up. It was not a lie--but it wasn't truth all
the same. It was something. . . . One knows a downright lie. There was
not the thickness of a sheet of paper between the right and the wrong of
this affair.""

'""How much more did you want?"" I asked; but I think I spoke so low that
he did not catch what I said. He had advanced his argument as though
life had been a network of paths separated by chasms. His voice sounded
reasonable.

'""Suppose I had not--I mean to say, suppose I had stuck to the ship?
Well. How much longer? Say a minute--half a minute. Come. In thirty
seconds, as it seemed certain then, I would have been overboard; and do
you think I would not have laid hold of the first thing that came in my
way--oar, life-buoy, grating--anything? Wouldn't you?""

'""And be saved,"" I interjected.

'""I would have meant to be,"" he retorted. ""And that's more than I meant
when I"" . . . he shivered as if about to swallow some nauseous
drug . . . ""jumped,"" he pronounced with a convulsive effort, whose
stress, as if propagated by the waves of the air, made my body stir a
little in the chair. He fixed me with lowering eyes. ""Don't you believe
me?"" he cried. ""I swear! . . . Confound it! You got me here to talk,
and . . . You must! . . . You said you would believe."" ""Of course I do,""
I protested, in a matter-of-fact tone which produced a calming effect.
""Forgive me,"" he said. ""Of course I wouldn't have talked to you about
all this if you had not been a gentleman. I ought to have known . . . I
am--I am--a gentleman too . . ."" ""Yes, yes,"" I said hastily. He was
looking me squarely in the face, and withdrew his gaze slowly. ""Now you
understand why I didn't after all . . . didn't go out in that way. I
wasn't going to be frightened at what I had done. And, anyhow, if I had
stuck to the ship I would have done my best to be saved. Men have been
known to float for hours--in the open sea--and be picked up not much the
worse for it. I might have lasted it out better than many others.
There's nothing the matter with my heart."" He withdrew his right fist
from his pocket, and the blow he struck on his chest resounded like a
muffled detonation in the night.

'""No,"" I said. He meditated, with his legs slightly apart and his
chin sunk. ""A hair's-breadth,"" he muttered. ""Not the breadth of a hair
between this and that. And at the time . . .""

'""It is difficult to see a hair at midnight,"" I put in, a little
viciously I fear. Don't you see what I mean by the solidarity of the
craft? I was aggrieved against him, as though he had cheated me--me!--of
a splendid opportunity to keep up the illusion of my beginnings, as
though he had robbed our common life of the last spark of its glamour.
""And so you cleared out--at once.""

'""Jumped,"" he corrected me incisively. ""Jumped--mind!"" he repeated, and
I wondered at the evident but obscure intention. ""Well, yes! Perhaps I
could not see then. But I had plenty of time and any amount of light
in that boat. And I could think, too. Nobody would know, of course, but
this did not make it any easier for me. You've got to believe that, too.
I did not want all this talk. . . . No . . . Yes . . . I won't
lie . . . I wanted it: it is the very thing I wanted--there. Do you
think you or anybody could have made me if I . . . I am--I am not afraid
to tell. And I wasn't afraid to think either. I looked it in the face. I
wasn't going to run away. At first--at night, if it hadn't been for
those fellows I might have . . . No! by heavens! I was not going to give
them that satisfaction. They had done enough. They made up a story, and
believed it for all I know. But I knew the truth, and I would live it
down--alone, with myself. I wasn't going to give in to such a beastly
unfair thing. What did it prove after all? I was confoundedly cut up.
Sick of life--to tell you the truth; but what would have been the good
to shirk it--in--in--that way? That was not the way. I believe--I
believe it would have--it would have ended--nothing.""

'He had been walking up and down, but with the last word he turned short
at me.

'""What do _you_ believe?"" he asked with violence. A pause ensued, and
suddenly I felt myself overcome by a profound and hopeless fatigue, as
though his voice had startled me out of a dream of wandering through
empty spaces whose immensity had harassed my soul and exhausted my body.

'"". . . Would have ended nothing,"" he muttered over me obstinately,
after a little while. ""No! the proper thing was to face it out--alone
for myself--wait for another chance--find out . . .""'","Our chatty narrator Marlow rambles a bit about life at sea and what it means to be a sailor. We'd all find this a bit more interesting if he were singing. Or maybe if he looked like this. Alas, we have no idea what he looks like, so we'll have to settle for Marlow and Jim arguing for about Jim's motives and actions. Understandably, Jim defends himself, but Marlow finds Jim's decisions shifty. But Jim won't give up. He explains his decision to stand trial and expresses his distant hope to somehow redeem himself in the future. We'll see, Jimmy, we'll see."
86,"'I did not start in search of Jim at once, only because I had really an
appointment which I could not neglect. Then, as ill-luck would have
it, in my agent's office I was fastened upon by a fellow fresh from
Madagascar with a little scheme for a wonderful piece of business. It
had something to do with cattle and cartridges and a Prince Ravonalo
something; but the pivot of the whole affair was the stupidity of some
admiral--Admiral Pierre, I think. Everything turned on that, and the
chap couldn't find words strong enough to express his confidence. He had
globular eyes starting out of his head with a fishy glitter, bumps on
his forehead, and wore his long hair brushed back without a parting.
He had a favourite phrase which he kept on repeating triumphantly, ""The
minimum of risk with the maximum of profit is my motto. What?"" He made
my head ache, spoiled my tiffin, but got his own out of me all right;
and as soon as I had shaken him off, I made straight for the water-side.
I caught sight of Jim leaning over the parapet of the quay. Three native
boatmen quarrelling over five annas were making an awful row at his
elbow. He didn't hear me come up, but spun round as if the slight
contact of my finger had released a catch. ""I was looking,"" he
stammered. I don't remember what I said, not much anyhow, but he made no
difficulty in following me to the hotel.

'He followed me as manageable as a little child, with an obedient air,
with no sort of manifestation, rather as though he had been waiting
for me there to come along and carry him off. I need not have been so
surprised as I was at his tractability. On all the round earth, which to
some seems so big and that others affect to consider as rather smaller
than a mustard-seed, he had no place where he could--what shall I
say?--where he could withdraw. That's it! Withdraw--be alone with his
loneliness. He walked by my side very calm, glancing here and there, and
once turned his head to look after a Sidiboy fireman in a cutaway coat
and yellowish trousers, whose black face had silky gleams like a lump
of anthracite coal. I doubt, however, whether he saw anything, or even
remained all the time aware of my companionship, because if I had not
edged him to the left here, or pulled him to the right there, I believe
he would have gone straight before him in any direction till stopped by
a wall or some other obstacle. I steered him into my bedroom, and sat
down at once to write letters. This was the only place in the world
(unless, perhaps, the Walpole Reef--but that was not so handy) where he
could have it out with himself without being bothered by the rest of
the universe. The damned thing--as he had expressed it--had not made
him invisible, but I behaved exactly as though he were. No sooner in my
chair I bent over my writing-desk like a medieval scribe, and, but for
the movement of the hand holding the pen, remained anxiously quiet. I
can't say I was frightened; but I certainly kept as still as if there
had been something dangerous in the room, that at the first hint of a
movement on my part would be provoked to pounce upon me. There was not
much in the room--you know how these bedrooms are--a sort of four-poster
bedstead under a mosquito-net, two or three chairs, the table I was
writing at, a bare floor. A glass door opened on an upstairs verandah,
and he stood with his face to it, having a hard time with all possible
privacy. Dusk fell; I lit a candle with the greatest economy of movement
and as much prudence as though it were an illegal proceeding. There is
no doubt that he had a very hard time of it, and so had I, even to the
point, I must own, of wishing him to the devil, or on Walpole Reef at
least. It occurred to me once or twice that, after all, Chester was,
perhaps, the man to deal effectively with such a disaster. That strange
idealist had found a practical use for it at once--unerringly, as it
were. It was enough to make one suspect that, maybe, he really could see
the true aspect of things that appeared mysterious or utterly hopeless
to less imaginative persons. I wrote and wrote; I liquidated all the
arrears of my correspondence, and then went on writing to people who had
no reason whatever to expect from me a gossipy letter about nothing at
all. At times I stole a sidelong glance. He was rooted to the spot,
but convulsive shudders ran down his back; his shoulders would heave
suddenly. He was fighting, he was fighting--mostly for his breath, as it
seemed. The massive shadows, cast all one way from the straight flame of
the candle, seemed possessed of gloomy consciousness; the immobility of
the furniture had to my furtive eye an air of attention. I was becoming
fanciful in the midst of my industrious scribbling; and though, when the
scratching of my pen stopped for a moment, there was complete silence
and stillness in the room, I suffered from that profound disturbance
and confusion of thought which is caused by a violent and menacing
uproar--of a heavy gale at sea, for instance. Some of you may know what
I mean: that mingled anxiety, distress, and irritation with a sort of
craven feeling creeping in--not pleasant to acknowledge, but which gives
a quite special merit to one's endurance. I don't claim any merit
for standing the stress of Jim's emotions; I could take refuge in the
letters; I could have written to strangers if necessary. Suddenly, as I
was taking up a fresh sheet of notepaper, I heard a low sound, the first
sound that, since we had been shut up together, had come to my ears in
the dim stillness of the room. I remained with my head down, with my
hand arrested. Those who have kept vigil by a sick-bed have heard such
faint sounds in the stillness of the night watches, sounds wrung from a
racked body, from a weary soul. He pushed the glass door with such force
that all the panes rang: he stepped out, and I held my breath, straining
my ears without knowing what else I expected to hear. He was really
taking too much to heart an empty formality which to Chester's rigorous
criticism seemed unworthy the notice of a man who could see things as
they were. An empty formality; a piece of parchment. Well, well. As to
an inaccessible guano deposit, that was another story altogether. One
could intelligibly break one's heart over that. A feeble burst of many
voices mingled with the tinkle of silver and glass floated up from the
dining-room below; through the open door the outer edge of the light
from my candle fell on his back faintly; beyond all was black; he stood
on the brink of a vast obscurity, like a lonely figure by the shore of
a sombre and hopeless ocean. There was the Walpole Reef in it--to
be sure--a speck in the dark void, a straw for the drowning man. My
compassion for him took the shape of the thought that I wouldn't have
liked his people to see him at that moment. I found it trying myself.
His back was no longer shaken by his gasps; he stood straight as an
arrow, faintly visible and still; and the meaning of this stillness sank
to the bottom of my soul like lead into the water, and made it so heavy
that for a second I wished heartily that the only course left open for
me was to pay for his funeral. Even the law had done with him. To bury
him would have been such an easy kindness! It would have been so much
in accordance with the wisdom of life, which consists in putting out of
sight all the reminders of our folly, of our weakness, of our mortality;
all that makes against our efficiency--the memory of our failures, the
hints of our undying fears, the bodies of our dead friends. Perhaps he
did take it too much to heart. And if so then--Chester's offer. . . . At
this point I took up a fresh sheet and began to write resolutely. There
was nothing but myself between him and the dark ocean. I had a sense of
responsibility. If I spoke, would that motionless and suffering youth
leap into the obscurity--clutch at the straw? I found out how difficult
it may be sometimes to make a sound. There is a weird power in a spoken
word. And why the devil not? I was asking myself persistently while I
drove on with my writing. All at once, on the blank page, under the very
point of the pen, the two figures of Chester and his antique partner,
very distinct and complete, would dodge into view with stride and
gestures, as if reproduced in the field of some optical toy. I would
watch them for a while. No! They were too phantasmal and extravagant
to enter into any one's fate. And a word carries far--very far--deals
destruction through time as the bullets go flying through space. I said
nothing; and he, out there with his back to the light, as if bound
and gagged by all the invisible foes of man, made no stir and made no
sound.'

","Despite his distrust of Jim's choices, Marlow decides to help the guy. He tracks him down and the two return to Marlow's hotel, where Jim is totally in shock. Our resident good guy Marlow starts a letter-writing campaign on Jim's behalf. He writes to just about anyone he can think of who can help get Jim a job."
87,"
'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.'","After asking Jim to stay and chat, Marlow explains how he wants to help Jim. But Jim doesn't think this is a very good idea, so the two of them argue for a while. Marlow finally makes his case and says he wants to serve as a character reference for Jim and help him land a decent job. An overwhelmed Jim can't thank him enough. More awkwardness ensues, with Jim totally embarrassing Marlow with his gratitude, and then Jim takes off, leaving Marlow alone and pensive."
88,"
'The conquest of love, honour, men's confidence--the pride of it, the
power of it, are fit materials for a heroic tale; only our minds are
struck by the externals of such a success, and to Jim's successes there
were no externals. Thirty miles of forest shut it off from the sight of
an indifferent world, and the noise of the white surf along the coast
overpowered the voice of fame. The stream of civilisation, as if divided
on a headland a hundred miles north of Patusan, branches east and
south-east, leaving its plains and valleys, its old trees and its old
mankind, neglected and isolated, such as an insignificant and crumbling
islet between the two branches of a mighty, devouring stream. You find
the name of the country pretty often in collections of old voyages. The
seventeenth-century traders went there for pepper, because the passion
for pepper seemed to burn like a flame of love in the breast of Dutch
and English adventurers about the time of James the First. Where
wouldn't they go for pepper! For a bag of pepper they would cut each
other's throats without hesitation, and would forswear their souls,
of which they were so careful otherwise: the bizarre obstinacy of that
desire made them defy death in a thousand shapes--the unknown seas, the
loathsome and strange diseases; wounds, captivity, hunger, pestilence,
and despair. It made them great! By heavens! it made them heroic; and
it made them pathetic too in their craving for trade with the inflexible
death levying its toll on young and old. It seems impossible to believe
that mere greed could hold men to such a steadfastness of purpose, to
such a blind persistence in endeavour and sacrifice. And indeed those
who adventured their persons and lives risked all they had for a slender
reward. They left their bones to lie bleaching on distant shores, so
that wealth might flow to the living at home. To us, their less tried
successors, they appear magnified, not as agents of trade but as
instruments of a recorded destiny, pushing out into the unknown in
obedience to an inward voice, to an impulse beating in the blood, to a
dream of the future. They were wonderful; and it must be owned they
were ready for the wonderful. They recorded it complacently in their
sufferings, in the aspect of the seas, in the customs of strange
nations, in the glory of splendid rulers.

'In Patusan they had found lots of pepper, and had been impressed by the
magnificence and the wisdom of the Sultan; but somehow, after a century
of chequered intercourse, the country seems to drop gradually out of the
trade. Perhaps the pepper had given out. Be it as it may, nobody cares
for it now; the glory has departed, the Sultan is an imbecile youth
with two thumbs on his left hand and an uncertain and beggarly revenue
extorted from a miserable population and stolen from him by his many
uncles.

'This of course I have from Stein. He gave me their names and a short
sketch of the life and character of each. He was as full of information
about native states as an official report, but infinitely more amusing.
He _had_ to know. He traded in so many, and in some districts--as in
Patusan, for instance--his firm was the only one to have an agency by
special permit from the Dutch authorities. The Government trusted his
discretion, and it was understood that he took all the risks. The men
he employed understood that too, but he made it worth their while
apparently. He was perfectly frank with me over the breakfast-table in
the morning. As far as he was aware (the last news was thirteen months
old, he stated precisely), utter insecurity for life and property was
the normal condition. There were in Patusan antagonistic forces, and one
of them was Rajah Allang, the worst of the Sultan's uncles, the governor
of the river, who did the extorting and the stealing, and ground down
to the point of extinction the country-born Malays, who, utterly
defenceless, had not even the resource of emigrating--""For indeed,"" as
Stein remarked, ""where could they go, and how could they get away?""
No doubt they did not even desire to get away. The world (which is
circumscribed by lofty impassable mountains) has been given into the
hand of the high-born, and _this_ Rajah they knew: he was of their own
royal house. I had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman later on. He
was a dirty, little, used-up old man with evil eyes and a weak mouth,
who swallowed an opium pill every two hours, and in defiance of common
decency wore his hair uncovered and falling in wild stringy locks about
his wizened grimy face. When giving audience he would clamber upon a
sort of narrow stage erected in a hall like a ruinous barn with a rotten
bamboo floor, through the cracks of which you could see, twelve or
fifteen feet below, the heaps of refuse and garbage of all kinds lying
under the house. That is where and how he received us when, accompanied
by Jim, I paid him a visit of ceremony. There were about forty people in
the room, and perhaps three times as many in the great courtyard below.
There was constant movement, coming and going, pushing and murmuring,
at our backs. A few youths in gay silks glared from the distance; the
majority, slaves and humble dependants, were half naked, in ragged
sarongs, dirty with ashes and mud-stains. I had never seen Jim look so
grave, so self-possessed, in an impenetrable, impressive way. In the
midst of these dark-faced men, his stalwart figure in white apparel,
the gleaming clusters of his fair hair, seemed to catch all the sunshine
that trickled through the cracks in the closed shutters of that dim
hall, with its walls of mats and a roof of thatch. He appeared like a
creature not only of another kind but of another essence. Had they not
seen him come up in a canoe they might have thought he had descended
upon them from the clouds. He did, however, come in a crazy dug-out,
sitting (very still and with his knees together, for fear of overturning
the thing)--sitting on a tin box--which I had lent him--nursing on his
lap a revolver of the Navy pattern--presented by me on parting--which,
through an interposition of Providence, or through some wrong-headed
notion, that was just like him, or else from sheer instinctive sagacity,
he had decided to carry unloaded. That's how he ascended the Patusan
river. Nothing could have been more prosaic and more unsafe, more
extravagantly casual, more lonely. Strange, this fatality that would
cast the complexion of a flight upon all his acts, of impulsive
unreflecting desertion of a jump into the unknown.

'It is precisely the casualness of it that strikes me most. Neither
Stein nor I had a clear conception of what might be on the other side
when we, metaphorically speaking, took him up and hove him over the
wall with scant ceremony. At the moment I merely wished to achieve his
disappearance; Stein characteristically enough had a sentimental motive.
He had a notion of paying off (in kind, I suppose) the old debt he had
never forgotten. Indeed he had been all his life especially friendly to
anybody from the British Isles. His late benefactor, it is true, was a
Scot--even to the length of being called Alexander McNeil--and Jim came
from a long way south of the Tweed; but at the distance of six or
seven thousand miles Great Britain, though never diminished, looks
foreshortened enough even to its own children to rob such details of
their importance. Stein was excusable, and his hinted intentions were
so generous that I begged him most earnestly to keep them secret for
a time. I felt that no consideration of personal advantage should be
allowed to influence Jim; that not even the risk of such influence
should be run. We had to deal with another sort of reality. He wanted
a refuge, and a refuge at the cost of danger should be offered
him--nothing more.

'Upon every other point I was perfectly frank with him, and I even (as
I believed at the time) exaggerated the danger of the undertaking. As
a matter of fact I did not do it justice; his first day in Patusan was
nearly his last--would have been his last if he had not been so reckless
or so hard on himself and had condescended to load that revolver. I
remember, as I unfolded our precious scheme for his retreat, how his
stubborn but weary resignation was gradually replaced by surprise,
interest, wonder, and by boyish eagerness. This was a chance he had been
dreaming of. He couldn't think how he merited that I . . . He would be
shot if he could see to what he owed . . . And it was Stein, Stein the
merchant, who . . . but of course it was me he had to . . . I cut him
short. He was not articulate, and his gratitude caused me inexplicable
pain. I told him that if he owed this chance to any one especially, it
was to an old Scot of whom he had never heard, who had died many years
ago, of whom little was remembered besides a roaring voice and a rough
sort of honesty. There was really no one to receive his thanks. Stein
was passing on to a young man the help he had received in his own young
days, and I had done no more than to mention his name. Upon this he
coloured, and, twisting a bit of paper in his fingers, he remarked
bashfully that I had always trusted him.

'I admitted that such was the case, and added after a pause that I
wished he had been able to follow my example. ""You think I don't?"" he
asked uneasily, and remarked in a mutter that one had to get some sort
of show first; then brightening up, and in a loud voice he protested he
would give me no occasion to regret my confidence, which--which . . .

'""Do not misapprehend,"" I interrupted. ""It is not in your power to make
me regret anything."" There would be no regrets; but if there were, it
would be altogether my own affair: on the other hand, I wished him to
understand clearly that this arrangement, this--this--experiment, was
his own doing; he was responsible for it and no one else. ""Why? Why,"" he
stammered, ""this is the very thing that I . . ."" I begged him not to
be dense, and he looked more puzzled than ever. He was in a fair way
to make life intolerable to himself . . . ""Do you think so?"" he asked,
disturbed; but in a moment added confidently, ""I was going on though.
Was I not?"" It was impossible to be angry with him: I could not help a
smile, and told him that in the old days people who went on like
this were on the way of becoming hermits in a wilderness. ""Hermits be
hanged!"" he commented with engaging impulsiveness. Of course he didn't
mind a wilderness. . . . ""I was glad of it,"" I said. That was where
he would be going to. He would find it lively enough, I ventured to
promise. ""Yes, yes,"" he said, keenly. He had shown a desire, I continued
inflexibly, to go out and shut the door after him. . . . ""Did I?"" he
interrupted in a strange access of gloom that seemed to envelop him
from head to foot like the shadow of a passing cloud. He was wonderfully
expressive after all. Wonderfully! ""Did I?"" he repeated bitterly. ""You
can't say I made much noise about it. And I can keep it up, too--only,
confound it! you show me a door."" . . . ""Very well. Pass on,"" I struck
in. I could make him a solemn promise that it would be shut behind him
with a vengeance. His fate, whatever it was, would be ignored,
because the country, for all its rotten state, was not judged ripe
for interference. Once he got in, it would be for the outside world as
though he had never existed. He would have nothing but the soles of his
two feet to stand upon, and he would have first to find his ground at
that. ""Never existed--that's it, by Jove,"" he murmured to himself. His
eyes, fastened upon my lips, sparkled. If he had thoroughly understood
the conditions, I concluded, he had better jump into the first gharry he
could see and drive on to Stein's house for his final instructions. He
flung out of the room before I had fairly finished speaking.'
","We're all wondering about this Patusan place. Good thing we have Marlow to give us a the low-down. According to him, Patusan is a small island that was a Dutch trading hotspot for years. The ruler of Patusan is a dim-witted sultan, but he doesn't have any real power.The real ruler of the island is the sultan's uncle, Rajah Allang. By the way, Stein, a German, has a fondness for Brits because of his friendship with a Scotsman named Alexander McNeil. Alexander introduced Stein to his future wife. No wonder he has a soft spot. When Stein and Marlow fill Jim in on their Patusan idea, Jim is thrilled. He's ready and raring to go."
89,"'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.'
","Two years later, Marlow goes to Patusan to visit Jim. He wants to offer Jim the trading post house on the island, as a gift from Stein. He arrives to find that Jim has become a local hero, and everyone there calls him Tuan Jim, or Lord Jim. When Jim gives Marlow a brief tour, we learn that when Jim first arrived, the natives of Patusan didn't exactly lay out the red carpet. He was taken to Rajah Allang, who promptly locked him up."
90,"
'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.'
","Now is as good a time as any to tell you a bit more about Doramin, so Marlow gives us the scoop about this guy, and his son Dain Waris. Doramin is the leader of a group called the Bugis, merchants who emigrated to Patusan from Celebes. He's also an enemy of Doramin, which might explain why Jim felt safe taking refuge at his house. Doramin and his people consider teaming up against the Rajah with a fanatic named Sherif Ali. By the way, that's also the name of Omar Sharif's character in Lawrence of Arabia. Coincidence? But clever Jim has an even better idea. Doramin and his followers should attack Sherif Ali and eliminate the threat he poses. A battle ensues."
91,"'This was the theory of Jim's marital evening walks. I made a third on
more than one occasion, unpleasantly aware every time of Cornelius,
who nursed the aggrieved sense of his legal paternity, slinking in
the neighbourhood with that peculiar twist of his mouth as if he were
perpetually on the point of gnashing his teeth. But do you notice how,
three hundred miles beyond the end of telegraph cables and mail-boat
lines, the haggard utilitarian lies of our civilisation wither and die,
to be replaced by pure exercises of imagination, that have the futility,
often the charm, and sometimes the deep hidden truthfulness, of works of
art? Romance had singled Jim for its own--and that was the true part of
the story, which otherwise was all wrong. He did not hide his jewel. In
fact, he was extremely proud of it.

'It comes to me now that I had, on the whole, seen very little of her.
What I remember best is the even, olive pallor of her complexion, and
the intense blue-black gleams of her hair, flowing abundantly from under
a small crimson cap she wore far back on her shapely head. Her movements
were free, assured, and she blushed a dusky red. While Jim and I were
talking, she would come and go with rapid glances at us, leaving on her
passage an impression of grace and charm and a distinct suggestion of
watchfulness. Her manner presented a curious combination of shyness and
audacity. Every pretty smile was succeeded swiftly by a look of silent,
repressed anxiety, as if put to flight by the recollection of some
abiding danger. At times she would sit down with us and, with her soft
cheek dimpled by the knuckles of her little hand, she would listen
to our talk; her big clear eyes would remain fastened on our lips, as
though each pronounced word had a visible shape. Her mother had taught
her to read and write; she had learned a good bit of English from
Jim, and she spoke it most amusingly, with his own clipping, boyish
intonation. Her tenderness hovered over him like a flutter of wings. She
lived so completely in his contemplation that she had acquired something
of his outward aspect, something that recalled him in her movements, in
the way she stretched her arm, turned her head, directed her glances.
Her vigilant affection had an intensity that made it almost perceptible
to the senses; it seemed actually to exist in the ambient matter
of space, to envelop him like a peculiar fragrance, to dwell in the
sunshine like a tremulous, subdued, and impassioned note. I suppose you
think that I too am romantic, but it is a mistake. I am relating to you
the sober impressions of a bit of youth, of a strange uneasy romance
that had come in my way. I observed with interest the work of
his--well--good fortune. He was jealously loved, but why she should
be jealous, and of what, I could not tell. The land, the people, the
forests were her accomplices, guarding him with vigilant accord, with
an air of seclusion, of mystery, of invincible possession. There was
no appeal, as it were; he was imprisoned within the very freedom of his
power, and she, though ready to make a footstool of her head for his
feet, guarded her conquest inflexibly--as though he were hard to keep.
The very Tamb' Itam, marching on our journeys upon the heels of his
white lord, with his head thrown back, truculent and be-weaponed like a
janissary, with kriss, chopper, and lance (besides carrying Jim's gun);
even Tamb' Itam allowed himself to put on the airs of uncompromising
guardianship, like a surly devoted jailer ready to lay down his life for
his captive. On the evenings when we sat up late, his silent, indistinct
form would pass and repass under the verandah, with noiseless footsteps,
or lifting my head I would unexpectedly make him out standing rigidly
erect in the shadow. As a general rule he would vanish after a time,
without a sound; but when we rose he would spring up close to us as if
from the ground, ready for any orders Jim might wish to give. The girl
too, I believe, never went to sleep till we had separated for the night.
More than once I saw her and Jim through the window of my room come out
together quietly and lean on the rough balustrade--two white forms very
close, his arm about her waist, her head on his shoulder. Their soft
murmurs reached me, penetrating, tender, with a calm sad note in the
stillness of the night, like a self-communion of one being carried on
in two tones. Later on, tossing on my bed under the mosquito-net, I
was sure to hear slight creakings, faint breathing, a throat cleared
cautiously--and I would know that Tamb' Itam was still on the prowl.
Though he had (by the favour of the white lord) a house in the compound,
had ""taken wife,"" and had lately been blessed with a child, I believe
that, during my stay at all events, he slept on the verandah every
night. It was very difficult to make this faithful and grim retainer
talk. Even Jim himself was answered in jerky short sentences, under
protest as it were. Talking, he seemed to imply, was no business of his.
The longest speech I heard him volunteer was one morning when, suddenly
extending his hand towards the courtyard, he pointed at Cornelius and
said, ""Here comes the Nazarene."" I don't think he was addressing me,
though I stood at his side; his object seemed rather to awaken the
indignant attention of the universe. Some muttered allusions, which
followed, to dogs and the smell of roast-meat, struck me as singularly
felicitous. The courtyard, a large square space, was one torrid blaze of
sunshine, and, bathed in intense light, Cornelius was creeping across
in full view with an inexpressible effect of stealthiness, of dark and
secret slinking. He reminded one of everything that is unsavoury. His
slow laborious walk resembled the creeping of a repulsive beetle, the
legs alone moving with horrid industry while the body glided evenly. I
suppose he made straight enough for the place where he wanted to get to,
but his progress with one shoulder carried forward seemed oblique. He
was often seen circling slowly amongst the sheds, as if following
a scent; passing before the verandah with upward stealthy glances;
disappearing without haste round the corner of some hut. That he seemed
free of the place demonstrated Jim's absurd carelessness or else his
infinite disdain, for Cornelius had played a very dubious part (to say
the least of it) in a certain episode which might have ended fatally for
Jim. As a matter of fact, it had redounded to his glory. But everything
redounded to his glory; and it was the irony of his good fortune that
he, who had been too careful of it once, seemed to bear a charmed life.

'You must know he had left Doramin's place very soon after his
arrival--much too soon, in fact, for his safety, and of course a long
time before the war. In this he was actuated by a sense of duty; he had
to look after Stein's business, he said. Hadn't he? To that end, with an
utter disregard of his personal safety, he crossed the river and took up
his quarters with Cornelius. How the latter had managed to exist through
the troubled times I can't say. As Stein's agent, after all, he must
have had Doramin's protection in a measure; and in one way or another
he had managed to wriggle through all the deadly complications, while I
have no doubt that his conduct, whatever line he was forced to take, was
marked by that abjectness which was like the stamp of the man. That was
his characteristic; he was fundamentally and outwardly abject, as other
men are markedly of a generous, distinguished, or venerable appearance.
It was the element of his nature which permeated all his acts and
passions and emotions; he raged abjectly, smiled abjectly, was abjectly
sad; his civilities and his indignations were alike abject. I am sure
his love would have been the most abject of sentiments--but can one
imagine a loathsome insect in love? And his loathsomeness, too, was
abject, so that a simply disgusting person would have appeared noble
by his side. He has his place neither in the background nor in the
foreground of the story; he is simply seen skulking on its outskirts,
enigmatical and unclean, tainting the fragrance of its youth and of its
naiveness.

'His position in any case could not have been other than extremely
miserable, yet it may very well be that he found some advantages in it.
Jim told me he had been received at first with an abject display of
the most amicable sentiments. ""The fellow apparently couldn't contain
himself for joy,"" said Jim with disgust. ""He flew at me every morning to
shake both my hands--confound him!--but I could never tell whether there
would be any breakfast. If I got three meals in two days I considered
myself jolly lucky, and he made me sign a chit for ten dollars every
week. Said he was sure Mr. Stein did not mean him to keep me for
nothing. Well--he kept me on nothing as near as possible. Put it down to
the unsettled state of the country, and made as if to tear his hair out,
begging my pardon twenty times a day, so that I had at last to entreat
him not to worry. It made me sick. Half the roof of his house had
fallen in, and the whole place had a mangy look, with wisps of dry grass
sticking out and the corners of broken mats flapping on every wall. He
did his best to make out that Mr. Stein owed him money on the last three
years' trading, but his books were all torn, and some were missing. He
tried to hint it was his late wife's fault. Disgusting scoundrel! At
last I had to forbid him to mention his late wife at all. It made Jewel
cry. I couldn't discover what became of all the trade-goods; there was
nothing in the store but rats, having a high old time amongst a litter
of brown paper and old sacking. I was assured on every hand that he had
a lot of money buried somewhere, but of course could get nothing out of
him. It was the most miserable existence I led there in that wretched
house. I tried to do my duty by Stein, but I had also other matters to
think of. When I escaped to Doramin old Tunku Allang got frightened and
returned all my things. It was done in a roundabout way, and with no end
of mystery, through a Chinaman who keeps a small shop here; but as soon
as I left the Bugis quarter and went to live with Cornelius it began
to be said openly that the Rajah had made up his mind to have me killed
before long. Pleasant, wasn't it? And I couldn't see what there was to
prevent him if he really _had_ made up his mind. The worst of it was,
I couldn't help feeling I wasn't doing any good either for Stein or for
myself. Oh! it was beastly--the whole six weeks of it.""'","It's time for Marlow to take a breather. He considers Jim's situation on Patusan and expresses some concerns. Marlow notes that Jewel and Tamb' Itam both seem protective of Jim, and he notices that Cornelius seems to be skulking around a lot. As it turns out, Jim goes to stay with Cornelius after he leaves Doramins, which is a bit of a problem because Cornelius hates Jim. And no wonder - Stein sent Jim to take over Cornelius's job. Soon after he moves into Cornelius's, Jim learns that the Rajah is planning to assassinate him. Danger: rough waters ahead."
92,"
'He told me further that he didn't know what made him hang on--but of
course we may guess. He sympathised deeply with the defenceless girl, at
the mercy of that ""mean, cowardly scoundrel."" It appears Cornelius led
her an awful life, stopping only short of actual ill-usage, for which
he had not the pluck, I suppose. He insisted upon her calling him
father--""and with respect, too--with respect,"" he would scream, shaking
a little yellow fist in her face. ""I am a respectable man, and what are
you? Tell me--what are you? You think I am going to bring up somebody
else's child and not be treated with respect? You ought to be glad I let
you. Come--say Yes, father. . . . No? . . . You wait a bit."" Thereupon
he would begin to abuse the dead woman, till the girl would run off with
her hands to her head. He pursued her, dashing in and out and round the
house and amongst the sheds, would drive her into some corner, where she
would fall on her knees stopping her ears, and then he would stand at a
distance and declaim filthy denunciations at her back for half an hour
at a stretch. ""Your mother was a devil, a deceitful devil--and you too
are a devil,"" he would shriek in a final outburst, pick up a bit of dry
earth or a handful of mud (there was plenty of mud around the house),
and fling it into her hair. Sometimes, though, she would hold out full
of scorn, confronting him in silence, her face sombre and contracted,
and only now and then uttering a word or two that would make the other
jump and writhe with the sting. Jim told me these scenes were terrible.
It was indeed a strange thing to come upon in a wilderness. The
endlessness of such a subtly cruel situation was appalling--if you think
of it. The respectable Cornelius (Inchi 'Nelyus the Malays called him,
with a grimace that meant many things) was a much-disappointed man. I
don't know what he had expected would be done for him in consideration
of his marriage; but evidently the liberty to steal, and embezzle, and
appropriate to himself for many years and in any way that suited him
best, the goods of Stein's Trading Company (Stein kept the supply up
unfalteringly as long as he could get his skippers to take it there) did
not seem to him a fair equivalent for the sacrifice of his honourable
name. Jim would have enjoyed exceedingly thrashing Cornelius within an
inch of his life; on the other hand, the scenes were of so painful
a character, so abominable, that his impulse would be to get out of
earshot, in order to spare the girl's feelings. They left her agitated,
speechless, clutching her bosom now and then with a stony,
desperate face, and then Jim would lounge up and say unhappily,
""Now--come--really--what's the use--you must try to eat a bit,"" or give
some such mark of sympathy. Cornelius would keep on slinking through
the doorways, across the verandah and back again, as mute as a fish, and
with malevolent, mistrustful, underhand glances. ""I can stop his game,""
Jim said to her once. ""Just say the word."" And do you know what she
answered? She said--Jim told me impressively--that if she had not been
sure he was intensely wretched himself, she would have found the courage
to kill him with her own hands. ""Just fancy that! The poor devil of a
girl, almost a child, being driven to talk like that,"" he exclaimed in
horror. It seemed impossible to save her not only from that mean
rascal but even from herself! It wasn't that he pitied her so much, he
affirmed; it was more than pity; it was as if he had something on his
conscience, while that life went on. To leave the house would have
appeared a base desertion. He had understood at last that there was
nothing to expect from a longer stay, neither accounts nor money, nor
truth of any sort, but he stayed on, exasperating Cornelius to the
verge, I won't say of insanity, but almost of courage. Meantime he felt
all sorts of dangers gathering obscurely about him. Doramin had sent
over twice a trusty servant to tell him seriously that he could do
nothing for his safety unless he would recross the river again and live
amongst the Bugis as at first. People of every condition used to call,
often in the dead of night, in order to disclose to him plots for
his assassination. He was to be poisoned. He was to be stabbed in the
bath-house. Arrangements were being made to have him shot from a boat
on the river. Each of these informants professed himself to be his very
good friend. It was enough--he told me--to spoil a fellow's rest for
ever. Something of the kind was extremely possible--nay, probable--but
the lying warnings gave him only the sense of deadly scheming going on
all around him, on all sides, in the dark. Nothing more calculated to
shake the best of nerve. Finally, one night, Cornelius himself, with a
great apparatus of alarm and secrecy, unfolded in solemn wheedling tones
a little plan wherein for one hundred dollars--or even for eighty; let's
say eighty--he, Cornelius, would procure a trustworthy man to smuggle
Jim out of the river, all safe. There was nothing else for it now--if
Jim cared a pin for his life. What's eighty dollars? A trifle. An
insignificant sum. While he, Cornelius, who had to remain behind, was
absolutely courting death by this proof of devotion to Mr. Stein's young
friend. The sight of his abject grimacing was--Jim told me--very hard
to bear: he clutched at his hair, beat his breast, rocked himself to
and fro with his hands pressed to his stomach, and actually pretended to
shed tears. ""Your blood be on your own head,"" he squeaked at last, and
rushed out. It is a curious question how far Cornelius was sincere in
that performance. Jim confessed to me that he did not sleep a wink after
the fellow had gone. He lay on his back on a thin mat spread over the
bamboo flooring, trying idly to make out the bare rafters, and listening
to the rustlings in the torn thatch. A star suddenly twinkled through a
hole in the roof. His brain was in a whirl; but, nevertheless, it was on
that very night that he matured his plan for overcoming Sherif Ali. It
had been the thought of all the moments he could spare from the hopeless
investigation into Stein's affairs, but the notion--he says--came to him
then all at once. He could see, as it were, the guns mounted on the top
of the hill. He got very hot and excited lying there; sleep was out of
the question more than ever. He jumped up, and went out barefooted
on the verandah. Walking silently, he came upon the girl, motionless
against the wall, as if on the watch. In his then state of mind it did
not surprise him to see her up, nor yet to hear her ask in an anxious
whisper where Cornelius could be. He simply said he did not know. She
moaned a little, and peered into the campong. Everything was very quiet.
He was possessed by his new idea, and so full of it that he could not
help telling the girl all about it at once. She listened, clapped her
hands lightly, whispered softly her admiration, but was evidently on the
alert all the time. It seems he had been used to make a confidant of
her all along--and that she on her part could and did give him a lot of
useful hints as to Patusan affairs there is no doubt. He assured me more
than once that he had never found himself the worse for her advice. At
any rate, he was proceeding to explain his plan fully to her there and
then, when she pressed his arm once, and vanished from his side. Then
Cornelius appeared from somewhere, and, perceiving Jim, ducked sideways,
as though he had been shot at, and afterwards stood very still in the
dusk. At last he came forward prudently, like a suspicious cat. ""There
were some fishermen there--with fish,"" he said in a shaky voice. ""To
sell fish--you understand."" . . . It must have been then two o'clock in
the morning--a likely time for anybody to hawk fish about!

'Jim, however, let the statement pass, and did not give it a single
thought. Other matters occupied his mind, and besides he had neither
seen nor heard anything. He contented himself by saying, ""Oh!"" absently,
got a drink of water out of a pitcher standing there, and leaving
Cornelius a prey to some inexplicable emotion--that made him embrace
with both arms the worm-eaten rail of the verandah as if his legs had
failed--went in again and lay down on his mat to think. By-and-by he
heard stealthy footsteps. They stopped. A voice whispered tremulously
through the wall, ""Are you asleep?"" ""No! What is it?"" he answered
briskly, and there was an abrupt movement outside, and then all was
still, as if the whisperer had been startled. Extremely annoyed at this,
Jim came out impetuously, and Cornelius with a faint shriek fled
along the verandah as far as the steps, where he hung on to the broken
banister. Very puzzled, Jim called out to him from the distance to know
what the devil he meant. ""Have you given your consideration to what
I spoke to you about?"" asked Cornelius, pronouncing the words with
difficulty, like a man in the cold fit of a fever. ""No!"" shouted Jim in
a passion. ""I have not, and I don't intend to. I am going to live here,
in Patusan."" ""You shall d-d-die h-h-here,"" answered Cornelius,
still shaking violently, and in a sort of expiring voice. The whole
performance was so absurd and provoking that Jim didn't know whether he
ought to be amused or angry. ""Not till I have seen you tucked away,
you bet,"" he called out, exasperated yet ready to laugh. Half seriously
(being excited with his own thoughts, you know) he went on shouting,
""Nothing can touch me! You can do your damnedest."" Somehow the shadowy
Cornelius far off there seemed to be the hateful embodiment of all the
annoyances and difficulties he had found in his path. He let himself
go--his nerves had been over-wrought for days--and called him many
pretty names,--swindler, liar, sorry rascal: in fact, carried on in an
extraordinary way. He admits he passed all bounds, that he was quite
beside himself--defied all Patusan to scare him away--declared he would
make them all dance to his own tune yet, and so on, in a menacing,
boasting strain. Perfectly bombastic and ridiculous, he said. His ears
burned at the bare recollection. Must have been off his chump in some
way. . . . The girl, who was sitting with us, nodded her little head at
me quickly, frowned faintly, and said, ""I heard him,"" with child-like
solemnity. He laughed and blushed. What stopped him at last, he said,
was the silence, the complete deathlike silence, of the indistinct
figure far over there, that seemed to hang collapsed, doubled over the
rail in a weird immobility. He came to his senses, and ceasing suddenly,
wondered greatly at himself. He watched for a while. Not a stir, not a
sound. ""Exactly as if the chap had died while I had been making all that
noise,"" he said. He was so ashamed of himself that he went indoors in a
hurry without another word, and flung himself down again. The row seemed
to have done him good though, because he went to sleep for the rest of
the night like a baby. Hadn't slept like that for weeks. ""But _I_ didn't
sleep,"" struck in the girl, one elbow on the table and nursing her
cheek. ""I watched."" Her big eyes flashed, rolling a little, and then she
fixed them on my face intently.'","Marlow gives us a few more details about Jim's relationship with Cornelius and Jewel. It's a pretty tense situation because Jim is in danger. When Cornelius offers to smuggle Jim out of Patusan, Jim refuses to go, despite the risk of staying. A scared and angry Jim takes out his troubles on Cornelius and chews out the poor old man."
93,"'Jim took up an advantageous position and shepherded them out in a bunch
through the doorway: all that time the torch had remained vertical in
the grip of a little hand, without so much as a tremble. The three men
obeyed him, perfectly mute, moving automatically. He ranged them in a
row. ""Link arms!"" he ordered. They did so. ""The first who withdraws his
arm or turns his head is a dead man,"" he said. ""March!"" They stepped out
together, rigidly; he followed, and at the side the girl, in a trailing
white gown, her black hair falling as low as her waist, bore the light.
Erect and swaying, she seemed to glide without touching the earth; the
only sound was the silky swish and rustle of the long grass. ""Stop!""
cried Jim.

'The river-bank was steep; a great freshness ascended, the light fell on
the edge of smooth dark water frothing without a ripple; right and left
the shapes of the houses ran together below the sharp outlines of the
roofs. ""Take my greetings to Sherif Ali--till I come myself,"" said
Jim. Not one head of the three budged. ""Jump!"" he thundered. The
three splashes made one splash, a shower flew up, black heads bobbed
convulsively, and disappeared; but a great blowing and spluttering went
on, growing faint, for they were diving industriously in great fear of
a parting shot. Jim turned to the girl, who had been a silent and
attentive observer. His heart seemed suddenly to grow too big for his
breast and choke him in the hollow of his throat. This probably made
him speechless for so long, and after returning his gaze she flung the
burning torch with a wide sweep of the arm into the river. The ruddy
fiery glare, taking a long flight through the night, sank with a vicious
hiss, and the calm soft starlight descended upon them, unchecked.

'He did not tell me what it was he said when at last he recovered his
voice. I don't suppose he could be very eloquent. The world was still,
the night breathed on them, one of those nights that seem created for
the sheltering of tenderness, and there are moments when our souls, as
if freed from their dark envelope, glow with an exquisite sensibility
that makes certain silences more lucid than speeches. As to the girl,
he told me, ""She broke down a bit. Excitement--don't you know.
Reaction. Deucedly tired she must have been--and all that kind of thing.
And--and--hang it all--she was fond of me, don't you see. . . . I
too . . . didn't know, of course . . . never entered my head . . .""

'Then he got up and began to walk about in some agitation. ""I--I love
her dearly. More than I can tell. Of course one cannot tell. You take a
different view of your actions when you come to understand, when you
are _made_ to understand every day that your existence is necessary--you
see, absolutely necessary--to another person. I am made to feel that.
Wonderful! But only try to think what her life has been. It is too
extravagantly awful! Isn't it? And me finding her here like this--as you
may go out for a stroll and come suddenly upon somebody drowning in a
lonely dark place. Jove! No time to lose. Well, it is a trust too . . .
I believe I am equal to it . . .""

'I must tell you the girl had left us to ourselves some time before. He
slapped his chest. ""Yes! I feel that, but I believe I am equal to all my
luck!"" He had the gift of finding a special meaning in everything that
happened to him. This was the view he took of his love affair; it was
idyllic, a little solemn, and also true, since his belief had all the
unshakable seriousness of youth. Some time after, on another occasion,
he said to me, ""I've been only two years here, and now, upon my word, I
can't conceive being able to live anywhere else. The very thought of the
world outside is enough to give me a fright; because, don't you see,"" he
continued, with downcast eyes watching the action of his boot busied in
squashing thoroughly a tiny bit of dried mud (we were strolling on the
river-bank)--""because I have not forgotten why I came here. Not yet!""

'I refrained from looking at him, but I think I heard a short sigh; we
took a turn or two in silence. ""Upon my soul and conscience,"" he began
again, ""if such a thing can be forgotten, then I think I have a right to
dismiss it from my mind. Ask any man here"" . . . his voice changed. ""Is
it not strange,"" he went on in a gentle, almost yearning tone, ""that all
these people, all these people who would do anything for me, can never
be made to understand? Never! If you disbelieved me I could not call
them up. It seems hard, somehow. I am stupid, am I not? What more can I
want? If you ask them who is brave--who is true--who is just--who is it
they would trust with their lives?--they would say, Tuan Jim. And yet
they can never know the real, real truth . . .""

'That's what he said to me on my last day with him. I did not let a
murmur escape me: I felt he was going to say more, and come no nearer
to the root of the matter. The sun, whose concentrated glare dwarfs the
earth into a restless mote of dust, had sunk behind the forest, and
the diffused light from an opal sky seemed to cast upon a world without
shadows and without brilliance the illusion of a calm and pensive
greatness. I don't know why, listening to him, I should have noted
so distinctly the gradual darkening of the river, of the air; the
irresistible slow work of the night settling silently on all the visible
forms, effacing the outlines, burying the shapes deeper and deeper, like
a steady fall of impalpable black dust.

'""Jove!"" he began abruptly, ""there are days when a fellow is too absurd
for anything; only I know I can tell you what I like. I talk about
being done with it--with the bally thing at the back of my head . . .
Forgetting . . . Hang me if I know! I can think of it quietly. After
all, what has it proved? Nothing. I suppose you don't think so . . .""

'I made a protesting murmur.

'""No matter,"" he said. ""I am satisfied . . . nearly. I've got to
look only at the face of the first man that comes along, to regain my
confidence. They can't be made to understand what is going on in me.
What of that? Come! I haven't done so badly.""

'""Not so badly,"" I said.

'""But all the same, you wouldn't like to have me aboard your own ship
hey?""

'""Confound you!"" I cried. ""Stop this.""

'""Aha! You see,"" he said, crowing, as it were, over me placidly. ""Only,""
he went on, ""you just try to tell this to any of them here. They would
think you a fool, a liar, or worse. And so I can stand it. I've done a
thing or two for them, but this is what they have done for me.""

'""My dear chap,"" I cried, ""you shall always remain for them an insoluble
mystery."" Thereupon we were silent.

'""Mystery,"" he repeated, before looking up. ""Well, then let me always
remain here.""

'After the sun had set, the darkness seemed to drive upon us, borne in
every faint puff of the breeze. In the middle of a hedged path I saw the
arrested, gaunt, watchful, and apparently one-legged silhouette of Tamb'
Itam; and across the dusky space my eye detected something white moving
to and fro behind the supports of the roof. As soon as Jim, with Tamb'
Itam at his heels, had started upon his evening rounds, I went up to the
house alone, and, unexpectedly, found myself waylaid by the girl, who
had been clearly waiting for this opportunity.

'It is hard to tell you what it was precisely she wanted to wrest
from me. Obviously it would be something very simple--the simplest
impossibility in the world; as, for instance, the exact description of
the form of a cloud. She wanted an assurance, a statement, a promise, an
explanation--I don't know how to call it: the thing has no name. It was
dark under the projecting roof, and all I could see were the flowing
lines of her gown, the pale small oval of her face, with the white flash
of her teeth, and, turned towards me, the big sombre orbits of her eyes,
where there seemed to be a faint stir, such as you may fancy you can
detect when you plunge your gaze to the bottom of an immensely deep
well. What is it that moves there? you ask yourself. Is it a blind
monster or only a lost gleam from the universe? It occurred to me--don't
laugh--that all things being dissimilar, she was more inscrutable in
her childish ignorance than the Sphinx propounding childish riddles
to wayfarers. She had been carried off to Patusan before her eyes
were open. She had grown up there; she had seen nothing, she had known
nothing, she had no conception of anything. I ask myself whether she
were sure that anything else existed. What notions she may have formed
of the outside world is to me inconceivable: all that she knew of its
inhabitants were a betrayed woman and a sinister pantaloon. Her lover
also came to her from there, gifted with irresistible seductions; but
what would become of her if he should return to these inconceivable
regions that seemed always to claim back their own? Her mother had
warned her of this with tears, before she died . . .

'She had caught hold of my arm firmly, and as soon as I had stopped she
had withdrawn her hand in haste. She was audacious and shrinking. She
feared nothing, but she was checked by the profound incertitude and the
extreme strangeness--a brave person groping in the dark. I belonged to
this Unknown that might claim Jim for its own at any moment. I was,
as it were, in the secret of its nature and of its intentions--the
confidant of a threatening mystery--armed with its power perhaps! I
believe she supposed I could with a word whisk Jim away out of her very
arms; it is my sober conviction she went through agonies of apprehension
during my long talks with Jim; through a real and intolerable anguish
that might have conceivably driven her into plotting my murder, had the
fierceness of her soul been equal to the tremendous situation it had
created. This is my impression, and it is all I can give you: the whole
thing dawned gradually upon me, and as it got clearer and clearer I was
overwhelmed by a slow incredulous amazement. She made me believe her,
but there is no word that on my lips could render the effect of the
headlong and vehement whisper, of the soft, passionate tones, of the
sudden breathless pause and the appealing movement of the white arms
extended swiftly. They fell; the ghostly figure swayed like a slender
tree in the wind, the pale oval of the face drooped; it was impossible
to distinguish her features, the darkness of the eyes was unfathomable;
two wide sleeves uprose in the dark like unfolding wings, and she stood
silent, holding her head in her hands.'
","After Jim questions the would-be assassins, he orders them to jump into the river. Harsh. Shortly after this adventure, Jim and Jewel start a romantic relationship. Back home, Jim starts telling Marlow about how his heroics have redeemed him from the Patna debacle, but Marlow is less than convinced. Seizing an opportunity to get some dirt on her man, Jewel pulls Marlow aside for a little heart to heart."
94,"
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.'

","Two years later, one of the people who listened to Marlow's epic story on the verandah gets some snail mail. It's a package of letters from Marlow. In one of the letters, Marlow explains that the enclosed documents do what they can to piece together the last part of Jim's story. We're all ears."
95,"

'To the very last moment, till the full day came upon them with a
spring, the fires on the west bank blazed bright and clear; and then
Brown saw in a knot of coloured figures motionless between the advanced
houses a man in European clothes, in a helmet, all white. ""That's him;
look! look!"" Cornelius said excitedly. All Brown's men had sprung up and
crowded at his back with lustreless eyes. The group of vivid colours
and dark faces with the white figure in their midst were observing the
knoll. Brown could see naked arms being raised to shade the eyes and
other brown arms pointing. What should he do? He looked around, and the
forests that faced him on all sides walled the cock-pit of an unequal
contest. He looked once more at his men. A contempt, a weariness, the
desire of life, the wish to try for one more chance--for some other
grave--struggled in his breast. From the outline the figure presented
it seemed to him that the white man there, backed up by all the power of
the land, was examining his position through binoculars. Brown jumped up
on the log, throwing his arms up, the palms outwards. The coloured group
closed round the white man, and fell back twice before he got clear of
them, walking slowly alone. Brown remained standing on the log till
Jim, appearing and disappearing between the patches of thorny scrub, had
nearly reached the creek; then Brown jumped off and went down to meet
him on his side.

'They met, I should think, not very far from the place, perhaps on the
very spot, where Jim took the second desperate leap of his life--the
leap that landed him into the life of Patusan, into the trust, the love,
the confidence of the people. They faced each other across the creek,
and with steady eyes tried to understand each other before they opened
their lips. Their antagonism must have been expressed in their glances;
I know that Brown hated Jim at first sight. Whatever hopes he might have
had vanished at once. This was not the man he had expected to see. He
hated him for this--and in a checked flannel shirt with sleeves cut
off at the elbows, grey bearded, with a sunken, sun-blackened face--he
cursed in his heart the other's youth and assurance, his clear eyes and
his untroubled bearing. That fellow had got in a long way before him!
He did not look like a man who would be willing to give anything for
assistance. He had all the advantages on his side--possession, security,
power; he was on the side of an overwhelming force! He was not hungry
and desperate, and he did not seem in the least afraid. And there was
something in the very neatness of Jim's clothes, from the white helmet
to the canvas leggings and the pipeclayed shoes, which in Brown's sombre
irritated eyes seemed to belong to things he had in the very shaping of
his life condemned and flouted.

'""Who are you?"" asked Jim at last, speaking in his usual voice. ""My
name's Brown,"" answered the other loudly; ""Captain Brown. What's yours?""
and Jim after a little pause went on quietly, as If he had not heard:
""What made you come here?"" ""You want to know,"" said Brown bitterly.
""It's easy to tell. Hunger. And what made you?""

'""The fellow started at this,"" said Brown, relating to me the opening of
this strange conversation between those two men, separated only by
the muddy bed of a creek, but standing on the opposite poles of that
conception of life which includes all mankind--""The fellow started at
this and got very red in the face. Too big to be questioned, I suppose.
I told him that if he looked upon me as a dead man with whom you may
take liberties, he himself was not a whit better off really. I had
a fellow up there who had a bead drawn on him all the time, and only
waited for a sign from me. There was nothing to be shocked at in this.
He had come down of his own free will. 'Let us agree,' said I, 'that we
are both dead men, and let us talk on that basis, as equals. We are
all equal before death,' I said. I admitted I was there like a rat in
a trap, but we had been driven to it, and even a trapped rat can give
a bite. He caught me up in a moment. 'Not if you don't go near the trap
till the rat is dead.' I told him that sort of game was good enough for
these native friends of his, but I would have thought him too white to
serve even a rat so. Yes, I had wanted to talk with him. Not to beg
for my life, though. My fellows were--well--what they were--men like
himself, anyhow. All we wanted from him was to come on in the devil's
name and have it out. 'God d--n it,' said I, while he stood there as
still as a wooden post, 'you don't want to come out here every day with
your glasses to count how many of us are left on our feet. Come. Either
bring your infernal crowd along or let us go out and starve in the open
sea, by God! You have been white once, for all your tall talk of this
being your own people and you being one with them. Are you? And what the
devil do you get for it; what is it you've found here that is so d--d
precious? Hey? You don't want us to come down here perhaps--do you? You
are two hundred to one. You don't want us to come down into the open.
Ah! I promise you we shall give you some sport before you've done. You
talk about me making a cowardly set upon unoffending people. What's
that to me that they are unoffending, when I am starving for next to no
offence? But I am not a coward. Don't you be one. Bring them along or,
by all the fiends, we shall yet manage to send half your unoffending
town to heaven with us in smoke!'""

'He was terrible--relating this to me--this tortured skeleton of a man
drawn up together with his face over his knees, upon a miserable bed in
that wretched hovel, and lifting his head to look at me with malignant
triumph.

'""That's what I told him--I knew what to say,"" he began again, feebly
at first, but working himself up with incredible speed into a fiery
utterance of his scorn. ""We aren't going into the forest to wander like
a string of living skeletons dropping one after another for ants to
go to work upon us before we are fairly dead. Oh no! . . . 'You don't
deserve a better fate,' he said. 'And what do you deserve,' I shouted
at him, 'you that I find skulking here with your mouth full of your
responsibility, of innocent lives, of your infernal duty? What do
you know more of me than I know of you? I came here for food. D'ye
hear?--food to fill our bellies. And what did _you_ come for? What did
you ask for when you came here? We don't ask you for anything but to
give us a fight or a clear road to go back whence we came. . . .' 'I
would fight with you now,' says he, pulling at his little moustache.
'And I would let you shoot me, and welcome,' I said. 'This is as good a
jumping-off place for me as another. I am sick of my infernal luck. But
it would be too easy. There are my men in the same boat--and, by God, I
am not the sort to jump out of trouble and leave them in a d--d lurch,'
I said. He stood thinking for a while and then wanted to know what I
had done ('out there' he says, tossing his head down-stream) to be hazed
about so. 'Have we met to tell each other the story of our lives?' I
asked him. 'Suppose you begin. No? Well, I am sure I don't want to hear.
Keep it to yourself. I know it is no better than mine. I've lived--and
so did you, though you talk as if you were one of those people that
should have wings so as to go about without touching the dirty earth.
Well--it is dirty. I haven't got any wings. I am here because I was
afraid once in my life. Want to know what of? Of a prison. That scares
me, and you may know it--if it's any good to you. I won't ask you what
scared you into this infernal hole, where you seem to have found pretty
pickings. That's your luck and this is mine--the privilege to beg for
the favour of being shot quickly, or else kicked out to go free and
starve in my own way.' . . .""

'His debilitated body shook with an exultation so vehement, so assured,
and so malicious that it seemed to have driven off the death waiting for
him in that hut. The corpse of his mad self-love uprose from rags and
destitution as from the dark horrors of a tomb. It is impossible to say
how much he lied to Jim then, how much he lied to me now--and to himself
always. Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of
every passion wants some pretence to make it live. Standing at the gate
of the other world in the guise of a beggar, he had slapped this world's
face, he had spat on it, he had thrown upon it an immensity of scorn
and revolt at the bottom of his misdeeds. He had overcome them all--men,
women, savages, traders, ruffians, missionaries--and Jim--""that
beefy-faced beggar."" I did not begrudge him this triumph in articulo
mortis, this almost posthumous illusion of having trampled all the earth
under his feet. While he was boasting to me, in his sordid and repulsive
agony, I couldn't help thinking of the chuckling talk relating to the
time of his greatest splendour when, during a year or more, Gentleman
Brown's ship was to be seen, for many days on end, hovering off an islet
befringed with green upon azure, with the dark dot of the mission-house
on a white beach; while Gentleman Brown, ashore, was casting his spells
over a romantic girl for whom Melanesia had been too much, and giving
hopes of a remarkable conversion to her husband. The poor man, some time
or other, had been heard to express the intention of winning ""Captain
Brown to a better way of life."" . . . ""Bag Gentleman Brown for
Glory""--as a leery-eyed loafer expressed it once--""just to let them see
up above what a Western Pacific trading skipper looks like."" And this
was the man, too, who had run off with a dying woman, and had shed tears
over her body. ""Carried on like a big baby,"" his then mate was never
tired of telling, ""and where the fun came in may I be kicked to death by
diseased Kanakas if _I_ know. Why, gents! she was too far gone when he
brought her aboard to know him; she just lay there on her back in his
bunk staring at the beam with awful shining eyes--and then she died.
Dam' bad sort of fever, I guess. . . ."" I remembered all these stories
while, wiping his matted lump of a beard with a livid hand, he was
telling me from his noisome couch how he got round, got in, got home,
on that confounded, immaculate, don't-you-touch-me sort of fellow. He
admitted that he couldn't be scared, but there was a way, ""as broad as
a turnpike, to get in and shake his twopenny soul around and inside out
and upside down--by God!""'","A bit more cautious than Cornelius, Brown opts to talk with Jim before shooting him. The two chat nervously about their situation and what they want from each other. Brown explains that he came to Patusan out of hunger and fear of being imprisoned. Jim, for one, can totally relate. Brown is hitting all the right buttons."
96,"
'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.'","Before dawn, Brown and his group head downriver. Elsewhere, a kind but completely oblivious Jim offers to send them some food. Of course Brown is too busy being led down an alternate channel by Cornelius. Meanwhile Tamb' Itam arrives at Dain Waris' camp and relays the message from Jim. No sooner has Dain Waris put on Jim's ring than Brown's army attacks. Dain Waris is caught completely off guard, and he is killed in the battle. An injured Tamb' Itam manages to get away, and while he is splitting, he sees Cornelius trying to do the exact same thing. He realizes what our resident traitor has done, so he charges Cornelius and kills the punk."
97,"'The time was coming when I should see him loved, trusted, admired, with
a legend of strength and prowess forming round his name as though he
had been the stuff of a hero. It's true--I assure you; as true as
I'm sitting here talking about him in vain. He, on his side, had that
faculty of beholding at a hint the face of his desire and the shape
of his dream, without which the earth would know no lover and no
adventurer. He captured much honour and an Arcadian happiness (I won't
say anything about innocence) in the bush, and it was as good to him
as the honour and the Arcadian happiness of the streets to another man.
Felicity, felicity--how shall I say it?--is quaffed out of a golden cup
in every latitude: the flavour is with you--with you alone, and you can
make it as intoxicating as you please. He was of the sort that would
drink deep, as you may guess from what went before. I found him, if not
exactly intoxicated, then at least flushed with the elixir at his lips.
He had not obtained it at once. There had been, as you know, a period of
probation amongst infernal ship-chandlers, during which he had suffered
and I had worried about--about--my trust--you may call it. I don't
know that I am completely reassured now, after beholding him in all his
brilliance. That was my last view of him--in a strong light, dominating,
and yet in complete accord with his surroundings--with the life of the
forests and with the life of men. I own that I was impressed, but I must
admit to myself that after all this is not the lasting impression. He
was protected by his isolation, alone of his own superior kind, in close
touch with Nature, that keeps faith on such easy terms with her lovers.
But I cannot fix before my eye the image of his safety. I shall always
remember him as seen through the open door of my room, taking, perhaps,
too much to heart the mere consequences of his failure. I am pleased,
of course, that some good--and even some splendour--came out of my
endeavours; but at times it seems to me it would have been better for my
peace of mind if I had not stood between him and Chester's confoundedly
generous offer. I wonder what his exuberant imagination would have made
of Walpole islet--that most hopelessly forsaken crumb of dry land on the
face of the waters. It is not likely I would ever have heard, for I must
tell you that Chester, after calling at some Australian port to patch
up his brig-rigged sea-anachronism, steamed out into the Pacific with a
crew of twenty-two hands all told, and the only news having a possible
bearing upon the mystery of his fate was the news of a hurricane which
is supposed to have swept in its course over the Walpole shoals, a month
or so afterwards. Not a vestige of the Argonauts ever turned up; not a
sound came out of the waste. Finis! The Pacific is the most discreet of
live, hot-tempered oceans: the chilly Antarctic can keep a secret too,
but more in the manner of a grave.

'And there is a sense of blessed finality in such discretion, which is
what we all more or less sincerely are ready to admit--for what else is
it that makes the idea of death supportable? End! Finis! the potent word
that exorcises from the house of life the haunting shadow of fate. This
is what--notwithstanding the testimony of my eyes and his own earnest
assurances--I miss when I look back upon Jim's success. While there's
life there is hope, truly; but there is fear too. I don't mean to say
that I regret my action, nor will I pretend that I can't sleep o' nights
in consequence; still, the idea obtrudes itself that he made so much of
his disgrace while it is the guilt alone that matters. He was not--if I
may say so--clear to me. He was not clear. And there is a suspicion he
was not clear to himself either. There were his fine sensibilities,
his fine feelings, his fine longings--a sort of sublimated, idealised
selfishness. He was--if you allow me to say so--very fine; very
fine--and very unfortunate. A little coarser nature would not have borne
the strain; it would have had to come to terms with itself--with a sigh,
with a grunt, or even with a guffaw; a still coarser one would have
remained invulnerably ignorant and completely uninteresting.

'But he was too interesting or too unfortunate to be thrown to the dogs,
or even to Chester. I felt this while I sat with my face over the paper
and he fought and gasped, struggling for his breath in that terribly
stealthy way, in my room; I felt it when he rushed out on the verandah
as if to fling himself over--and didn't; I felt it more and more all the
time he remained outside, faintly lighted on the background of night, as
if standing on the shore of a sombre and hopeless sea.

'An abrupt heavy rumble made me lift my head. The noise seemed to roll
away, and suddenly a searching and violent glare fell on the blind face
of the night. The sustained and dazzling flickers seemed to last for an
unconscionable time. The growl of the thunder increased steadily while I
looked at him, distinct and black, planted solidly upon the shores of a
sea of light. At the moment of greatest brilliance the darkness leaped
back with a culminating crash, and he vanished before my dazzled eyes as
utterly as though he had been blown to atoms. A blustering sigh passed;
furious hands seemed to tear at the shrubs, shake the tops of the
trees below, slam doors, break window-panes, all along the front of
the building. He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and found me
bending over the table: my sudden anxiety as to what he would say was
very great, and akin to a fright. ""May I have a cigarette?"" he asked. I
gave a push to the box without raising my head. ""I want--want--tobacco,""
he muttered. I became extremely buoyant. ""Just a moment."" I grunted
pleasantly. He took a few steps here and there. ""That's over,"" I heard
him say. A single distant clap of thunder came from the sea like a
gun of distress. ""The monsoon breaks up early this year,"" he remarked
conversationally, somewhere behind me. This encouraged me to turn round,
which I did as soon as I had finished addressing the last envelope. He
was smoking greedily in the middle of the room, and though he heard the
stir I made, he remained with his back to me for a time.

'""Come--I carried it off pretty well,"" he said, wheeling suddenly.
""Something's paid off--not much. I wonder what's to come."" His face did
not show any emotion, only it appeared a little darkened and swollen, as
though he had been holding his breath. He smiled reluctantly as it
were, and went on while I gazed up at him mutely. . . . ""Thank you,
though--your room--jolly convenient--for a chap--badly hipped."" . . .
The rain pattered and swished in the garden; a water-pipe (it must
have had a hole in it) performed just outside the window a parody of
blubbering woe with funny sobs and gurgling lamentations, interrupted
by jerky spasms of silence. . . . ""A bit of shelter,"" he mumbled and
ceased.

'A flash of faded lightning darted in through the black framework of the
windows and ebbed out without any noise. I was thinking how I had best
approach him (I did not want to be flung off again) when he gave a
little laugh. ""No better than a vagabond now"" . . . the end of
the cigarette smouldered between his fingers . . . ""without a
single--single,"" he pronounced slowly; ""and yet . . ."" He paused; the
rain fell with redoubled violence. ""Some day one's bound to come upon
some sort of chance to get it all back again. Must!"" he whispered
distinctly, glaring at my boots.

'I did not even know what it was he wished so much to regain, what it
was he had so terribly missed. It might have been so much that it was
impossible to say. A piece of ass's skin, according to Chester. . . .
He looked up at me inquisitively. ""Perhaps. If life's long enough,"" I
muttered through my teeth with unreasonable animosity. ""Don't reckon too
much on it.""

'""Jove! I feel as if nothing could ever touch me,"" he said in a tone
of sombre conviction. ""If this business couldn't knock me over, then
there's no fear of there being not enough time to--climb out, and . . .""
He looked upwards.

'It struck me that it is from such as he that the great army of waifs
and strays is recruited, the army that marches down, down into all the
gutters of the earth. As soon as he left my room, that ""bit of shelter,""
he would take his place in the ranks, and begin the journey towards the
bottomless pit. I at least had no illusions; but it was I, too, who a
moment ago had been so sure of the power of words, and now was afraid to
speak, in the same way one dares not move for fear of losing a slippery
hold. It is when we try to grapple with another man's intimate need that
we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings
that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun. It
is as if loneliness were a hard and absolute condition of existence; the
envelope of flesh and blood on which our eyes are fixed melts before the
outstretched hand, and there remains only the capricious, unconsolable,
and elusive spirit that no eye can follow, no hand can grasp. It was
the fear of losing him that kept me silent, for it was borne upon me
suddenly and with unaccountable force that should I let him slip away
into the darkness I would never forgive myself.

'""Well. Thanks--once more. You've been--er--uncommonly--really there's
no word to . . . Uncommonly! I don't know why, I am sure. I am afraid
I don't feel as grateful as I would if the whole thing hadn't been so
brutally sprung on me. Because at bottom . . . you, yourself . . ."" He
stuttered.

'""Possibly,"" I struck in. He frowned.

'""All the same, one is responsible."" He watched me like a hawk.

'""And that's true, too,"" I said.

'""Well. I've gone with it to the end, and I don't intend to let any man
cast it in my teeth without--without--resenting it."" He clenched his
fist.

'""There's yourself,"" I said with a smile--mirthless enough, God
knows--but he looked at me menacingly. ""That's my business,"" he said.
An air of indomitable resolution came and went upon his face like a vain
and passing shadow. Next moment he looked a dear good boy in trouble,
as before. He flung away the cigarette. ""Good-bye,"" he said, with the
sudden haste of a man who had lingered too long in view of a pressing
bit of work waiting for him; and then for a second or so he made not the
slightest movement. The downpour fell with the heavy uninterrupted rush
of a sweeping flood, with a sound of unchecked overwhelming fury that
called to one's mind the images of collapsing bridges, of uprooted
trees, of undermined mountains. No man could breast the colossal and
headlong stream that seemed to break and swirl against the dim stillness
in which we were precariously sheltered as if on an island. The
perforated pipe gurgled, choked, spat, and splashed in odious ridicule
of a swimmer fighting for his life. ""It is raining,"" I remonstrated,
""and I . . ."" ""Rain or shine,"" he began brusquely, checked himself, and
walked to the window. ""Perfect deluge,"" he muttered after a while: he
leaned his forehead on the glass. ""It's dark, too.""

'""Yes, it is very dark,"" I said.

'He pivoted on his heels, crossed the room, and had actually opened the
door leading into the corridor before I leaped up from my chair. ""Wait,""
I cried, ""I want you to . . ."" ""I can't dine with you again to-night,""
he flung at me, with one leg out of the room already. ""I haven't the
slightest intention to ask you,"" I shouted. At this he drew back his
foot, but remained mistrustfully in the very doorway. I lost no time
in entreating him earnestly not to be absurd; to come in and shut the
door.'
","Marlow jumps forward in time in this chapter to tell the reader that in the future Jim again becomes a man who is trusted, loved, and admired. He is allowed another chance, and he proves himself honorably. He performs a brave act that allows him to cancel out his guilt about the Patna. Marlow is brought back to the present when Jim comes inside again. He seems ready to talk. After asking Marlow for a cigarette and hearing the noise of thunder, Jim breaks the ice by saying that the monsoon has come rather early. Jim then remarks that he must get ""it"" back again. Marlow understands that Jim is referring to his honor, but Jim does not want to talk about it. He flings down his cigarette and bids Marlow good-bye. Marlow urges him to stay for dinner, telling him that the storm outside is very bad."
98,"SCENE II.

The sea-coast.

[Enter VIOLA, CAPTAIN, and Sailors.]

VIOLA.
What country, friends, is this?

CAPTAIN.
This is Illyria, lady.

VIOLA.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown'd--What think you, sailors?

CAPTAIN.
It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.

VIOLA.
O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

CAPTAIN.
True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and those poor number sav'd with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself,---
Courage and hope both teaching him the practice,--
To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves
So long as I could see.

VIOLA.
For saying so, there's gold!
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?

CAPTAIN.
Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born
Not three hours' travel from this very place.

VIOLA.
Who governs here?

CAPTAIN.
A noble duke, in nature
As in name.

VIOLA.
What is his name?

CAPTAIN.
Orsino.

VIOLA.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him.
He was a bachelor then.

CAPTAIN.
And so is now,
Or was so very late; for but a month
Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh
In murmur,--as, you know, what great ones do,
The less will prattle of,--that he did seek
The love of fair Olivia.

VIOLA.
What's she?

CAPTAIN.
A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died; for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men.

VIOLA.
O that I served that lady!
And might not be delivered to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is.

CAPTAIN.
That were hard to compass:
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.

VIOLA.
There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him;
It may be worth thy pains, for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap to time I will commit;
Only shape thou silence to my wit.

CAPTAIN.
Be you his eunuch and your mute I'll be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

VIOLA.
I thank thee. Lead me on.

[Exeunt.]




","The scene opens after a terrible ship wreck. Viola, a few sailors, and a captain arrive on shore and Viola asks where they are. The captain says they're in Illyria. Viola is bummed that she's in Illyria and says her brother is probably in heaven, but she's holding onto hope that he is alive. The captain tries to comfort Viola and says that, after the ship sank, he saw her brother tie himself to the mast, which had somehow managed to stay afloat. The captain's description of Sebastian clinging to the ship's mast also reveals to the audience what went down at sea. Apparently, when the ship split in two and the passengers and crew went into the water, Viola, being a very scrappy girl, avoided drowning by hanging on to the side of a life boat. Viola gives him some gold for being a nice guy and for cheering her up. The captain, who grew up three hours away from Illyria, tells Viola about the country and dishes a little dirt about its local celebs. The beloved Duke Orsino is a bachelor who's been trying to hook up with the Countess Olivia. But, Olivia's so not into him. Her dad died about a year ago and then her brother died shortly after, so she's sworn off the company of men while she grieves. Viola responds to the gossip by wishing she could disguise her identity and social class for a while by working as Olivia's servant - at least until she gets her bearings and figures out what to do next. The captain explains why that's just not going to happen: Olivia isn't seeing any visitors, not even the Duke. Viola tells the captain that he seems like a trusty fellow, so she's going to pay him a ton of dough to dress her up like a boy and not tell anyone about it. Since she's got such a great singing voice, she wants the captain to introduce her to the Duke as a eunuch. The idea is that parading around as a eunuch will guard Viola from suspicion that she's a woman, while allowing her singing talents to earn her some props in the Duke's court. The captain agrees to keep his lips zipped while Viola dresses up like a boy and plays ""I'm a singing eunuch"" at Orsino's court."
99,"SCENE IV.

A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire.]

VALENTINE.
If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario,
you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three
days, and already you are no stranger.

VIOLA.
You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call
in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir,
in his favours?

VALENTINE.
No, believe me.

[Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.]

VIOLA.
I thank you. Here comes the count.

DUKE.
Who saw Cesario, ho?

VIOLA.
On your attendance, my lord; here.

DUKE.
Stand you awhile aloof.--Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them there thy fixed foot shall grow
Till thou have audience.

VIOLA.
Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

DUKE.
Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.

VIOLA.
Say I do speak with her, my lord. What then?

DUKE.
O, then unfold the passion of my love,
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.

VIOLA.
I think not so, my lord.

DUKE.
Dear lad, believe it,
For they shall yet belie thy happy years
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know thy constellation is right apt
For this affair:--some four or five attend him:
All, if you will; for I myself am best
When least in company:--prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.

VIOLA.
I'll do my best
To woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.




","Back at Duke Orsino's pad, Valentine gives props to ""Cesario"" for making a name for ""himself"" in such a short time in the Duke's service. Viola , who has clearly spent a lot of time with Orsino in the past three days, asks Valentine if the Duke has mood swings. Just then, Orsino enters looking for ""Cesario""--he wants his boy to trot on over to Olivia's place to chat her up for him. Orsino says that ""Cesario"" is the man for the job since ""he"" already knows how Orsino feels about Olivia and that ""he"" shouldn't take no for an answer if Olivia's servants try to shoo ""him"" away. ""Cesario"" is skeptical since it sounds like Olivia is really upset about her dead brother. Orsino tells ""Cesario"" to do whatever it takes to get the job done, even if he has to cause a big scene at Olivia's house. Okay, fine, agrees ""Cesario,"" who asks what ""he"" is supposed to do if ""he"" actually makes it inside Olivia's pad. Duke Orsino seems to think that Olivia will be so moved by ""Cesario's"" youth and girlish beauty that she'll want to hook up with the Duke. Orsino then proceeds to describe ""Cesario's"" luscious ruby red lips and high pitched voice, all of which he believes will get Olivia in the mood for some lovin'. Viola agrees to do this but then she drops a bombshell on the audience: it's going to be brutal for her to be Orsino's wingman because she is falling for the Duke. The situation stinks because she wants to be the Duke's wife, but now she has to try to convince Olivia to marry the Duke."
100,"ACT II. SCENE I.

The sea-coast.

[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]

ANTONIO.
Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with you?

SEBASTIAN.
By your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the
malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore
I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone.
It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on
you.

ANTONIO.
Let me know of you whither you are bound.

SEBASTIAN.
No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere
extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of
modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to
keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express
myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,
which I called Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of
Messaline whom I know you have heard of: he left behind him
myself and a sister, both born in an hour; if the heavens had
been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;
for some hours before you took me from the breach of the sea was
my sister drowned.

ANTONIO.
Alas the day!

SEBASTIAN.
A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me,
was yet of many accounted beautiful: but though I could not, with
such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will
boldly publish her,--she bore mind that envy could not but call
fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem
to drown her remembrance again with more.

ANTONIO.
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

SEBASTIAN.
O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

ANTONIO.
If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

SEBASTIAN.
If you will not undo what you have done--that is, kill
him whom you have recovered--desire it not. Fare ye well at once;
my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of
my mother that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell
tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.

[Exit.]

ANTONIO.
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many cnemies in Orsino's court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there:
But come what may, I do adore thee so
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

[Exit.]




","On a sea coast Antonio the sea captain asks Sebastian why he's leaving. Antonio also wants to know why he can't go with Sebastian. Sebastian says something like, ""Sorry man. It's not you, it's me. I'm in a really bad mood and I don't want to bum you out, so I think it's best for both of us if we go our separate ways. I would be a total jerk if I explained why I'm acting this way and unloaded all my problems on you - you don't deserve that so..."" Antonio cuts in and begs Sebastian to tell him where and why he's going away. The cryptic Sebastian says that he can't do it, and where he's going isn't important anyway. But, Antonio's such a great guy that he'll reveal his true identity. His name is ""Sebastian,"" not ""Roderigo,"" and he's really sad because he thinks his twin sister is dead. He also says that he would be dead too if Antonio hadn't scooped him up out of the ocean two hours after his ship sank and his sister drowned. Antonio says that's just awful and Sebastian replies that he doesn't want to stress out Antonio with his problems. Antonio begs Sebastian to let him be his servant, but Sebastian brushes him off and tells Antonio to forget he ever existed. Then Antonio says he doesn't want to cry like his mother always does, so he needs to be on his way to Duke Orsino's court."
101,"SCENE II.

A street.

[Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following.]

MALVOLIO.
Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?

VIOLA.
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but
hither.

MALVOLIO.
She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved
me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover,
that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will
none of him: and one thing more: that you be never so hardy to
come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's
taking of this. Receive it so.

VIOLA.
She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.

MALVOLIO.
Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is
it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it
lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

[Exit.]

VIOLA.
I left no ring with her; what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man; --if it be so,--as 'tis,--
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we;
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman, now alas the day!
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

[Exit.]


","Meanwhile, on a street outside Olivia's place, Malvolio catches up with Viola and asks ""him"" if he was the brat that was just at Olivia's place chatting her up about the Duke. Malvolio is all snobby and haughty when he whines about having to run after ""Cesario"" to give him back the Duke's ring--Olivia doesn't want it. Then Malvolio says to ""Cesario"" that Olivia wants nothing to do with Duke Orsino. And another thing, she doesn't want you back at her house unless you return to say that the Duke took his ring back. Viola goes along with this in front of Malvolio and says something like: ""I'm not taking back the ring--Olivia took it from me so it's hers."" Malvolio says whatever, kid, take the ring back and get lost. Left alone on the street, Viola wonders what the heck Olivia is up to since she never gave Olivia a ring from the Duke. Then Viola realizes that Olivia has a crush on ""Cesario"" and remembers how Olivia seemed distracted and stuttered a lot when they spoke. Then Viola launches into a monologue about how she really feels sorry for poor Olivia, because women are weak and ""frail."" No wonder Olivia's been duped by Viola's disguise. Oh dear, what will happen now that Olivia's in love with Viola/""Cesario,"" whose in love with Orsino, who's in love with Olivia?"
102,"SCENE IV.

A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.]

DUKE.
Give me some music:--Now, good morrow, friends:--
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night;
Methought it did relieve my passion much;
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:--
Come, but one verse.

CURIO.
He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

DUKE.
Who was it?

CURIO.
Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia's
father took much delight in: he is about the house.

DUKE.
Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

[Exit CURIO.  Music.]

Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me:
For, such as I am, all true lovers are;
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is belov'd.--How dost thou like this tune?

VIOLA.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.

DUKE.
Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?

VIOLA.
A little, by your favour.

DUKE.
What kind of woman is't?

VIOLA.
Of your complexion.

DUKE.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

VIOLA.
About your years, my lord.

DUKE.
Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
Than women's are.

VIOLA.
I think it well, my lord.

DUKE.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:
For women are as roses, whose fair flower,
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

VIOLA.
And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!

[Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN.]

DUKE.
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night:--
Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.

CLOWN.
Are you ready, sir?

DUKE.
Ay; pr'ythee, sing.  [Music]

CLOWN.
      SONG
    Come away, come away, death.
  And in sad cypress let me be laid;
    Fly away, fly away, breath;
  I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
  My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
       O, prepare it!
  My part of death no one so true
      Did share it.

   Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
 On my black coffin let there be strown:
   Not a friend, not a friend greet
 My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown:
 A thousand thousand sighs to save,
       Lay me, O, where
 Sad true lover never find my grave,
       To weep there!

DUKE.
There's for thy pains.

CLOWN.
No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.

DUKE.
I'll pay thy pleasure, then.

CLOWN.
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.

DUKE.
Give me now leave to leave thee.

CLOWN.
Now the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy
doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal!--I
would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business
might be everything, and their intent everywhere; for that's it
that always makes a good voyage of nothing.--Farewell.

[Exit CLOWN.]

DUKE.
Let all the rest give place.--

[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.]

Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems
That Nature pranks her in attracts my soul.

VIOLA.
But if she cannot love you, sir?

DUKE.
I cannot be so answer'd.

VIOLA.
'Sooth, but you must.
Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so. Must she not then be answer'd?

DUKE.
There is no woman's sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite,--
No motion of the liver, but the palate,--
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.

VIOLA.
Ay, but I know,--

DUKE.
What dost thou know?

VIOLA.
Too well what love women to men may owe.
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

DUKE.
And what's her history?

VIOLA.
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more; but indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

DUKE.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

VIOLA.
I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too;--and yet I know not.--
Sir, shall I to this lady?

DUKE.
Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste: give her this jewel; say
My love can give no place, bide no denay.

[Exeunt.]




","Back at Orsino's court, the Duke orders his band to play a song he heard the night before. Curio says sorry, but Feste's not here to sing it. He must be over at Olivia's house because he used to work for Olivia's dad when he was alive. Duke Orsino tells Curio to find Feste, who happens to be roaming around somewhere in the Duke's pad. Orsino then turns to ""Cesario"" and gives ""him"" some friendly advice, man-to-man, about love. Orsino says if ""Cesario"" ever falls in love, he should be reminded of the Duke, who--like all true lovers--is unable to do anything but think of the one he adores. Orsino suspects that ""Cesario"" is in love and ""Cesario"" admits that yes, ""he"" is in love with someone who looks like the Duke and is about the same age. Orsino assumes ""Cesario's"" in love with an older woman, so he tells ""Cesario"" it's not a good idea for men to marry older women. ""Cesario"" should marry a sweet young thing because women age fast, which makes them less attractive to their husbands. Women are also not as attractive after they're no longer virgins. Viola's sad response tells us that she worries about aging and becoming less attractive to a potential husband. Feste enters and sings a song for the Duke about a man who is ""slain"" by a ""cruel maid."" Orsino gives Feste some money for his trouble and says it's late--he wants to go to bed. Feste makes a crack about how moody the Duke's behavior is before leaving. Orsino sends everyone away, except ""Cesario."" He tells ""Cesario"" to go see Olivia again and try one more time to tell her how much Orsino loves her. ""Cesario"" doesn't think it will work. Olivia has already said she can't love him, but Orsino won't accept that answer. ""Cesario"" says, but wait--if some woman other than Olivia loved you, you wouldn't love her back, right? Because you love Olivia and no one else. Pah! Orsino says no woman could possibly resist the level of passion he feels. Love works differently for women, and no woman is capable of being so in love as the Duke--his love is like the ocean, etc., etc. ""Cesario"" disagrees and says that women are just as capable of love as men. ""He"" tells the story of his ""father's daughter"" who once loved a man but never told him. Instead she loved him from a distance, feeling incredibly sad but graciously accepting her fate. That sounds horrible to us, but ""Cesario"" says that's true love--truer, in fact, than the love of men who are loud about declaring their love but not as faithful with their actions. When Orsino asks what happened to ""Cesario's"" sister, ""Cesario"" cryptically replies that ""he"" doesn't know, even though he is the only daughter and the only son in ""his"" father's house. If Orsino were paying attention, he might understand that Viola has just outed herself. But he's still focused on Olivia. Plus, Viola changes the subject FAST. She says, ""Did you want me to give this jewel to Olivia?"" before he can react to her strange statement, and off they go."
103,"SCENE V.

OLIVIA'S garden.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]

SIR TOBY.
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

FABIAN.
Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be
boiled to death with melancholy.

SIR TOBY.
Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally
sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

FABIAN.
I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour
with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

SIR TOBY.
To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool
him black and blue:--shall we not, Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW.
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
Here comes the little villain:--How now, my nettle of India?

MARIA.
Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down
this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun practising behaviour to
his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of
mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot
of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.]

Lie thou there; [Throws down a letter] for here comes the trout
that must be caught with tickling.

[Exit Maria.]

[Enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.
'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she
did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that,
should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she
uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that
follows her. What should I think on't?

SIR TOBY.
Here's an overweening rogue!

FABIAN.
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him;
how he jets under his advanced plumes!

SIR ANDREW.
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:--

SIR TOBY.
Peace, I say.

MALVOLIO.
To be Count Malvolio;--

SIR TOBY.
Ah, rogue!

SIR ANDREW.
Pistol him, pistol him.

SIR TOBY.
Peace, peace.

MALVOLIO.
There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married
the yeoman of the wardrobe.

SIR ANDREW.
Fie on him, Jezebel!

FABIAN.
O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him.

MALVOLIO.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,--

SIR TOBY.
O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!

MALVOLIO.
Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown;
having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.

SIR TOBY.
Fire and brimstone!

FABIAN.
O, peace, peace.

MALVOLIO.
And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure
travel of regard,--telling them I know my place as I would they
should do theirs,--to ask for my kinsman Toby.

SIR TOBY.
Bolts and shackles!

FABIAN.
O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.

MALVOLIO.
Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for
him: I frown the while, and perchance, wind up my watch, or play
with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; court'sies there to me:

SIR TOBY.
Shall this fellow live?

FABIAN.
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

MALVOLIO.
I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an
austere regard of control:

SIR TOBY.
And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?

MALVOLIO.
Saying 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your
niece, give me this prerogative of speech':--

SIR TOBY.
What, what?

MALVOLIO.
'You must amend your drunkenness.'

SIR TOBY.
Out, scab!

FABIAN.
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

MALVOLIO.
'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a
foolish knight';

SIR ANDREW.
That's me, I warrant you.

MALVOLIO.
'One Sir Andrew':

SIR ANDREW.
I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.

MALVOLIO.
What employment have we here?

[Taking up the letter.]

FABIAN.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.

SIR TOBY.
O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to
him!

MALVOLIO.
By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very
C's, her U's, and her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It
is in contempt of question, her hand.

SIR ANDREW.
Her C's, her U's, and her T's. Why that?

MALVOLIO.
[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good
wishes.' Her very phrases!--By your leave, wax.--Soft!--and the
impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my
lady. To whom should this be?

FABIAN.
This wins him, liver and all.

MALVOLIO.
[Reads]
  'Jove knows I love,
    But who?
  Lips, do not move,
  No man must know.'

'No man must know.'--What follows? the numbers alter'd!--'No man
must know':--If this should be thee, Malvolio?

SIR TOBY.
Marry, hang thee, brock!

MALVOLIO.
  'I may command where I adore:
     But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
  With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore;
    M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'

FABIAN.
A fustian riddle!

SIR TOBY.
Excellent wench, say I.

MALVOLIO.
'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'--Nay, but first let me see,--let
me see,--let me see.

FABIAN.
What dish of poison has she dressed him!

SIR TOBY.
And with what wing the stannyel checks at it!

MALVOLIO.
'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command me: I
serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal
capacity; there is no obstruction in this;--And the end,--What
should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that
resemble something in me.--Softly!--M, O, A, I.--

SIR TOBY.
O, ay, make up that:--he is now at a cold scent.

FABIAN.
Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank as a
fox.

MALVOLIO.
M,--Malvolio; M,--why, that begins my name.

FABIAN.
Did not I say he would work it out?
The cur is excellent at faults.

MALVOLIO.
M,--But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that
suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.

FABIAN.
And O shall end, I hope.

SIR TOBY.
Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'

MALVOLIO.
And then I comes behind.

FABIAN.
Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more
detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

MALVOLIO.
M, O, A, I;--This simulation is not as the former:--and
yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of
these letters are in my name. Soft; here follows prose.--
'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above
thee; but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some
achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy
fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them.
And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy
humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly
with servants: let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put
thyself into the trick of singularity: She thus advises thee that
sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and
wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to;
thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee
a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch
fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with
thee,
     'The fortunate-unhappy.'

Daylight and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be
proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I
will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the
very man. I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade me;
for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did
commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being
cross-gartered; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and
with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her
liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in
yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of
putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!--Here is yet a
postscript. 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles
become thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my
sweet, I pr'ythee.' Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do
everything that thou wilt have me.

[Exit.]

FABIAN.
I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of
thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

SIR TOBY.
I could marry this wench for this device:

SIR ANDREW.
So could I too.

SIR TOBY.
And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR ANDREW.
Nor I neither.

FABIAN.
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

SIR TOBY.
Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

SIR ANDREW.
Or o' mine either?

SIR TOBY.
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?

SIR ANDREW.
I' faith, or I either?

SIR TOBY.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that, when the
image of it leaves him, he must run mad.

MARIA.
Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

SIR TOBY.
Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

MARIA.
If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his
first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow
stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a
fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now
be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a
melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable
contempt; if you will see it, follow me.

SIR TOBY.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

SIR ANDREW.
I'll make one too.

[Exeunt.]




","In Olivia's garden, Toby and Aguecheek hang out with Fabian, who worries that he'll get in trouble again if he helps them trick Malvolio. Seems Malvolio told on Fabian earlier for holding a bear-baiting contest at Olivia's place. Toby Belch says not to worry--they'll make Malvolio pay for being such a drag. Maria enters and tells the men Malvolio has been hanging out alone practicing acting super cool for the past half hour. Now he's headed this way, and she knows the letter she wrote is going to make him act like an even bigger fool. She tells everyone to hide behind a tree and put the letter on the ground for Malvolio to find. Malvolio enters the garden talking to himself. First he says he thinks Maria wants him and then he fantasizes about being married to Olivia, which would make him a Count who could boss around Sir Toby and his raucous little crew. Toby and Aguecheek can hardly contain their laughter and their anger at Malvolio's audacity. The fantasy continues as Malvolio daydreams about fondling some expensive jewels and lecturing Toby for his drunkenness. Malvolio finds the letter and thinks right away that it's written in Olivia's handwriting. He thinks the letter is meant for him because it spells out M-A-O-I, all letters that appear in the name Malvolio. The letter instructs Malvolio to pick fights with Toby and company, wear yellow stockings with cross-garters, and smile at everything, even when Olivia's in a sad mood. Malvolio is all over this and runs off to change his clothes. Toby is psyched - Maria's plot is so clever that he's tempted to marry her. Maria enters and gloats about her evil genius plan. Malvolio is sure to make a fool of himself while annoying Olivia to no end."
104,"ACT III. SCENE I.

OLIVIA'S garden.

[Enter VIOLA, and CLOWN with a tabor.]

VIOLA.
Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor?

CLOWN.
No, sir, I live by the church.

VIOLA.
Art thou a churchman?

CLOWN.
No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live
at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.

VIOLA.
So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar
dwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor
stand by the church.

CLOWN.
You have said, sir.--To see this age!--A sentence is but a
cheveril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be
turned outward!

VIOLA.
Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words may
quickly make them wanton.

CLOWN.
I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

VIOLA.
Why, man?

CLOWN.
Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that word
might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals,
since bonds disgraced them.

VIOLA.
Thy reason, man?

CLOWN.
Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words
are grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them.

VIOLA.
I warrant, thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing.

CLOWN.
Not so, sir, I do care for something: but in my conscience,
sir, I do not care for you; if that be to care for nothing, sir,
I would it would make you invisible.

VIOLA.
Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?

CLOWN.
No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep
no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands
as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am,
indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words.

VIOLA.
I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.

CLOWN.
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it
shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be
as oft with your master as with my mistress: I think I saw your
wisdom there.

VIOLA.
Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.
Hold, there's expenses for thee.

CLOWN.
Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

VIOLA.
By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one; though I
would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?

CLOWN.
Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

VIOLA.
Yes, being kept together and put to use.

CLOWN.
I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a
Cressida to this Troilus.

VIOLA.
I understand you, sir; 'tis well begged.

CLOWN.
The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar:
Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to
them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of
my welkin: I might say element; but the word is overworn.

[Exit.]

VIOLA.
This fellow's wise enough to play the fool;
And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time;
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labour as a wise man's art:
For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit;
But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

SIR TOBY.
Save you, gentleman.

VIOLA.
And you, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Dieu vous garde, monsieur.

VIOLA.
Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.

SIR ANDREW.
I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.

SIR TOBY.
Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous you
should enter, if your trade be to her.

VIOLA.
I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my
voyage.

SIR TOBY.
Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.

VIOLA.
My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what
you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

SIR TOBY.
I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

VIOLA.
I will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented.

[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.]

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!

SIR ANDREW.
That youth's a rare courtier- 'Rain odours'! well.

VIOLA.
My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant
and vouchsafed car.

SIR ANDREW.
'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and 'vouchsafed':--I'll get 'em all
three ready.

OLIVIA.
Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and MARIA.]

Give me your hand, sir.

VIOLA.
My duty, madam, and most humble service.

OLIVIA.
What is your name?

VIOLA.
Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.

OLIVIA.
My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world,
Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment:
You are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

VIOLA.
And he is yours, and his must needs be yours;
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.

OLIVIA.
For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,
Would they were blanks rather than fill'd with me!

VIOLA.
Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf:--

OLIVIA.
O, by your leave, I pray you:
I bade you never speak again of him:
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that
Than music from the spheres.

VIOLA.
Dear lady,--

OLIVIA.
Give me leave, beseech you: I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you:
Under your hard construction must I sit;
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours. What might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake,
And baited it with all the unmuzzl'd thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,
Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak.

VIOLA.
I Pity you.

OLIVIA.
That's a degree to love.

VIOLA.
No, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof
That very oft we pity enemies.

OLIVIA.
Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again:
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf!  [Clock strikes.]
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.--
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man.
There lies your way, due-west.

VIOLA.
Then westward-ho:
Grace and good disposition 'tend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

OLIVIA.
Stay:
I pr'ythee tell me what thou think'st of me.

VIOLA.
That you do think you are not what you are.

OLIVIA.
If I think so, I think the same of you.

VIOLA.
Then think you right; I am not what I am.

OLIVIA.
I would you were as I would have you be!

VIOLA.
Would it be better, madam, than I am,
I wish it might; for now I am your fool.

OLIVIA.
O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything,
I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For, that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause:
But rather reason thus with reason fetter:
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

VIOLA.
By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam; never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

OLIVIA.
Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, mayst move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

[Exeunt.]




","In Olivia's garden, ""Cesario"" and Feste shoot the breeze. They talk about how easy it is to play with words and make them have double meanings. Feste says for that reason, he wishes his sister didn't have a name. Why? Because someone could mess around with her name and make it into something that means ""whore."" He also says words are so unreliable that he prefers not to use them when discussing serious matters. When ""Cesario"" asks if Feste is Olivia's fool, he says he's not a fool at all, just someone who turns words into whores. ""Cesario"" gives him some spare change for his cleverness, and asks if Olivia is in. When Feste implies ""Cesario"" should give him some more money to fetch Olivia, ""Cesario"" obliges. ""Cesario"" tells us how brilliant Feste is and notes that being a Fool takes a lot of talent and an ability to read people. Feste is a ""wise"" guy. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew enter the garden and say ""hey"" to ""Cesario"" before Olivia enters. Alone in the garden, Olivia holds ""Cesario's"" hand and flirts it up. ""Cesario"" tries to speak for Orsino, but Olivia says she doesn't want to hear his name again. In fact, she wishes that ""Cesario"" would start pursuing her for himself instead of continuing to act on Orsino's behalf. ""Cesario"" tries to give Olivia the brush off, but Olivia confesses her lust for ""Cesario"" and demands to hear what ""he"" thinks of her. ""Cesario"" says that he feels sorry for Olivia. Then Olivia says fine, I won't force you, but some day, when you're older and have gone through puberty, some girl is going to be very lucky to have you. Olivia asks ""Cesario"" to tell her what ""he"" thinks of her. ""Cesario"" gets all cryptic and says stuff like ""I am not what I am."" Olivia throws herself at ""Cesario"" and begs ""him"" to love her. ""Cesario"" says ""his"" heart belongs to ""no woman"" and never will. The audience gets it but Olivia doesn't. When it's time for ""Cesario"" to go, Olivia says feel free to come back and see me any time."
105,"SCENE II.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.
No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.

SIR TOBY.
Thy reason, dear venom: give thy reason.

FABIAN.
You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW.
Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count's
servingman than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw't i' the
orchard.

SIR TOBY.
Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

SIR ANDREW.
As plain as I see you now.

FABIAN.
This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

SIR ANDREW.
'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?

FABIAN.
I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment
and reason.

SIR TOBY.
And they have been grand jurymen since before Noah was a
sailor.

FABIAN.
She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to
exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in
your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have
accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the
mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was
looked for at your hand, and this was baulked: the double gilt of
this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed
into the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an
icicle on Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some
laudable attempt either of valour or policy.

SIR ANDREW.
And't be any way, it must be with valour: for policy I
hate; I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.

SIR TOBY.
Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of
valour. Challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt
him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it: and assure
thyself there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in
man's commendation with woman than report of valour.

FABIAN.
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW.
Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

SIR TOBY.
Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is
no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention;
taunt him with the licence of ink; if thou 'thou'st' him some
thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in
thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the
bed of Ware in England, set 'em down; go about it. Let there be
gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no
matter. About it.

SIR ANDREW.
Where shall I find you?

SIR TOBY.
We'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.

[Exit SIR ANDREW.]

FABIAN.
This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY.
I have been dear to him, lad; some two thousand strong, or so.

FABIAN.
We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver it.

SIR TOBY.
Never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth
to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them
together. For Andrew, if he were opened and you find so much
blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the
rest of the anatomy.

FABIAN.
And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great
presage of cruelty.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.

MARIA.
If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into
stitches, follow me: yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very
renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by
believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of
grossness. He's in yellow stockings.

SIR TOBY.
And cross-gartered?

MARIA.
Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the
church.--I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every
point of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile
his face into more lines than is in the new map, with the
augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such a thing as
'tis; I  can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady
will strike him; if she do, he'll smile and take't for a great
favour.

SIR TOBY.
Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

[Exeunt.]




","Back at Olivia's pad, Sir Andrew Aguecheek tells Fabian and Sir Toby Belch that he's out of there--Olivia's never going to marry him so he should just go home. In fact, Olivia seems to be after Duke Orsino's serving boy, ""Cesario."" Fabian tells Aguecheek that Olivia's just pretending to be into ""Cesario"" because she wants to make him jealous. Toby says Aguecheek should pick a sword fight with ""Cesario"" and kick ""his"" butt if he wants Olivia to respect him. Toby tells Aguecheek to write a mean and nasty note to ""Cesario"" so he can deliver the challenge to the ""boy."" He tells his pal to make it really mean and scary. Aguecheek runs off to write the letter and Fabian and Toby laugh at what a chump he is. Toby says he's been using Sir Andrew Aguecheek to fund his partying. Fabian asks Toby if he's really going to deliver the letter and Toby says of course. And Fabian should try to get ""Cesario"" to answer the letter, but Toby doubts anything will come of it. Andrew is a wimp and ""Cesario"" doesn't have an aggressive bone in his body. Maria enters and tells them to come quick: Malvolio's wearing yellow stockings and smiling like a fool . Olivia's going to think he's gone crazy. They run off to watch what happens."
106,"SCENE III.

A street.

[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.
I would not by my will have troubled you;
But since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.

ANTONIO.
I could not stay behind you: my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;
And not all love to see you,--though so much,
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,--
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,
Unguided and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.

SEBASTIAN.
My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks. Often good turns
Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay;
But were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,
You should find better dealing. What's to do?
Shall we go see the reliques of this town?

ANTONIO.
To-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging.

SEBASTIAN.
I am not weary, and 'tis long to night;
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials and the things of fame
That do renown this city.

ANTONIO.
Would you'd pardon me;
I do not without danger walk these streets:
Once in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count, his galleys,
I did some service; of such note, indeed,
That, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered.

SEBASTIAN.
Belike you slew great number of his people.

ANTONIO.
The offence is not of such a bloody nature;
Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel
Might well have given us bloody argument.
It might have since been answered in repaying
What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,
Most of our city did: only myself stood out;
For which, if I be lapsed in this place,
I shall pay dear.

SEBASTIAN.
Do not then walk too open.

ANTONIO.
It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse;
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,
Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet
Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge
With viewing of the town; there shall you have me.

SEBASTIAN.
Why I your purse?

ANTONIO.
Haply your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

SEBASTIAN.
I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour.

ANTONIO.
To the Elephant.--

SEBASTIAN.
I do remember.

[Exeunt.]




","Meanwhile, Sebastian has rolled up in Illyria and stands in a street chatting with Antonio, who, apparently, has insisted on following his beloved Sebastian. Antonio says his desire drove him to follow Sebastian to Illyria, even though he's afraid of the dangers that he might face. Sebastian says something like, ""Thanks a million. Should we catch the sights?"" Antonio doesn't want to play tourist and suggests that they go back to the motel, but Sebastian's not having any of that and wants to do some sightseeing. Antonio reveals that he's not really supposed to be in Illyria since he's kind of a pirate and helped steal some money from Duke Orsino. He also doesn't have enough money to pay off the authorities if he's caught in Illyria. Sebastian asks if Antonio killed a bunch of men and Antonio says no, but the skirmish cost the Duke a lot of money. Then Antonio gives Sebastian a little money and tells him to buy himself something nice, Antonio's treat. Sebastian takes the money and says he's going to shop for about an hour and then he'll meet Antonio back at the Inn ."
107,"ACT IV. SCENE I.

The Street before OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SEBASTIAN and CLOWN.]

CLOWN.
Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?

SEBASTIAN.
Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow;
Let me be clear of thee.

CLOWN.
Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not
sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your
name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither.--
Nothing that is so is so.

SEBASTIAN.
I pr'ythee vent thy folly somewhere else. Thou know'st not me.

CLOWN.
Vent my folly! he has heard that word of some great man, and
now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great
lubber, the world, will prove a cockney.--I pr'ythee now, ungird
thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall
I vent to her that thou art coming?

SEBASTIAN.
I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me;
There's money for thee; if you tarry longer
I shall give worse payment.

CLOWN.
By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men that
give fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen
years' purchase.

[Enter SIR ANDREW, SIR TOBY, and FABIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.
Now, sir, have I met you again? there's for you.

[Striking SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.
Why, there's for thee, and there, and there.
Are all the people mad?

[Beating SIR ANDREW.]

SIR TOBY.
Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.

CLOWN.
This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of
your coats for twopence.

[Exit CLOWN.]

SIR TOBY.
Come on, sir; hold.

[Holding SEBASTIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.
Nay, let him alone; I'll go another way to work with
him; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any
law in Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for
that.

SEBASTIAN.
Let go thy hand.

SIR TOBY.
Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier,
put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.

SEBASTIAN.
I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now?
If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword.

[Draws.]

SIR TOBY.
What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this
malapert blood from you.

[Draws.]

[Enter OLIVIA.]

OLIVIA.
Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee hold.

SIR TOBY.
Madam?

OLIVIA.
Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd! Out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario!--
Rudesby, be gone!--I pr'ythee, gentle friend,

[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN.]

Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
Mayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go;
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.

SEBASTIAN.
What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad/ or else this is a dream:--
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!

OLIVIA.
Nay, come, I pr'ythee. Would thou'dst be ruled by me!

SEBASTIAN.
Madam, I will.

OLIVIA.
O, say so, and so be!

[Exeunt.]




","Meanwhile, outside of Olivia's house, Feste has stumbled across Sebastian and has mistaken him for ""Cesario"" . Feste says to Sebastian that Olivia's looking for him but Sebastian tells him to beat it--he's not in the mood for Feste's screwing around. Besides, Sebastian has no idea who this ""Cesario"" person is. Feste's pretty insistent, so Sebastian gives him some money to go away and threatens to give him a knuckle sandwich if he doesn't scram. Feste takes his money and jokes that wise men who give money to fools can get good reputations...if they keep up the payments. Just then, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Sir Toby Belch, and Fabian show up looking for ""Cesario."" Aguecheek and Toby try to punk Sebastian and Aguecheek gives Sebastian a little slap. Feste runs inside Olivia's house to tattle. Sebastian is about to go ape on Toby and Andrew when Olivia runs outside and breaks up the fight. Olivia tells her uncle Toby to get out of her sight and apologizes to Sebastian, who she thinks is her ""Cesario."" Sebastian wonders if he's dreaming or has lost his mind, but he clearly thinks Olivia is pretty hot because he says that if he is dreaming, he doesn't want to wake up. Olivia says something like ""Come with me, big boy,"" and Sebastian is all over that as the two run off together."
108,"SCENE II.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]

MARIA.
Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and this beard; make him
believe thou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly: I'll call
Sir Toby the whilst.

[Exit MARIA.]

CLOWN.
Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and
I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I
am not tall enough to become the function well: nor lean enough
to be thought a good student: but to be said, an honest man and a
good housekeeper, goes as fairly as to say, a careful man and a
great scholar. The competitors enter.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
Jove bless thee, Master Parson.

CLOWN.
Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that
never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King
Gorboduc, 'That that is, is'; so I, being master parson, am
master parson: for what is that but that? and is but is?

SIR TOBY.
To him, Sir Topas.

CLOWN.
What, hoa, I say,--Peace in this prison!

SIR TOBY.
The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.

MALVOLIO.
[In an inner chamber.] Who calls there?

CLOWN.
Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the
lunatic.

MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.

CLOWN.
Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest thou
nothing but of ladies?

SIR TOBY.
Well said, master parson.

MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged: good Sir Topas, do
not think I am mad; they have laid me here in hideous darkness.

CLOWN.
Fie, thou dishonest Sathan! I call thee by the most modest
terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil
himself with courtesy. Say'st thou that house is dark?

MALVOLIO.
As hell, Sir Topas.

CLOWN.
Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the
clear storeys toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony;
and yet complainest thou of obstruction?

MALVOLIO.
I am not mad, Sir Topas; I say to you this house is dark.

CLOWN.
Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but
ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in
their fog.

MALVOLIO.
I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though
ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man
thus abused. I am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it
in any constant question.

CLOWN.
What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl?

MALVOLIO.
That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

CLOWN.
What thinkest thou of his opinion?

MALVOLIO.
I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.

CLOWN.
Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt
 hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits; and
fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy
grandam. Fare thee well.

MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas, Sir Topas!

SIR TOBY.
My most exquisite Sir Topas!

CLOWN.
Nay, I am for all waters.

MARIA.
Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown: he
sees thee not.

SIR TOBY.
To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou
findest him; I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may
be conveniently delivered, I would he were; for I am now so far
in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety
this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.

[Exeunt SIR TOBY and MARIA.]

CLOWN.
[Singing.] 'Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,
Tell me how thy lady does.'

MALVOLIO.
Fool,--

CLOWN.
'My lady is unkind, perdy.'

MALVOLIO.
Fool,--

CLOWN.
'Alas, why is she so?'

MALVOLIO.
Fool, I say;--

CLOWN.
'She loves another'--Who calls, ha?

MALVOLIO.
Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand,
help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a
gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for't.

CLOWN.
Master Malvolio!

MALVOLIO.
Ay, good fool.

CLOWN.
Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?

MALVOLIO.
Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused; I am as well in
my wits, fool, as thou art.

CLOWN.
But as well? then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in
your wits than a fool.

MALVOLIO.
They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send
ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my
wits.

CLOWN.
Advise you what you say: the minister is here.--Malvolio, thy
wits the heavens restore! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave
thy vain bibble-babble.

MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas,--

CLOWN.
Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I, sir? not
I, sir. God b' wi' you, good Sir Topas.--Marry, amen.--I will
sir, I will.

MALVOLIO.
Fool, fool, fool, I say,--

CLOWN.
Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for
speaking to you.

MALVOLIO.
Good fool, help me to some light and some paper;
I tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.

CLOWN.
Well-a-day,--that you were, sir!

MALVOLIO.
By this hand, I am: Good fool, some ink, paper, and
light, and convey what I will set down to my lady; it shall
advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.

CLOWN.
I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad
indeed? or do you but counterfeit?

MALVOLIO.
Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.

CLOWN.
Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his brains.
I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink.

MALVOLIO.
Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree: I pr'ythee be
gone.

CLOWN.
[Singing.]
   'I am gone, sir,
   And anon, sir,
  I'll be with you again,
   In a trice,
   Like to the old vice,
  Your need to sustain;

  Who with dagger of lath,
  In his rage and his wrath,
   Cries ah, ha! to the devil:
  Like a mad lad,
  Pare thy nails, dad.
   Adieu, goodman drivel.

[Exit.]




","Inside Olivia's house, Maria makes Feste wear a disguise and pretend he's a clergyman named Sir Topas, who has come to visit Malvolio. Feste makes a crack about how he's not the first fraud to wear a clergyman's outfit. Then he approaches Malvolio and pretends to be ""Sir Topas."" ""Sir Topas"" says that he's come to visit ""Malvolio the lunatic."" Malvolio begs ""Sir Topas"" to fetch Olivia so the whole mess can be straightened out. ""Sir Topas"" says Malvolio's been possessed by a sex-crazed devil and proceeds with the mock exorcism. Malvolio complains about the darkness of the room but ""Sir Topas"" insists it's perfectly well lit. It has bay windows that are as clear as a stone wall and windows facing north and south that are blackened. So...really, Feste is agreeing that it's dark, but he's talking in riddles and saying that Malvolio thinks it's dark because he's mad. Malvolio insists he's sane and tells the fool to ask him a common sense question to prove it. The fool asks him about Pythagoras, and Malvolio answers, correctly, that Pythagoras believed in reincarnation, a philosophy Malvolio doesn't agree with. The fool turns Malvolio's views against him and steps out. Maria comments that Feste could have pulled off the prank without the physical costume since the whole joke depends more on Feste's ability to disguise his voice, not his looks. Toby tells Feste to go back to Malvolio and play himself and Sir Topas. Feste obliges. Feste returns to Malvolio and sings one of his catchy little songs. Malvolio recognizes Feste's voice and begs the Fool to fetch him a pen, paper, and a light so he can write a letter that will exonerate him. Feste treats Malvolio like a madman and Malvolio tries to explain that Toby and crew have locked him up and sent an exorcist in order to make him go crazy. Feste uses his ""Sir Topas"" voice and advises Malvolio to get some sleep. Then Feste pretends to have a conversation with Sir Topas about Malvolio's condition. Malvolio begs Feste for pen and paper again and claims he is as sane as anybody else in Illyria. Feste asks him if he's faking the whole thing and finally promises to fetch some paper and a pen. Feste skips off singing while Malvolio remains locked up."
109,"SCENE III.

OLIVIA'S Garden.

[Enter SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.
This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't:
And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then?
I could not find him at the Elephant;
Yet there he was; and there I found this credit,
That he did range the town to seek me out.
His counsel now might do me golden service;
For though my soul disputes well with my sense,
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me
To any other trust but that I am mad,
Or else the lady's mad; yet if 'twere so,
She could not sway her house, command her followers,
Take and give back affairs and their despatch
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,
As I perceive she does: there's something in't
That is deceivable. But here comes the lady.

[Enter OLIVIA and a Priest.]

OLIVIA.
Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by: there, before him
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith,
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace. He shall conceal it
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note;
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth.--What do you say?

SEBASTIAN.
I'll follow this good man, and go with you;
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.

OLIVIA.
Then lead the way, good father;--And heavens so shine
That they may fairly note this act of mine!

[Exeunt.]




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

A SMALL TOWN


    Put thousands together less bad,
    But the cage less gay.--_Hobbes_.


The little town of Verrieres can pass for one of the prettiest in
Franche-Comte. Its white houses with their pointed red-tiled roofs
stretch along the slope of a hill, whose slightest undulations are
marked by groups of vigorous chestnuts. The Doubs flows to within some
hundred feet above its fortifications, which were built long ago by the
Spaniards, and are now in ruins.

Verrieres is sheltered on the north by a high mountain which is one of
the branches of the Jura. The jagged peaks of the Verra are covered
with snow from the beginning of the October frosts. A torrent which
rushes down from the mountains traverses Verrieres before throwing
itself into the Doubs, and supplies the motive power for a great number
of saw mills. The industry is very simple, and secures a certain
prosperity to the majority of the inhabitants who are more peasant than
bourgeois. It is not, however, the wood saws which have enriched this
little town. It is the manufacture of painted tiles, called Mulhouse
tiles, that is responsible for that general affluence which has caused
the facades of nearly all the houses in Verrieres to be rebuilt since
the fall of Napoleon.

One has scarcely entered the town, before one is stunned by the din of
a strident machine of terrifying aspect. Twenty heavy hammers which
fall with a noise that makes the paved floor tremble, are lifted
up by a wheel set in motion by the torrent. Each of these hammers
manufactures every day I don't know how many thousands of nails. The
little pieces of iron which are rapidly transformed into nails by these
enormous hammers, are put in position by fresh pretty young girls. This
labour so rough at first sight is one of the industries which most
surprises the traveller who penetrates for the first time the mountains
which separate France and Helvetia. If when he enters Verrieres, the
traveller asks who owns this fine nail factory which deafens everybody
who goes up the Grande-Rue, he is answered in a drawling tone ""Eh!
it belongs to M. the Mayor.""

And if the traveller stops a few minutes in that Grande-Rue of
Verrieres which goes on an upward incline from the bank of the Doubs to
nearly as far as the summit of the hill, it is a hundred to one that he
will see a big man with a busy and important air.

When he comes in sight all hats are quickly taken off. His hair is
grizzled and he is dressed in grey. He is a Knight of several Orders,
has a large forehead and an aquiline nose, and if you take him all
round, his features are not devoid of certain regularity. One might
even think on the first inspection that it combines with the dignity
of the village mayor that particular kind of comfortableness which is
appropriate to the age of forty-eight or fifty. But soon the traveller
from Paris will be shocked by a certain air of self-satisfaction and
self-complacency mingled with an almost indefinable narrowness and lack
of inspiration. One realises at last that this man's talent is limited
to seeing that he is paid exactly what he is owed, and in paying his
own debts at the latest possible moment.

Such is M. de Renal, the mayor of Verrieres. After having crossed the
road with a solemn step, he enters the mayoral residence and disappears
from the eye of the traveller. But if the latter continues to walk
a hundred steps further up, he will perceive a house with a fairly
fine appearance, with some magnificent gardens behind an iron grill
belonging to the house. Beyond that is an horizon line formed by the
hills of Burgundy, which seem ideally made to delight the eyes. This
view causes the traveller to forget that pestilential atmosphere of
petty money-grubbing by which he is beginning to be suffocated.

He is told that this house belongs to M. de Renal. It is to the
profits which he has made out of his big nail factory that the mayor
of Verrieres owes this fine residence of hewn stone which he is just
finishing. His family is said to be Spanish and ancient, and is alleged
to have been established in the country well before the conquest of
Louis XIV.

Since 1815, he blushes at being a manufacturer: 1815 made him mayor
of Verrieres. The terraced walls of this magnificent garden which
descends to the Doubs, plateau by plateau, also represent the reward
of M. de Renal's proficiency in the iron-trade. Do not expect to find
in France those picturesque gardens which surround the manufacturing
towns of Germany, like Leipsic, Frankfurt and Nurenburgh, etc. The
more walls you build in Franche-Comte and the more you fortify your
estate with piles of stone, the more claim you will acquire on the
respect of your neighbours. Another reason for the admiration due to
M. de Renal's gardens and their numerous walls, is the fact that he
has purchased, through sheer power of the purse, certain small parcels
of the ground on which they stand. That saw-mill, for instance, whose
singular position on the banks of the Doubs struck you when you entered
Verrieres, and where you notice the name of SOREL written in gigantic
characters on the chief beam of the roof, used to occupy six years
ago that precise space on which is now reared the wall of the fourth
terrace in M. de Renal's gardens.

Proud man that he was, the mayor had none the less to negotiate with
that tough, stubborn peasant, old Sorel. He had to pay him in good
solid golden louis before he could induce him to transfer his workshop
elsewhere. As to the _public_ stream which supplied the motive power
for the saw-mill, M. de Renal obtained its diversion, thanks to the
influence which he enjoyed at Paris. This favour was accorded him after
the election of 182-.

He gave Sorel four acres for every one he had previously held, five
hundred yards lower down on the banks of the Doubs. Although this
position was much more advantageous for his pine-plank trade, father
Sorel (as he is called since he has become rich) knew how to exploit
the impatience and _mania for landed ownership_ which animated his
neighbour to the tune of six thousand francs.

It is true that this arrangement was criticised by the wiseacres of the
locality. One day, it was on a Sunday four years later, as M. de Renal
was coming back from church in his mayor's uniform, he saw old Sorel
smiling at him, as he stared at him some distance away surrounded by
his three sons. That smile threw a fatal flood of light into the soul
of the mayor. From that time on, he is of opinion that he could have
obtained the exchange at a cheaper rate.

In order to win the public esteem of Verrieres it is essential that,
though you should build as many walls as you can, you should not adopt
some plan imported from Italy by those masons who cross the passes
of the Jura in the spring on their way to Paris. Such an innovation
would bring down upon the head of the imprudent builder an eternal
reputation for _wrongheadedness_, and he will be lost for ever in the
sight of those wise, well-balanced people who dispense public esteem in
Franche-Comte.

As a matter of fact, these prudent people exercise in the place the
most offensive despotism. It is by reason of this awful word, that
anyone who has lived in that great republic which is called Paris,
finds living in little towns quite intolerable. The tyranny of public
opinion (and what public opinion!) is as _stupid_ in the little towns
of France as in the United States of America.




","Welcome to Verrieres, a cute little town filled with white houses and chestnut trees. There are a lot of sawmills in the area . There's also a nail factory that belongs to the town's mayor, Monsieur de Renal. We get a description of Mr. Renal, who's a respectable-looking dude with a long, proud family history. We find out that Renal has a relationship with an old peasant named Sorel. He had to buy out the peasant's sawmill in order to expand his garden terrace and keep any ugly mills out of the way. Sorel agreed to move his business, but only after he got a bunch of money out of Renal. The narrator closes the opening chapter by saying that the town of Verrieres is totally tyrannized by public opinion. In other words, there's a lot of gossip and a lot of judgment in the town. If you have a good name, that's great. But if you have a bad name, no one will treat you well."
111,"CHAPTER II

A MAYOR


        Importance! What is it, sir after all? The respect of
        fools, the wonder of children, the envy of the rich, the
        contempt of the wise man.--_Barnave_


Happily for the reputation of M. de Renal as an administrator an
immense wall of support was necessary for the public promenade which
goes along the hill, a hundred steps above the course of the Doubs.
This admirable position secures for the promenade one of the most
picturesque views in the whole of France. But the rain water used to
make furrows in the walk every spring, caused ditches to appear, and
rendered it generally impracticable. This nuisance, which was felt
by the whole town, put M. de Renal in the happy position of being
compelled to immortalise his administration by building a wall twenty
feet high and thirty to forty yards long.

The parapet of this wall, which occasioned M. de Renal three journeys
to Paris (for the last Minister of the Interior but one had declared
himself the mortal enemy of the promenade of Verrieres), is now raised
to a height of four feet above the ground, and as though to defy all
ministers whether past or present, it is at present adorned with tiles
of hewn stone.

How many times have my looks plunged into the valley of the Doubs, as I
thought of the Paris balls which I had abandoned on the previous night,
and leant my breast against the great blocks of stone, whose beautiful
grey almost verged on blue. Beyond the left bank, there wind five
or six valleys, at the bottom of which I could see quite distinctly
several small streams. There is a view of them falling into the Doubs,
after a series of cascades. The sun is very warm in these mountains.
When it beats straight down, the pensive traveller on the terrace
finds shelter under some magnificent plane trees. They owe their rapid
growth and their fine verdure with its almost bluish shade to the new
soil, which M. the mayor has had placed behind his immense wall of
support for (in spite of the opposition of the Municipal Council) he
has enlarged the promenade by more than six feet (and although he is an
Ultra and I am a Liberal, I praise him for it), and that is why both in
his opinion and in that of M. Valenod, the fortunate Director of the
workhouse of Verrieres, this terrace can brook comparison with that of
Saint-Germain en Laye.

I find personally only one thing at which to cavil in the COURS DE LA
FIDELITE, (this official name is to be read in fifteen to twenty places
on those immortal tiles which earned M. de Renal an extra cross.) The
grievance I find in the Cours de la Fidelite is the barbarous manner in
which the authorities have cut these vigorous plane trees and clipped
them to the quick. In fact they really resemble with their dwarfed,
rounded and flattened heads the most vulgar plants of the vegetable
garden, while they are really capable of attaining the magnificent
development of the English plane trees. But the wish of M. the mayor
is despotic, and all the trees belonging to the municipality are
ruthlessly pruned twice a year. The local Liberals suggest, but they
are probably exaggerating, that the hand of the official gardener
has become much more severe, since M. the Vicar Maslon started
appropriating the clippings. This young ecclesiastic was sent to
Besancon some years ago to keep watch on the abbe Chelan and some cures
in the neighbouring districts. An old Surgeon-Major of Napoleon's
Italian Army, who was living in retirement at Verrieres, and who had
been in his time described by M. the mayor as both a Jacobin and a
Bonapartiste, dared to complain to the mayor one day of the periodical
mutilation of these fine trees.

""I like the shade,"" answered M. de Renal, with just a tinge of that
hauteur which becomes a mayor when he is talking to a surgeon, who is
a member of the Legion of Honour. ""I like the shade, I have _my_ trees
clipped in order to give shade, and I cannot conceive that a tree can
have any other purpose, provided of course _it is not bringing in any
profit_, like the useful walnut tree.""

This is the great word which is all decisive at Verrieres. ""BRINGING IN
PROFIT,"" this word alone sums up the habitual trend of thought of more
than three-quarters of the inhabitants.

_Bringing in profit_ is the consideration which decides everything in
this little town which you thought so pretty. The stranger who arrives
in the town is fascinated by the beauty of the fresh deep valleys which
surround it, and he imagines at first that the inhabitants have an
appreciation of the beautiful. They talk only too frequently of the
beauty of their country, and it cannot be denied that they lay great
stress on it, but the reason is that it attracts a number of strangers,
whose money enriches the inn-keepers, a process which _brings in
profit_ to the town, owing to the machinery of the octroi.

It was on a fine, autumn day that M. de Renal was taking a promenade
on the Cours de la Fidelite with his wife on his arm. While listening
to her husband (who was talking in a somewhat solemn manner) Madame de
Renal followed anxiously with her eyes the movements of three little
boys. The eldest, who might have been eleven years old, went too
frequently near the parapet and looked as though he was going to climb
up it. A sweet voice then pronounced the name of Adolphe and the child
gave up his ambitious project. Madame de Renal seemed a woman of thirty
years of age but still fairly pretty.

""He may be sorry for it, may this fine gentleman from Paris,"" said
M. de Renal, with an offended air and a face even paler than usual.
""I am not without a few friends at court!"" But though I want to
talk to you about the provinces for two hundred pages, I lack the
requisite barbarity to make you undergo all the long-windedness and
circumlocutions of a provincial dialogue.

This fine gentleman from Paris, who was so odious to the mayor of
Verrieres, was no other than the M. Appert, who had two days previously
managed to find his way not only into the prison and workhouse of
Verrieres, but also into the hospital, which was gratuitously conducted
by the mayor and the principal proprietors of the district.

""But,"" said Madame de Renal timidly, ""what harm can this Paris
gentleman do you, since you administer the poor fund with the utmost
scrupulous honesty?""

""He only comes to _throw_ blame and afterwards he will get some
articles into the Liberal press.""

""You never read them, my dear.""

""But they always talk to us about those Jacobin articles, all that
distracts us and prevents us from doing good.[1] Personally, I shall
never forgive the cure.""

[1] Historically true.





","We're not done with Monsieur de Renal yet. Now the narrator tells us about a retaining wall that the mayor had built in order to make sure one of the town's public paths gives a nice view of the countryside. We're starting to wonder when this book's plot is going to get going. Sometimes, people complain about the way the mayor has all the town trees shaved down, but he argues that they should look pretty and give shade, especially since they bring in no money. And here, the narrator tells us that one major problem with Verrieres is that its inhabitants tend to measure the value of everything with money. While walking along one day, Monsieur de Renal talks to his wife about how unhappy he is with certain people in the community criticizing him. He especially has a hate-on for one of the local priests."
112,"CHAPTER III

THE POOR FUND


        A virtuous cure who does not intrigue is a providence
        for the village.--_Fleury_


It should be mentioned that the cure of Verrieres, an old man of
ninety, who owed to the bracing mountain air an iron constitution and
an iron character, had the right to visit the prison, the hospital and
the workhouse at any hour. It had been at precisely six o'clock in the
morning that M. Appert, who had a Paris recommendation to the cure,
had been shrewd enough to arrive at a little inquisitive town. He had
immediately gone on to the cure's house.

The cure Chelan became pensive as he read the letter written to him by
the M. le Marquis de La Mole, Peer of France, and the richest landed
proprietor of the province.

""I am old and beloved here,"" he said to himself in a whisper, ""they
would not dare!"" Then he suddenly turned to the gentleman from Paris,
with eyes, which in spite of his great age, shone with that sacred fire
which betokens the delight of doing a fine but slightly dangerous act.

""Come with me, sir,"" he said, ""but please do not express any opinion of
the things which we shall see, in the presence of the jailer, and above
all not in the presence of the superintendents of the workhouse.""

M. Appert realised that he had to do with a man of spirit. He followed
the venerable cure, visited the hospital and workhouse, put a lot of
questions, but in spite of somewhat extraordinary answers, did not
indulge in the slightest expression of censure.

This visit lasted several hours; the cure invited M. Appert to dine,
but the latter made the excuse of having some letters to write; as a
matter of fact, he did not wish to compromise his generous companion to
any further extent. About three o'clock these gentlemen went to finish
their inspection of the workhouse and then returned to the prison.
There they found the jailer by the gate, a kind of giant, six feet
high, with bow legs. His ignoble face had become hideous by reason of
his terror.

""Ah, monsieur,"" he said to the cure as soon as he saw him, ""is not the
gentleman whom I see there, M. Appert?""

""What does that matter?"" said the cure.

""The reason is that I received yesterday the most specific orders, and
M. the Prefect sent a message by a gendarme who must have galloped
during the whole of the night, that M. Appert was not to be allowed in
the prisons.""

""I can tell you, M. Noiroud,"" said the cure, ""that the traveller who is
with me is M. Appert, but do you or do you not admit that I have the
right to enter the prison at any hour of the day or night accompanied
by anybody I choose?""

""Yes, M. the cure,"" said the jailer in a low voice, lowering his head
like a bull-dog, induced to a grudging obedience by fear of the stick,
""only, M. the cure, I have a wife and children, and shall be turned out
if they inform against me. I only have my place to live on.""

""I, too, should be sorry enough to lose mine,"" answered the good cure,
with increasing emotion in his voice.

""What a difference!"" answered the jailer keenly. ""As for you, M. le
cure, we all know that you have eight hundred francs a year, good solid
money.""

Such were the facts which, commented upon and exaggerated in twenty
different ways, had been agitating for the last two days all the odious
passions of the little town of Verrieres.

At the present time they served as the text for the little discussion
which M. de Renal was having with his wife. He had visited the cure
earlier in the morning accompanied by M. Valenod, the director of the
workhouse, in order to convey their most emphatic displeasure. M.
Chelan had no protector, and felt all the weight of their words.

""Well, gentlemen, I shall be the third cure of eighty years of age who
has been turned out in this district. I have been here for fifty-six
years. I have baptized nearly all the inhabitants of the town, which
was only a hamlet when I came to it. Every day I marry young people
whose grandparents I have married in days gone by. Verrieres is my
family, but I said to myself when I saw the stranger, 'This man from
Paris may as a matter of fact be a Liberal, there are only too many of
them about, but what harm can he do to our poor and to our prisoners?'""

The reproaches of M. de Renal, and above all, those of M. Valenod, the
director of the workhouse, became more and more animated.

""Well, gentlemen, turn me out then,"" the old cure exclaimed in a
trembling voice; ""I shall still continue to live in the district. As
you know, I inherited forty-eight years ago a piece of land that brings
in eight hundred francs a year; I shall live on that income. I do not
save anything out of my living, gentlemen; and that is perhaps why,
when you talk to me about it, I am not particularly frightened.""

M. de Renal always got on very well with his wife, but he did not know
what to answer when she timidly repeated the phrase of M. le cure,
""What harm can this Paris gentleman do the prisoners?"" He was on the
point of quite losing his temper when she gave a cry. Her second son
had mounted the parapet of the terrace wall and was running along it,
although the wall was raised to a height of more than twenty feet above
the vineyard on the other side. The fear of frightening her son and
making him fall prevented Madame de Renal speaking to him. But at last
the child, who was smiling at his own pluck, looked at his mother, saw
her pallor, jumped down on to the walk and ran to her. He was well
scolded.

This little event changed the course of the conversation.

""I really mean to take Sorel, the son of the sawyer, into the house,""
said M. de Renal; ""he will look after the children, who are getting too
naughty for us to manage. He is a young priest, or as good as one, a
good Latin scholar, and will make the children get on. According to the
cure, he has a steady character. I will give him three hundred francs a
year and his board. I have some doubts as to his morality, for he used
to be the favourite of that old Surgeon-Major, Member of the Legion of
Honour, who went to board with the Sorels, on the pretext that he was
their cousin. It is quite possible that that man was really simply a
secret agent of the Liberals. He said that the mountain air did his
asthma good, but that is something which has never been proved. He
has gone through all _Buonaparte's_ campaigns in Italy, and had even,
it was said, voted against the Empire in the plebiscite. This Liberal
taught the Sorel boy Latin, and left him a number of books which he had
brought with him. Of course, in the ordinary way, I should have never
thought of allowing a carpenter's son to come into contact with our
children, but the cure told me, the very day before the scene which
has just estranged us for ever, that Sorel has been studying theology
for three years with the intention of entering a seminary. He is,
consequently, not a Liberal, and he certainly is a good Latin scholar.

""This arrangement will be convenient in more than one way,"" continued
M. de Renal, looking at his wife with a diplomatic air. ""That Valenod
is proud enough of his two fine Norman horses which he has just bought
for his carriage, but he hasn't a tutor for his children.""

""He might take this one away from us.""

""You approve of my plan, then?"" said M. de Renal, thanking his wife
with a smile for the excellent idea which she had just had. ""Well,
that's settled.""

""Good gracious, my dear, how quickly you make up your mind!""

""It is because I'm a man of character, as the cure found out right
enough. Don't let us deceive ourselves; we are surrounded by Liberals
in this place. All those cloth merchants are jealous of me, I am
certain of it; two or three are becoming rich men. Well, I should
rather fancy it for them to see M. de Renal's children pass along the
street as they go out for their walk, escorted by _their tutor_. It
will impress people. My grandfather often used to tell us that he had
a tutor when he was young. It may run me into a hundred crowns, but
that ought to be looked upon as an expense necessary for keeping up our
position.""

This sudden resolution left Madame de Renal quite pensive. She was
a big, well-made woman, who had been the beauty of the country, to
use the local expression. She had a certain air of simplicity and
youthfulness in her deportment. This naive grace, with its innocence
and its vivacity, might even have recalled to a Parisian some
suggestion of the sweets he had left behind him. If she had realised
this particular phase of her success, Madame de Renal would have been
quite ashamed of it. All coquetry, all affectation, were absolutely
alien to her temperament. M. Valenod, the rich director of the
workhouse, had the reputation of having paid her court, a fact which
had cast a singular glamour over her virtue; for this M. Valenod, a
big young man with a square, sturdy frame, florid face, and big, black
whiskers, was one of those coarse, blustering, and noisy people who
pass in the provinces for a ""fine man.""

Madame de Renal, who had a very shy, and apparently a very uneven
temperament, was particularly shocked by M. Valenod's lack of repose,
and by his boisterous loudness. Her aloofness from what, in the
Verrieres' jargon, was called ""having a good time,"" had earned her the
reputation of being very proud of her birth. In fact, she never thought
about it, but she had been extremely glad to find the inhabitants of
the town visit her less frequently. We shall not deny that she passed
for a fool in the eyes of _their_ good ladies because she did not
wheedle her husband, and allowed herself to miss the most splendid
opportunities of getting fine hats from Paris or Besancon. Provided she
was allowed to wander in her beautiful garden, she never complained.
She was a naive soul, who had never educated herself up to the point
of judging her husband and confessing to herself that he bored her.
She supposed, without actually formulating the thought, that there was
no greater sweetness in the relationship between husband and wife than
she herself had experienced. She loved M. de Renal most when he talked
about his projects for their children. The elder he had destined for
the army, the second for the law, and the third for the Church. To sum
up, she found M. de Renal much less boring than all the other men of
her acquaintance.

This conjugal opinion was quite sound. The Mayor of Verrieres had a
reputation for wit, and above all, a reputation for good form, on
the strength of half-a-dozen ""chestnuts"" which he had inherited from
an uncle. Old Captain de Renal had served, before the Revolution, in
the infantry regiment of M. the Duke of Orleans, and was admitted
to the Prince's salons when he went to Paris. He had seen Madame de
Montesson, the famous Madame de Genlis, M. Ducret, the inventor, of the
Palais-Royal. These personages would crop up only too frequently in M.
de Renal's anecdotes. He found it, however, more and more of a strain
to remember stories which required such delicacy in the telling, and
for some time past it had only been on great occasions that he would
trot out his anecdotes concerning the House of Orleans. As, moreover,
he was extremely polite, except on money matters, he passed, and justly
so, for the most aristocratic personage in Verrieres.





","We look in on a guy named Monsieur Appert, who has been sent from Paris to meet with a local priest named Father Chelan. It sounds like the two of them need to visit the prison on some mysterious business. The Father seems especially annoyed about something that's going on. Monsieur Appert visits the prisons with Chelan. He never says a word the whole time. When the two of them visit the prison a second time that day, the guard says he's received orders not to let them in. Father Chelan scolds him until he lets them pass. Meanwhile, we find out that the mayor, Monsieur de Renal, and another man named Valenod want to get Chelan removed from the district because he doesn't play ball with them politically. When the two tell Chelan the news, he answers that he'll never leave the community. He'll live there even in retirement just to shame de Renal and Valenod about what they've done. For crying out loud, the guy is 80 years old. Later on, the mayor's wife asks him what harm it could do to let Chelan keep his job. But the conversation quickly turns to the fact that the mayor wants a special tutor to teach their children. It's a matter of pride, since having a private tutor is a symbol of wealth just like owning a Porsche or a big house. The mayor is eager to have the town talking about how well off he is. The person the mayor wants to hire is the son of the sawmill owner, Sorel. The narrator gives us a short description of Madame de Renal, telling us that she's a beautiful woman who can't admit to herself that she finds her husband boring. She has never known anything other than obedience and shyness, so she can't even imagine what love is supposed to look like."
113,"CHAPTER IV

A FATHER AND A SON


    E sara mia colpa
    Se cosi e?
                  --_Machiavelli_.


""My wife really has a head on her shoulders,"" said the mayor of
Verrieres at six o'clock the following morning, as he went down to the
saw-mill of Father Sorel. ""It had never occurred to me that if I do not
take little Abbe Sorel, who, they say, knows Latin like an angel, that
restless spirit, the director of the workhouse, might have the same
idea and snatch him away from me, though of course I told her that it
had, in order to preserve my proper superiority. And how smugly, to be
sure, would he talk about his children's tutor!... The question is,
once the tutor's mine, shall he wear the cassock?""

M. de Renal was absorbed in this problem when he saw a peasant in the
distance, a man nearly six feet tall, who since dawn had apparently
been occupied in measuring some pieces of wood which had been put
down alongside the Doubs on the towing-path. The peasant did not look
particularly pleased when he saw M. the Mayor approach, as these pieces
of wood obstructed the road, and had been placed there in breach of the
rules.

Father Sorel (for it was he) was very surprised, and even more pleased
at the singular offer which M. de Renal made him for his son Julien.
None the less, he listened to it with that air of sulky discontent and
apathy which the subtle inhabitants of these mountains know so well
how to assume. Slaves as they have been since the time of the Spanish
Conquest, they still preserve this feature, which is also found in the
character of the Egyptian fellah.

Sorel's answer was at first simply a long-winded recitation of
all the formulas of respect which he knew by heart. While he was
repeating these empty words with an uneasy smile, which accentuated
all the natural disingenuousness, if not, indeed, knavishness of his
physiognomy, the active mind of the old peasant tried to discover what
reason could induce so important a man to take into his house his
good-for-nothing of a son. He was very dissatisfied with Julien, and
it was for Julien that M. de Renal offered the undreamt-of salary of
300 fcs. a year, with board and even clothing. This latter claim, which
Father Sorel had had the genius to spring upon the mayor, had been
granted with equal suddenness by M. de Renal.

This demand made an impression on the mayor. It is clear, he said to
himself, that since Sorel is not beside himself with delight over my
proposal, as in the ordinary way he ought to be, he must have had
offers made to him elsewhere, and whom could they have come from, if
not from Valenod. It was in vain that M. de Renal pressed Sorel to
clinch the matter then and there. The old peasant, astute man that
he was, stubbornly refused to do so. He wanted, he said, to consult
his son, as if in the provinces, forsooth, a rich father consulted a
penniless son for any other reason than as a mere matter of form.

A water saw-mill consists of a shed by the side of a stream. The roof
is supported by a framework resting on four large timber pillars. A
saw can be seen going up and down at a height of eight to ten feet in
the middle of the shed, while a piece of wood is propelled against
this saw by a very simple mechanism. It is a wheel whose motive-power
is supplied by the stream, which sets in motion this double piece of
mechanism, the mechanism of the saw which goes up and down, and the
mechanism which gently pushes the piece of wood towards the saw, which
cuts it up into planks.

Approaching his workshop, Father Sorel called Julien in his stentorian
voice; nobody answered. He only saw his giant elder sons, who, armed
with heavy axes, were cutting up the pine planks which they had to
carry to the saw. They were engrossed in following exactly the black
mark traced on each piece of wood, from which every blow of their axes
threw off enormous shavings. They did not hear their father's voice.
The latter made his way towards the shed. He entered it and looked in
vain for Julien in the place where he ought to have been by the side of
the saw. He saw him five or six feet higher up, sitting astride one of
the rafters of the roof. Instead of watching attentively the action of
the machinery, Julien was reading. Nothing was more anti-pathetic to
old Sorel. He might possibly have forgiven Julien his puny physique,
ill adapted as it was to manual labour, and different as it was from
that of his elder brothers; but he hated this reading mania. He could
not read himself.

It was in vain that he called Julien two or three times. It was the
young man's concentration on his book, rather than the din made by the
saw, which prevented him from hearing his father's terrible voice. At
last the latter, in spite of his age, jumped nimbly on to the tree
that was undergoing the action of the saw, and from there on to the
cross-bar that supported the roof. A violent blow made the book which
Julien held, go flying into the stream; a second blow on the head,
equally violent, which took the form of a box on the ears, made him
lose his balance. He was on the point of falling twelve or fifteen feet
lower down into the middle of the levers of the running machinery which
would have cut him to pieces, but his father caught him as he fell, in
his left hand.

""So that's it, is it, lazy bones! always going to read your damned
books are you, when you're keeping watch on the saw? You read them in
the evening if you want to, when you go to play the fool at the cure's,
that's the proper time.""

Although stunned by the force of the blow and bleeding profusely,
Julien went back to his official post by the side of the saw. He had
tears in his eyes, less by reason of the physical pain than on account
of the loss of his beloved book.

""Get down, you beast, when I am talking to you,"" the noise of the
machinery prevented Julien from hearing this order. His father, who had
gone down did not wish to give himself the trouble of climbing up on to
the machinery again, and went to fetch a long fork used for bringing
down nuts, with which he struck him on the shoulder. Julien had
scarcely reached the ground, when old Sorel chased him roughly in front
of him and pushed him roughly towards the house. ""God knows what he is
going to do with me,"" said the young man to himself. As he passed, he
looked sorrowfully into the stream into which his book had fallen, it
was the one that he held dearest of all, the _Memorial of St. Helena_.

He had purple cheeks and downcast eyes. He was a young man of eighteen
to nineteen years old, and of puny appearance, with irregular but
delicate features, and an aquiline nose. The big black eyes which
betokened in their tranquil moments a temperament at once fiery and
reflective were at the present moment animated by an expression of
the most ferocious hate. Dark chestnut hair, which came low down over
his brow, made his forehead appear small and gave him a sinister look
during his angry moods. It is doubtful if any face out of all the
innumerable varieties of the human physiognomy was ever distinguished
by a more arresting individuality.

A supple well-knit figure, indicated agility rather than strength. His
air of extreme pensiveness and his great pallor had given his father
the idea that he would not live, or that if he did, it would only be to
be a burden to his family. The butt of the whole house, he hated his
brothers and his father. He was regularly beaten in the Sunday sports
in the public square.

A little less than a year ago his pretty face had begun to win him some
sympathy among the young girls. Universally despised as a weakling,
Julien had adored that old Surgeon-Major, who had one day dared to talk
to the mayor on the subject of the plane trees.

This Surgeon had sometimes paid Father Sorel for taking his son for
a day, and had taught him Latin and History, that is to say the 1796
Campaign in Italy which was all the history he knew. When he died, he
had bequeathed his Cross of the Legion of Honour, his arrears of half
pay, and thirty or forty volumes, of which the most precious had just
fallen into the public stream, which had been diverted owing to the
influence of M. the Mayor.

Scarcely had he entered the house, when Julien felt his shoulder
gripped by his father's powerful hand; he trembled, expecting some
blows.

""Answer me without lying,"" cried the harsh voice of the old peasant in
his ears, while his hand turned him round and round, like a child's
hand turns round a lead soldier. The big black eyes of Julien filled
with tears, and were confronted by the small grey eyes of the old
carpenter, who looked as if he meant to read to the very bottom of his
soul.





","Monsieur de Renal approaches Mr. Sorel about getting his son to work in the Renal house as a tutor. Sorel is happy about the news, but he doesn't show it because he's a stone cold bargainer and he wants to take Renal for as much money as he can. When he gets back to the sawmill, Monsieur Sorel see his son Julien reading a book instead of doing his job and looking after the machinery. He whaps his son on the head and calls him lazy. We can tell that Mr. Sorel is about to tell his son about the arrangements with the mayor, but Julien trembles as if his dad is going to kill him for some reason."
114,"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.





","Julien stresses about his friend Fouqe's offer to become business partners. He feels tempted to give up his ambitions and become a semi-wealthy businessman. One day, he kisses Madame de Renal on the mouth. He and she both know it's reckless, and from that point on, Madame makes sure to have her kids around when she's with him. Julien keeps thinking of new ways to seduce Madame, but none of them come to fruition. One day, Julien tries playing footsies with Madame in front of distinguished company. She disguises his move by dropping some scissors and making the touching look like an accident. Afterward, she orders Julien to be more careful around people. Julien goes to visit his old friend, Father Chelan. It looks like the old priest has finally been forced out of office. He's packing to leave."
115,"CHAPTER XVI

THE DAY AFTER


    He turned his lips to hers and with his hand
    Called back the tangles of her wandering hair.
                               _Don Juan,_ c. I, st. 170.


Happily for Julien's fame, Madame de Renal had been too agitated and
too astonished to appreciate the stupidity of the man who had in a
single moment become the whole to world her.

""Oh, my God!"" she said to herself, as she pressed him to retire when
she saw the dawn break, ""if my husband has heard the noise, I am lost.""
Julien, who had had the time to make up some phrases, remembered this
one,

""Would you regret your life?""

""Oh, very much at a moment like this, but I should not regret having
known you.""

Julien thought it incumbent on his dignity to go back to his room in
broad daylight and with deliberate imprudence.

The continuous attention with which he kept on studying his slightest
actions with the absurd idea of appearing a man of experience had only
one advantage. When he saw Madame de Renal again at breakfast his
conduct was a masterpiece of prudence.

As for her, she could not look at him without blushing up to the eyes,
and could not live a moment without looking at him. She realised her
own nervousness, and her efforts to hide it redoubled. Julien only
lifted his eyes towards her once. At first Madame de Renal admired
his prudence: soon seeing that this single look was not repealed, she
became alarmed. ""Could it be that he does not love me?"" she said to
herself. ""Alas! I am quite old for him. I am ten years older than he
is.""

As she passed from the dining-room to the garden, she pressed Julien's
hand. In the surprise caused by so singular a mark of love, he regarded
her with passion, for he had thought her very pretty over breakfast,
and while keeping his eyes downcast he had passed his time in thinking
of the details of her charms. This look consoled Madame de Renal. It
did not take away all her anxiety, but her anxiety tended to take away
nearly completely all her remorse towards her husband.

The husband had noticed nothing at breakfast. It was not so with
Madame Derville. She thought she saw Madame de Renal on the point of
succumbing. During the whole day her bold and incisive friendship
regaled her cousin with those innuendoes which were intended to paint
in hideous colours the dangers she was running.

Madame de Renal was burning to find herself alone with Julien. She
wished to ask him if he still loved her. In spite of the unalterable
sweetness of her character, she was several times on the point of
notifying her friend how officious she was.

Madame Derville arranged things so adroitly that evening in the garden,
that she found herself placed between Madame de Renal and Julien.
Madame de Renal, who had thought in her imagination how delicious it
would be to press Julien's hand and carry it to her lips, was not able
to address a single word to him.

This hitch increased her agitation. She was devoured by one pang of
remorse. She had so scolded Julien for his imprudence in coming to her
room on the preceding night, that she trembled lest he should not come
to-night. She left the garden early and went and ensconced herself in
her room, but not being able to control her impatience, she went and
glued her ear to Julien's door. In spite of the uncertainty and passion
which devoured her, she did not dare to enter. This action seemed
to her the greatest possible meanness, for it forms the basis of a
provincial proverb.

The servants had not yet all gone to bed. Prudence at last compelled
her to return to her room. Two hours of waiting were two centuries of
torture.

Julien was too faithful to what he called his duty to fail to
accomplish stage by stage what he had mapped out for himself.

As one o'clock struck, he escaped softly from his room, assured himself
that the master of the house was soundly asleep, and appeared in Madame
de Renal's room. To-night he experienced more happiness by the side of
his love, for he thought less constantly about the part he had to play.
He had eyes to see, and ears to hear. What Madame de Renal said to him
about his age contributed to give him some assurance.

""Alas! I am ten years older than you. How can you love me?"" she
repeated vaguely, because the idea oppressed her.

Julien could not realise her happiness, but he saw that it was genuine
and he forgot almost entirely his own fear of being ridiculous.

The foolish thought that he was regarded as an inferior, by reason of
his obscure birth, disappeared also. As Julien's transports reassured
his timid mistress, she regained a little of her happiness, and of her
power to judge her lover. Happily, he had not, on this occasion, that
artificial air which had made the assignation of the previous night a
triumph rather than a pleasure. If she had realised his concentration
on playing a part that melancholy discovery would have taken away all
her happiness for ever. She could only have seen in it the result of
the difference in their ages.

Although Madame de Renal had never thought of the theories of love,
difference in age is next to difference in fortune, one of the great
commonplaces of provincial witticisms, whenever love is the topic of
conversation.

In a few days Julien surrendered himself with all the ardour of his
age, and was desperately in love.

""One must own,"" he said to himself, ""that she has an angelic kindness
of soul, and no one in the world is prettier.""

He had almost completely given up playing a part. In a moment of
abandon, he even confessed to her all his nervousness. This confidence
raised the passion which he was inspiring to its zenith. ""And I have no
lucky rival after all,"" said Madame de Renal to herself with delight.
She ventured to question him on the portrait in which he used to be so
interested. Julien swore to her that it was that of a man.

When Madame de Renal had enough presence of mind left to reflect, she
did not recover from her astonishment that so great a happiness could
exist; and that she had never had anything of.

""Oh,"" she said to herself, ""if I had only known Julien ten years ago
when I was still considered pretty.""

Julien was far from having thoughts like these. His love was still
akin to ambition. It was the joy of possessing, poor, unfortunate and
despised as he was, so beautiful a woman. His acts of devotion, and his
ecstacies at the sight of his mistress's charms finished by reassuring
her a little with regard to the difference of age. If she had possessed
a little of that knowledge of life which the woman of thirty has
enjoyed in the more civilised of countries for quite a long time, she
would have trembled for the duration of a love, which only seemed to
thrive on novelty and the intoxication of a young man's vanity. In
those moments when he forgot his ambition, Julien admired ecstatically
even the hats and even the dresses of Madame de Renal. He could not
sate himself with the pleasure of smelling their perfume. He would open
her mirrored cupboard, and remain hours on end admiring the beauty and
the order of everything that he found there. His love leaned on him and
looked at him. He was looking at those jewels and those dresses which
had had been her wedding presents.

""I might have married a man like that,"" thought Madame de Renal
sometimes. ""What a fiery soul! What a delightful life one would have
with him?""

As for Julien, he had never been so near to those terrible instruments
of feminine artillery. ""It is impossible,"" he said to himself ""for
there to be anything more beautiful in Paris."" He could find no flaw
in his happiness. The sincere admiration and ecstacies of his mistress
would frequently make him forget that silly pose which had rendered
him so stiff and almost ridiculous during the first moments of the
intrigue. There were moments where, in spite of his habitual hypocrisy,
he found an extreme delight in confessing to this great lady who
admired him, his ignorance of a crowd of little usages. His mistress's
rank seemed to lift him above himself. Madame de Renal, on her side,
would find the sweetest thrill of intellectual voluptuousness in thus
instructing in a number of little things this young man who was so full
of genius, and who was looked upon by everyone as destined one day to
go so far. Even the sub-prefect and M. Valenod could not help admiring
him. She thought it made them less foolish. As for Madame Derville, she
was very far from being in a position to express the same sentiments.
Rendered desperate by what she thought she divined, and seeing that
her good advice was becoming offensive to a woman who had literally
lost her head, she left Vergy without giving the explanation, which
her friend carefully refrained from asking. Madame de Renal shed a few
tears for her, and soon found her happiness greater than ever. As a
result of her departure, she found herself alone with her lover nearly
the whole day.

Julien abandoned himself all the more to the delightful society of his
sweetheart, since, whenever he was alone, Fouque's fatal proposition
still continued to agitate him. During the first days of his novel life
there were moments when the man who had never loved, who had never been
loved by anyone, would find so delicious a pleasure in being sincere,
that he was on the point of confessing to Madame de Renal that ambition
which up to then had been the very essence of his existence. He would
have liked to have been able to consult her on the strange temptation
which Fouque's offer held out to him, but a little episode rendered any
frankness impossible.





","The day after Julien and Madame de Renal have slept together, they barely make eye contact when they sit down for lunch. Madame starts to worry that he's not looking at her because he's no longer interested. Madame de Renal's cousin M. Derville sees that something is going on between them and makes sure to always get between them while they're hanging out that day. The next night at 1 a.m., Julien sneaks back into Madame's room for more sex. Julien becomes comfortable with talking to Madame about his doubts and anxieties. It only brings them closer together. Madame often thinks that she should have married a man more like Julien, with a poetic soul. Madame Derville becomes fed up with her cousin's foolish flirtations with Julien. She leaves one day without any explanation. Madame de Renal isn't sad to see her go. Now she gets to be alone with Julien all the time."
116,"CHAPTER XVII

THE FIRST DEPUTY

    Oh, how this spring of love resembleth
    The uncertain glory of an April day,
    Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
    And by and by a cloud takes all away.
                   _Two Gentlemen of Verona._


One evening when the sun was setting, and he was sitting near his love,
at the bottom of the orchard, far from all intruders, he meditated
deeply. ""Will such sweet moments"" he said to himself ""last for ever?""
His soul was engrossed in the difficulty of deciding on a calling. He
lamented that great attack of unhappiness which comes at the end of
childhood and spoils the first years of youth in those who are not rich.

""Ah!"" he exclaimed, ""was not Napoleon the heaven-sent saviour for young
Frenchmen? Who is to replace him? What will those unfortunate youths
do without him, who, even though they are richer than I am, have only
just the few crowns necessary to procure an education for themselves,
but have not at the age of twenty enough money to buy a man and advance
themselves in their career."" ""Whatever one does,"" he added, with a deep
sigh, ""this fatal memory will always prevent our being happy.""

He suddenly saw Madame de Renal frown. She assumed a cold and
disdainful air. She thought his way of looking at things typical of a
servant. Brought up as she was with the idea that she was very rich,
she took it for granted that Julien was so also. She loved him a
thousand times more than life and set no store by money.

Julien was far from guessing these ideas, but that frown brought him
back to earth. He had sufficient presence of mind to manipulate his
phrases, and to give the noble lady who was sitting so near him on the
grass seat to understand that the words he had just repeated had been
heard by him during his journey to his friend the wood merchant. It was
the logic of infidels.

""Well, have nothing to do with those people,"" said Madame de Renal,
still keeping a little of that icy air which had suddenly succeeded an
expression of the warmest tenderness.

This frown, or rather his remorse for his own imprudence, was the
first check to the illusion which was transporting Julien. He said to
himself, ""She is good and sweet, she has a great fancy for me, but she
has been brought up in the enemy's camp. They must be particularly
afraid of that class of men of spirit who, after a good education, have
not enough money to take up a career. What would become of those nobles
if we had an opportunity of fighting them with equal arms. Suppose me,
for example, mayor of Verrieres, and as well meaning and honest as M.
de Renal is at bottom. What short shrift I should make of the vicaire,
M. Valenod and all their jobberies! How justice would triumph in
Verrieres. It is not their talents which would stop me. They are always
fumbling about.""

That day Julien's happiness almost became permanent. Our hero lacked
the power of daring to be sincere. He ought to have had the courage to
have given battle, and on the spot; Madame de Renal had been astonished
by Julien's phrase, because the men in her circle kept on repeating
that the return of Robespierre was essentially possible by reason of
those over-educated young persons of the lower classes. Madame de
Renal's coldness lasted a longish time, and struck Julien as marked.
The reason was that the fear that she had said something in some way or
other disagreeable to him, succeeded her annoyance for his own breach
of taste. This unhappiness was vividly reflected in those features
which looked so pure and so naive when she was happy and away from
intruders.

Julien no longer dared to surrender himself to his dreams. Growing
calmer and less infatuated, he considered that it was imprudent to go
and see Madame de Renal in her room. It was better for her to come to
him. If a servant noticed her going about the house, a dozen different
excuses could explain it.

But this arrangement had also its inconveniences. Julien had received
from Fouque some books, which he, as a theology student would never
have dared to ask for in a bookshop. He only dared to open them at
night. He would often have found it much more convenient not to be
interrupted by a visit, the very waiting for which had even on the
evening before the little scene in the orchard completely destroyed his
mood for reading.

He had Madame de Renal to thank for understanding books in quite a new
way. He had dared to question her on a number of little things, the
ignorance of which cuts quite short the intellectual progress of any
young man born out of society, however much natural genius one may
choose to ascribe to him.

This education given through sheer love by a woman who was extremely
ignorant, was a piece of luck. Julien managed to get a clear insight
into society such as it is to-day. His mind was not bewildered by the
narration of what it had been once, two thousand years ago, or even
sixty years ago, in the time of Voltaire and Louis XV. The scales fell
from his eyes to his inexpressible joy, and he understood at last what
was going on in Verrieres.

In the first place there were the very complicated intrigues which
had been woven for the last two years around the prefect of Besancon.
They were backed up by letters from Paris, written by the cream of
the aristocracy. The scheme was to make M. de Moirod (he was the most
devout man in the district) the first and not the second deputy of the
mayor of Verrieres.

He had for a competitor a very rich manufacturer whom it was essential
to push back into the place of second deputy.

Julien understood at last the innuendoes which he had surprised,
when the high society of the locality used to come and dine at M. de
Renal's. This privileged society was deeply concerned with the choice
of a first deputy, while the rest of the town, and above all, the
Liberals, did not even suspect its possibility. The factor which made
the matter important was that, as everybody knows, the east side of the
main street of Verrieres has to be put more than nine feet back since
that street has become a royal route.

Now if M. de Moirod, who had three houses liable to have their frontage
put back, succeeded in becoming first deputy and consequently mayor in
the event of M. de Renal being elected to the chamber, he would shut
his eyes, and it would be possible to make little imperceptible repairs
in the houses projecting on to the public road, as the result of which
they would last a hundred years. In spite of the great piety and proved
integrity of M. de Moirod, everyone was certain that he would prove
amenable, because he had a great many children. Among the houses liable
to have their frontage put back nine belonged to the cream of Verrieres
society.

In Julien's eyes this intrigue was much more important than the history
of the battle of Fontenoy, whose name he now came across for the first
time in one of the books which Fouque had sent him. There had been
many things which had astonished Julien since the time five years ago
when he had started going to the cure's in the evening. But discretion
and humility of spirit being the primary qualities of a theological
student, it had always been impossible for him to put questions.

One day Madame de Renal was giving an order to her husband's valet who
was Julien's enemy.

""But, Madame, to-day is the last Friday in the month,"" the man answered
in a rather strange manner.

""Go,"" said Madame de Renal.

""Well,"" said Julien, ""I suppose he's going to go to that corn shop
which was once a church, and has recently been restored to religion,
but what is he going to do there? That's one of the mysteries which I
have never been able to fathom.""

""It's a very literary institution, but a very curious one,"" answered
Madame de Renal. ""Women are not admitted to it. All I know is, that
everybody uses the second person singular. This servant, for instance,
will go and meet M. Valenod there, and the haughty prig will not be
a bit offended at hearing himself addressed by Saint-Jean in that
familiar way, and will answer him in the same way. If you are keen on
knowing what takes place, I will ask M. de Maugiron and M. Valenod
for details. We pay twenty francs for each servant, to prevent their
cutting our throats one fine day.""

Time flew. The memory of his mistress's charms distracted Julien from
his black ambition. The necessity of refraining from mentioning gloomy
or intellectual topics since they both belonged to opposing parties,
added, without his suspecting it, to the happiness which he owed her,
and to the dominion which she acquired over him.

On the occasions when the presence of the precocious children reduced
them to speaking the language of cold reason, Julien looking at her
with eyes sparkling with love, would listen with complete docility to
her explanations of the world as it is. Frequently, in the middle of an
account of some cunning piece of jobbery, with reference to a road or
a contract, Madame de Renal's mind would suddenly wander to the very
point of delirium. Julien found it necessary to scold her. She indulged
when with him in the same intimate gestures which she used with her
own children. The fact was that there were days when she deceived
herself that she loved him like her own child. Had she not repeatedly
to answer his naive questions about a thousand simple things that a
well-born child of fifteen knows quite well? An instant afterwards
she would admire him like her master. His genius would even go so far
as to frighten her. She thought she should see more clearly every day
the future great man in this young abbe. She saw him Pope; she saw him
first minister like Richelieu. ""Shall I live long enough to see you in
your glory?"" she said to Julien. ""There is room for a great man; church
and state have need of one.""





","One evening, Julien hangs out alone with Madame de Renal and watches the sunset. He thinks out loud about how poor his upbringing was. Madame frowns at this because she doesn't like to be reminded that she's sleeping with a peasant. Julien begins to ask Madame how things work in the upper class world. The more he learns, the more he realizes how ignorant he is of high society. He especially learns about local politics and how certain men get put in certain positions of authority. Madame is confident that some day, Julien will become a great man."
117,"CHAPTER XXVII

FIRST EXPERIENCE OF LIFE


        The present time, Great God! is the ark of the Lord;
        cursed be he who touches it.--_Diderot_.


The reader will kindly excuse us if we give very few clear and definite
facts concerning this period of Julien's life. It is not that we
lack facts; quite the contrary. But it may be that what he saw in
the seminary is too black for the medium colour which the author
has endeavoured to preserve throughout these pages. Those of our
contemporaries who have suffered from certain things cannot remember
them without a horror which paralyses every other pleasure, even that
of reading a tale.

Julien achieved scant success in his essays at hypocritical gestures.
He experienced moments of disgust, and even of complete discouragement.
He was not a success, even in a a vile career. The slightest help
from outside would have sufficed to have given him heart again, for
the difficulty to overcome was not very great, but he was alone, like
a derelict ship in the middle of the ocean. ""And when I do succeed,""
he would say to himself, ""think of having to pass a whole lifetime in
such awful company, gluttons who have no thought but for the large
omelette which they will guzzle at dinner-time, or persons like the
abbe Castanede, who finds no crime too black! They will attain power,
but, great heavens! at what cost.

""The will of man is powerful, I read it everywhere, but is it enough to
overcome so great a disgust? The task of all the great men was easy by
comparison. However terrible was the danger, they found it fine, and
who can realise, except myself, the ugliness of my surroundings?""

This moment was the most trying in his whole life. It would have been
so easy for him to have enlisted in one of the fine regiments at the
garrison of Besancon. He could have become a Latin master. He needed so
little for his subsistence, but in that case no more career, no more
future for his imagination. It was equivalent to death. Here is one of
his sad days in detail:

""I have so often presumed to congratulate myself on being different
from the other young peasants! Well, I have lived enough to realise
that _difference engenders hate_,"" he said to himself one morning.
This great truth had just been borne in upon him by one of his most
irritating failures. He had been working for eight days at teaching a
pupil who lived in an odour of sanctity. He used to go out with him
into the courtyard and listen submissively to pieces of fatuity enough
to send one to sleep standing. Suddenly the weather turned stormy. The
thunder growled, and the holy pupil exclaimed as he roughly pushed him
away.

""Listen! Everyone for himself in this world. I don't want to be burned
by the thunder. God may strike you with lightning like a blasphemer,
like a Voltaire.""

""I deserve to be drowned if I go to sleep during the storm,"" exclaimed
Julien, with his teeth clenched with rage, and with his eyes opened
towards the sky now furrowed by the lightning. ""Let us try the conquest
of some other rogue.""

The bell rang for the abbe Castanede's course of sacred history. That
day the abbe Castanede was teaching those young peasants already
so frightened by their father's hardships and poverty, that the
Government, that entity so terrible in their eyes, possessed no real
and legitimate power except by virtue of the delegation of God's vicar
on earth.

""Render yourselves worthy, by the holiness of your life and by your
obedience, of the benevolence of the Pope. Be _like a stick in his
hands_,"" he added, ""and you will obtain a superb position, where you
will be far from all control, and enjoy the King's commands, a position
from which you cannot be removed, and where one-third of the salary
is paid by the Government, while the faithful who are moulded by your
preaching pay the other two-thirds.""

Castanede stopped in the courtyard after he left the lesson-room. ""It
is particularly appropriate to say of a cure,"" he said to the pupils
who formed a ring round him, ""that the place is worth as much as the
man is worth. I myself have known parishes in the mountains where the
surplice fees were worth more than that of many town livings. There was
quite as much money, without counting the fat capons, the eggs, fresh
butter, and a thousand and one pleasant details, and there the cure is
indisputably the first man. There is not a good meal to which he is not
invited, feted, etc.""

Castanede had scarcely gone back to his room before the pupils split up
into knots. Julien did not form part of any of them; he was left out
like a black sheep. He saw in every knot a pupil tossing a coin in the
air, and if he managed to guess right in this game of heads or tails,
his comrades would decide that he would soon have one of those fat
livings.

Anecdotes ensued. A certain young priest, who had scarcely been
ordained a year, had given a tame rabbit to the maidservant of an old
cure, and had succeeded in being asked to be his curate. In a few
months afterwards, for the cure had quickly died, he had replaced him
in that excellent living. Another had succeeded in getting himself
designated as a successor to a very rich town living, by being present
at all the meals of an old, paralytic cure, and by dexterously carving
his poultry. The seminarists, like all young people, exaggerated the
effect of those little devices, which have an element of originality,
and which strike the imagination.

""I must take part in these conversations,"" said Julien to himself. When
they did not talk about sausages and good livings, the conversation ran
on the worldly aspect of ecclesiastical doctrine, on the differences of
bishops and prefects, of mayors and cures. Julien caught sight of the
conception of a second god, but of a god who was much more formidable
and much more powerful than the other one. That second god was the
Pope. They said among themselves, in a low voice, however, and when
they were quite sure that they would not be heard by Pirard, that
the reason for the Pope not taking the trouble of nominating all the
prefects and mayors of France, was that he had entrusted that duty to
the King of France by entitling him a senior son of the Church.

It was about this time that Julien thought he could exploit, for the
benefit of his own reputation, his knowledge of De Maistre's book
on the Pope. In point of fact, he did astonish his comrades, but it
was only another misfortune. He displeased them by expounding their
own opinions better than they could themselves. Chelan had acted as
imprudently for Julien as he had for himself. He had given him the
habit of reasoning correctly, and of not being put off by empty words,
but he had neglected to tell him that this habit was a crime in the
person of no importance, since every piece of logical reasoning is
offensive.

Julien's command of language added consequently a new crime to his
score. By dint of thinking about him, his colleagues succeeded in
expressing the horror with which he would inspire them by a single
expression; they nicknamed him Martin Luther, ""particularly,"" they
said, ""because of that infernal logic which makes him so proud.""

Several young seminarists had a fresher complexion than Julien, and
could pass as better-looking, but he had white hands, and was unable to
conceal certain refined habits of personal cleanliness. This advantage
proved a disadvantage in the gloomy house in which chance had cast
him. The dirty peasants among whom he lived asserted that he had very
abandoned morals. We fear that we may weary our reader by a narration
of the thousand and one misfortunes of our hero. The most vigorous of
his comrades, for example, wanted to start the custom of beating him.
He was obliged to arm himself with an iron compass, and to indicate,
though by signs, that he would make use of it. Signs cannot figure in a
spy's report to such good advantage as words.





","Julien goes around flashing his knowledge and intelligence so freely that people start to nickname him Martin Luther, after the man who read the Bible very closely and helped create Protestantism as a breakoff from Catholicism. In other words, the other students question Julien's loyalty to the ""true"" faith of Catholicism. On several occasions, Julien's classmates try to beat him up. But he has a metal tool he uses as a weapon and he keeps fending them off."
118,"CHAPTER XXXV

SENSIBILITY AND A GREAT PIOUS LADY


        An idea which has any life in it seems like a crudity,
        so accustomed are they to colourless expression. Woe to
        him who introduces new ideas into his conversation!
                                          --_Faublas_.


This was the stage Julien had reached, when after several months of
probation the steward of the household handed him the third quarter of
his wages. M. de la Mole had entrusted him with the administration of
his estates in Brittany and Normandy. Julien made frequent journeys
there. He had chief control of the correspondence relating to the
famous lawsuit with the abbe de Frilair. M. Pirard had instructed him.

On the data of the short notes which the marquis would scribble on the
margin of all the various paper which were addressed to him, Julien
would compose answers which were nearly all signed.

At the Theology School his professors complained of his lack of
industry, but they did not fail to regard him as one of their most
distinguished pupils. This varied work, tackled as it was with all
the ardour of suffering ambition, soon robbed Julien of that fresh
complexion which he had brought from the provinces. His pallor
constituted one of his merits in the eyes of his comrades, the young
seminarist; he found them much less malicious, much less ready to bow
down to a silver crown than those of Besancon; they thought he was
consumptive. The marquis had given him a horse.

Julien fearing that he might meet people during his rides on horseback,
had given out that this exercise had been prescribed by the doctors.
The abbe Pirard had taken him into several Jansenist Societies. Julien
was astonished; the idea of religion was indissolubly connected in his
mind with the ideas of hypocrisy and covetousness. He admired those
austere pious men who never gave a thought to their income. Several
Jansenists became friendly with him and would give him advice. A new
world opened before him. At the Jansenists he got to know a comte
Altamira, who was nearly six feet high, was a Liberal, a believer, and
had been condemned to death in his own country. He was struck by the
strange contrast of devoutness and love of liberty.

Julien's relations with the young comte had become cool. Norbert
had thought that he answered the jokes of his friends with too much
sharpness. Julien had committed one or two breaches of social etiquette
and vowed to himself that he would never speak to mademoiselle
Mathilde. They were always perfectly polite to him in the Hotel de
la Mole but he felt himself quite lost. His provincial common sense
explained this result by the vulgar proverb _Tout beau tout nouveau_.

He gradually came to have a little more penetration than during his
first days, or it may have been that the first glamour of Parisian
urbanity had passed off. As soon as he left off working, he fell a prey
to a mortal boredom. He was experiencing the withering effects of that
admirable politeness so typical of good society, which is so perfectly
modulated to every degree of the social hierarchy.

No doubt the provinces can be reproached with a commonness and lack of
polish in their tone; but they show a certain amount of passion, when
they answer you. Julien's self-respect was never wounded at the Hotel
de la Mole, but he often felt at the end of the day as though he would
like to cry. A cafe-waiter in the provinces will take an interest in
you if you happen to have some accident as you enter his cafe, but if
this accident has everything about it which is disagreeable to your
vanity, he will repeat ten times in succession the very word which
tortures you, as he tells you how sorry he is. At Paris they make a
point of laughing in secret, but you always remain a stranger.

We pass in silence over a number of little episodes which would have
made Julien ridiculous, if he had not been to some extent above
ridicule. A foolish sensibility resulted in his committing innumerable
acts of bad taste. All his pleasures were precautions; he practiced
pistol shooting every day, he was one of the promising pupils of the
most famous maitres d'armes. As soon as he had an instant to himself,
instead of employing it in reading as he did before, he would rush
off to the riding school and ask for the most vicious horses. When he
went out with the master of the riding school he was almost invariably
thrown.

The marquis found him convenient by reason of his persistent industry,
his silence and his intelligence, and gradually took him into his
confidence with regard to all his affairs, which were in any way
difficult to unravel. The marquis was a sagacious business man on all
those occasions when his lofty ambition gave him some respite; having
special information within his reach, he would speculate successfully
on the Exchange. He would buy mansions and forests; but he would easily
lose his temper. He would give away hundreds of louis, and would go
to law for a few hundred francs. Rich men with a lofty spirit have
recourse to business not so much for results as for distraction. The
marquis needed a chief of staff who would put all his money affairs
into clear and lucid order. Madame de la Mole, although of so even a
character, sometimes made fun of Julien. Great ladies have a horror
of those unexpected incidents which are produced by a sensitive
character; they constitute the opposite pole of etiquette. On two or
three occasions the marquis took his part. ""If he is ridiculous in your
salon, he triumphs in his office."" Julien on his side thought he had
caught the marquise's secret. She deigned to manifest an interest in
everything the minute the Baron de la Joumate was announced. He was a
cold individual with an expressionless physiognomy. He was tall, thin,
ugly, very well dressed, passed his life in his chateau, and generally
speaking said nothing about anything. Such was his outlook on life.
Madame de la Mole would have been happy for the first time in her life
if she could have made him her daughter's husband.





","Julien gets more and more bored with life at the de La Moles' house. He can't stand the way that no one ever says what they're actually thinking, or if they do, it's something super petty. Julien soon realizes that Madame de La Mole wants her daughter to marry a local baron named Baron de La Joumate."
119,"CHAPTER XLI

A YOUNG GIRL'S DOMINION


        I admire her beauty but I fear her intellect.--_Merimee_.


If Julien had employed the time which he spent in exaggerating
Matilde's beauty or in working himself up into a rage against that
family haughtiness which she was forgetting for his sake in examining
what was going on in the salon, he would have understood the secret of
her dominion over all that surrounded her.

When anyone displeased mademoiselle de La Mole she managed to punish
the offender by a jest which was so guarded, so well chosen, so polite
and so neatly timed, that the more the victim thought about it, the
sorer grew the wound. She gradually became positively terrible to
wounded vanity. As she attached no value to many things which the
rest of her family very seriously wanted, she always struck them as
self-possessed. The salons of the aristocracy are nice enough to brag
about when you leave them, but that is all; mere politeness alone only
counts for something in its own right during the first few days. Julien
experienced this after the first fascination and the first astonishment
had passed off. ""Politeness,"" he said to himself ""is nothing but the
absence of that bad temper which would be occasioned by bad manners.""
Mathilde was frequently bored; perhaps she would have been bored
anywhere. She then found a real distraction and real pleasure in
sharpening an epigram.

It was perhaps in order to have more amusing victims than her great
relations, the academician and the five or six other men of inferior
class who paid her court, that she had given encouragement to the
marquis de Croisenois, the comte Caylus and two or three other young
men of the highest rank. They simply represented new subjects for
epigrams.

We will admit with reluctance, for we are fond of Mathilde, that she
had received many letters from several of them and had sometimes
answered them. We hasten to add that this person constitutes an
exception to the manners of the century. Lack of prudence is not
generally the fault with which the pupils of the noble convent of the
Sacred Heart can be reproached.

One day the marquis de Croisenois returned to Mathilde a fairly
compromising letter which she had written the previous night. He
thought that he was thereby advancing his cause a great deal by taking
this highly prudent step. But the very imprudence of her correspondence
was the very element in it Mathilde liked. Her pleasure was to stake
her fate. She did not speak to him again for six weeks.

She amused herself with the letters of these young men, but in her view
they were all like each other. It was invariably a case of the most
profound, the most melancholy, passion.

""They all represent the same perfect man, ready to leave for
Palestine,"" she exclaimed to her cousin. ""Can you conceive of anything
more insipid? So these are the letters I am going to receive all my
life! There can only be a change every twenty years according to the
kind of vogue which happens to be fashionable. They must have had more
colour in them in the days of the Empire. In those days all these young
society men had seen or accomplished feats which really had an element
of greatness. The Duke of N---- my uncle was at Wagram.""

""What brains do you need to deal a sabre blow? And when they have had
the luck to do that they talk of it so often!"" said mademoiselle de
Sainte-Heredite, Mathilde's cousin.

""Well, those tales give me pleasure. Being in a real battle, a battle
of Napoleon, where six thousand soldiers were killed, why, that's proof
of courage. Exposing one's self to danger elevates the soul and saves
it from the boredom in which my poor admirers seem to be sunk; and that
boredom is contagious. Which of them ever thought of doing anything
extraordinary? They are trying to win my hand, a pretty business to
be sure! I am rich and my father will procure advancement for his
son-in-law. Well! I hope he'll manage to find someone who is a little
bit amusing.""

Mathilde's keen, sharp and picturesque view of life spoilt her language
as one sees. An expression of hers would often constitute a blemish
in the eyes of her polished friends. If she had been less fashionable
they would almost have owned that her manner of speaking was, from the
standpoint of feminine delicacy, to some extent unduly coloured.

She, on her side, was very unjust towards the handsome cavaliers who
fill the Bois de Boulogne. She envisaged the future not with terror,
that would have been a vivid emotion, but with a disgust which was very
rare at her age.

What could she desire? Fortune, good birth, wit, beauty, according to
what the world said, and according to what she believed, all these
things had been lavished upon her by the hands of chance.

So this was the state of mind of the most envied heiress of the
faubourg Saint-Germain when she began to find pleasure in walking with
Julien. She was astonished at his pride; she admired the ability of the
little bourgeois. ""He will manage to get made a bishop like the abbe
Mouray,"" she said to herself.

Soon the sincere and unaffected opposition with which our hero received
several of her ideas filled her mind; she continued to think about
it, she told her friend the slightest details of the conversation,
but thought that she would never succeed in fully rendering all their
meaning.

An idea suddenly flashed across her; ""I have the happiness of loving,""
she said to herself one day with an incredible ecstasy of joy. ""I am in
love, I am in love, it is clear! Where can a young, witty and beautiful
girl of my own age find sensations if not in love? It is no good. I
shall never feel any love for Croisenois, Caylus, and _tutti quanti_.
They are unimpeachable, perhaps too unimpeachable; any way they bore
me.""

She rehearsed in her mind all the descriptions of passion which she
had read in _Manon Lescaut_, the _Nouvelle Heloise_, the _Letters of
a Portuguese Nun_, etc., etc. It was only a question of course of the
grand passion; light love was unworthy of a girl of her age and birth.
She vouchsafed the name of love to that heroic sentiment which was met
with in France in the time of Henri III. and Bassompierre. That love
did not basely yield to obstacles, but, far from it, inspired great
deeds. ""How unfortunate for me that there is not a real court like that
of Catherine de' Medici or of Louis XIII. I feel equal to the boldest
and greatest actions. What would I not make of a king who was a man of
spirit like Louis XIII. if he were sighing at my feet! I would take
him to the Vendee, as the Baron de Tolly is so fond of saying, and
from that base he would re-conquer his kingdom; then no more about a
charter--and Julien would help me. What does he lack? name and fortune.
He will make a name, he will win a fortune.

""Croisenois lacks nothing, and he will never be anything else all his
life but a duke who is half 'ultra' and half Liberal, an undecided
being who never goes to extremes and consequently always plays second
fiddle.

""What great action is not an extreme at the moment when it is
undertaken? It is only after accomplishment that it seems possible to
commonplace individuals. Yes, it is love with all its miracles which
is going to reign over my heart; I feel as much from the fire which is
thrilling me. Heaven owed me this boon. It will not then have lavished
in vain all its bounties on one single person. My happiness will be
worthy of me. Each day will no longer be the cold replica of the day
before. There is grandeur and audacity in the very fact of daring to
love a man, placed so far beneath me by his social position. Let us see
what happens, will he continue to deserve me? I will abandon him at the
first sign of weakness which I detect. A girl of my birth and of that
mediaeval temperament which they are good enough to ascribe to me (she
was quoting from her father) must not behave like a fool.

""But should I not be behaving like a fool if I were to love the marquis
de Croisenois? I should simply have a new edition over again of that
happiness enjoyed by my girl cousins which I so utterly despise. I
already know everything the poor marquis would say to me and every
answer I should make. What's the good of a love which makes one
yawn? One might as well be in a nunnery. I shall have a celebration
of the signing of a contract just like my younger cousin when the
grandparents all break down, provided of course that they are not
annoyed by some condition introduced into the contract at the eleventh
hour by the notary on the other side.""





","The narrator tells us that if Julien were more observant, he'd realize just how crushing Mathilde can be to anyone who annoys her. She receives a lot of love letters from young men and is basically a heartbreaker. One day, Mathilde realizes that she's totally in love with Julien. She's never known the feeling before, and it feels great."
120,"CHAPTER XLVII

AN OLD SWORD


I now mean to be serious; it is time
Since laughter now-a-days is deemed too serious.
A jest at vice by virtues called a crime.
                             _Don Juan, c. xiii._


She did not appear at dinner. She came for a minute into the salon in
the evening, but did not look at Julien. He considered this behaviour
strange, ""but,"" he thought, ""I do not know their usages. She will give
me some good reason for all this."" None the less he was a prey to
the most extreme curiosity; he studied the expression of Mathilde's
features; he was bound to own to himself that she looked cold and
malicious. It was evidently not the same woman who on the proceeding
night had had, or pretended to have, transports of happiness which were
too extravagant to be genuine.

The day after, and the subsequent day she showed the same coldness;
she did not look at him, she did not notice his existence. Julien was
devoured by the keenest anxiety and was a thousand leagues removed from
that feeling of triumph which had been his only emotion on the first
day. ""Can it be by chance,"" he said to himself, ""a return to virtue?""
But this was a very bourgeois word to apply to the haughty Mathilde.

""Placed in an ordinary position in life she would disbelieve in
religion,"" thought Julien, ""she only likes it in so far as it is very
useful to the interests of her class.""

But perhaps she may as a mere matter of delicacy be keenly reproaching
herself for the mistake which she has committed. Julien believed that
he was her first lover.

""But,"" he said to himself at other moments, ""I must admit that there is
no trace of naivety, simplicity, or tenderness in her own demeanour;
I have never seen her more haughty, can she despise me? It would be
worthy of her to reproach herself simply because of my low birth, for
what she has done for me.""

While Julien, full of those preconceived ideas which he had found in
books and in his memories of Verrieres, was chasing the phantom of a
tender mistress, who from the minute when she has made her lover happy
no longer thinks of her own existence, Mathilde's vanity was infuriated
against him.

As for the last two months she had no longer been bored, she was not
frightened of boredom; consequently, without being able to have the
slightest suspicion of it, Julien had lost his greatest advantage.

""I have given myself a master,"" said mademoiselle de la Mole to
herself, a prey to the blackest sorrow. ""Luckily he is honour itself,
but if I offend his vanity, he will revenge himself by making known
the nature of our relations."" Mathilde had never had a lover, and
though passing through a stage of life which affords some tender
illusions even to the coldest souls, she fell a prey to the most bitter
reflections.

""He has an immense dominion over me since his reign is one of terror,
and he is capable, if I provoke him, of punishing me with an awful
penalty."" This idea alone was enough to induce mademoiselle de la
Mole to insult him. Courage was the primary quality in her character.
The only thing which could give her any thrill and cure her from a
fundamental and chronically recurring ennui was the idea that she was
staking her entire existence on a single throw.

As mademoiselle de la Mole obstinately refused to look at him, Julien
on the third day in spite of her evident objection, followed her into
the billiard-room after dinner.

""Well, sir, you think you have acquired some very strong rights over
me?"" she said to him with scarcely controlled anger, ""since you venture
to speak to me, in spite of my very clearly manifested wish? Do you
know that no one in the world has had such effrontery?""

The dialogue of these two lovers was incomparably humourous. Without
suspecting it, they were animated by mutual sentiments of the most
vivid hate. As neither the one nor the other had a meekly patient
character, while they were both disciples of good form, they soon came
to informing each other quite clearly that they would break for ever.

""I swear eternal secrecy to you,"" said Julien. ""I should like to add
that I would never address a single word to you, were it not that a
marked change might perhaps jeopardise your reputation."" He saluted
respectfully and left.

He accomplished easily enough what he believed to be a duty; he was
very far from thinking himself much in love with mademoiselle de la
Mole. He had certainly not loved her three days before, when he had
been hidden in the big mahogany cupboard. But the moment that he found
himself estranged from her for ever his mood underwent a complete and
rapid change.

His memory tortured him by going over the least details in that night,
which had as a matter of fact left him so cold. In the very night that
followed this announcement of a final rupture, Julien almost went mad
at being obliged to own to himself that he loved mademoiselle de la
Mole.

This discovery was followed by awful struggles: all his emotions were
overwhelmed.

Two days later, instead of being haughty towards M. de Croisenois, he
could have almost burst out into tears and embraced him.

His habituation to unhappiness gave him a gleam of commonsense, he
decided to leave for Languedoc, packed his trunk and went to the post.

He felt he would faint, when on arriving at the office of the mails, he
was told that by a singular chance there was a place in the Toulouse
mail. He booked it and returned to the Hotel de la Mole to announce his
departure to the marquis.

M. de la Mole had gone out. More dead than alive Julien went into
the library to wait for him. What was his emotion when he found
mademoiselle de la Mole there.

As she saw him come, she assumed a malicious expression which it was
impossible to mistake.

In his unhappiness and surprise Julien lost his head and was weak
enough to say to her in a tone of the most heartfelt tenderness. ""So
you love me no more.""

""I am horrified at having given myself to the first man who came
along,"" said Mathilde crying with rage against herself.

""The first man who came along,"" cried Julien, and he made for an old
mediaeval sword which was kept in the library as a curiosity.

His grief--which he thought was at its maximum at the moment when he
had spoken to mademoiselle de la Mole--had been rendered a hundred
times more intense by the tears of shame which he saw her shedding.

He would have been the happiest of men if he had been able to kill her.

When he was on the point of drawing the sword with some difficulty from
its ancient scabbard, Mathilde, rendered happy by so novel a sensation,
advanced proudly towards him, her tears were dry.

The thought of his benefactor--the marquis de la Mole--presented
itself vividly to Julien. ""Shall I kill his daughter?"" he said to
himself, ""how horrible."" He made a movement to throw down the sword.
""She will certainly,"" he thought, ""burst out laughing at the sight of
such a melodramatic pose:"" that idea was responsible for his regaining
all his self-possession. He looked curiously at the blade of the old
sword as though he had been looking for some spot of rust, then put it
back in the scabbard and replaced it with the utmost tranquillity on
the gilt bronze nail from which it hung.

The whole manoeuvre, which towards the end was very slow, lasted quite
a minute; mademoiselle de la Mole looked at him in astonishment. ""So
I have been on the verge of being killed by my lover,"" she said to
herself.

This idea transported her into the palmiest days of the age of Charles
IX. and of Henri III.

She stood motionless before Julien, who had just replaced the sword;
she looked at him with eyes whose hatred had disappeared. It must be
owned that she was very fascinating at this moment, certainly no woman
looked less like a Parisian doll (this expression symbolised Julien's
great objection to the women of this city).

""I shall relapse into some weakness for him,"" thought Mathilde; ""it
is quite likely that he will think himself my lord and master after a
relapse like that at the very moment that I have been talking to him so
firmly."" She ran away.

""By heaven, she is pretty said Julien as he watched her run and that's
the creature who threw herself into my arms with so much passion
scarcely a week ago ... and to think that those moments will never
come back? And that it's my fault, to think of my being lacking
in appreciation at the very moment when I was doing something so
extraordinarily interesting! I must own that I was born with a very
dull and unfortunate character.""

The marquis appeared; Julien hastened to announce his departure.

""Where to?"" said M. de la Mole.

""For Languedoc.""

""No, if you please, you are reserved for higher destinies. If you leave
it will be for the North.... In military phraseology I actually confine
you in the hotel. You will compel me to be never more than two or three
hours away. I may have need of you at any moment.""

Julien bowed and retired without a word, leaving the marquis in a state
of great astonishment. He was incapable of speaking. He shut himself
up in his room. He was there free to exaggerate to himself all the
awfulness of his fate.

""So,"" he thought, ""I cannot even get away. God knows how many days
the marquis will keep me in Paris. Great God, what will become of me,
and not a friend whom I can consult? The abbe Pirard will never let
me finish my first sentence, while the comte Altamira will propose
enlisting me in some conspiracy. And yet I am mad; I feel it, I am mad.
Who will be able to guide me, what will become of me?""





","Mathilde doesn't come to dinner the day after having sex with Julien. She sees him in the drawing room later that night, but doesn't look at him. Three days go by and Mathilde avoids him. Finally, he follows her into the garden and demands her attention. She is cold and bitter toward him. Julien admits to himself that he's actually in love with Mathilde. He decides to leave for his trip to Languedoc after all. He goes to the de La Moles' library to tell his employer he's leaving. He finds Mathilde there instead and argues with her. She says she's sorry she gave her virginity to the first young man who came along. This wounds Julien's pride badly. Julien grabs an old sword off the wall, intending to kill Mathilde. He recovers his senses before doing it, though. She's impressed by his boldness, since this is the kind of gesture a crazed lover would make in one of her novels. She realizes that she's falling for him again. After Mathilde has run off, the Marquis walks into the library and hears about Julien's departure. He says the he needs Julien to stick around for other business, though."
121,"CHAPTER LI

THE SECRET NOTE


        I have seen everything I relate, and if I may have made
        a mistake when I saw it, I am certainly not deceiving
        you in telling you of it.
                                      _Letter to the author_.


The marquis summoned him; M. de la Mole looked rejuvenated, his eye was
brilliant.

""Let us discuss your memory a little,"" he said to Julien, ""it is said
to be prodigious. Could you learn four pages by heart and go and say
them at London, but without altering a single word?""

The marquis was irritably fingering, the day's _Quotidienne_, and was
trying in vain to hide an extreme seriousness which Julien had never
noticed in him before, even when discussing the Frilair lawsuit.

Julien had already learned sufficient manners to appreciate that he
ought to appear completely taken in by the lightness of tone which was
being manifested.

""This number of the _Quotidienne_ is not very amusing possibly, but if
M. the marquis will allow me, I shall do myself the honour to-morrow
morning of reciting it to him from beginning to end.""

""What, even the advertisements?""

""Quite accurately and without leaving out a word.""

""You give me your word?"" replied the marquis with sudden gravity.

""Yes, monsieur; the only thing which could upset my memory is the fear
of breaking my promise.""

""The fact is, I forgot to put this question to you yesterday: I am
not going to ask for your oath never to repeat what you are going to
hear. I know you too well to insult you like that. I have answered for
you. I am going to take you into a salon where a dozen persons will he
assembled. You will make a note of what each one says.

""Do not be uneasy. It will not be a confused conversation by any means.
Each one will speak in his turn, though not necessarily in an orderly
manner,"" added the marquis falling back into that light, subtle manner
which was so natural to him. ""While we are talking, you will write out
twenty pages and will come back here with me, and we will get those
twenty pages down to four, and those are the four pages you will recite
to me to-morrow morning instead of the four pages of the _Quotidienne_.
You will leave immediately afterwards. You must post about like a
young man travelling on pleasure. Your aim will be to avoid attracting
attention. You will arrive at the house of a great personage. You will
there need more skill. Your business will then be to take in all his
entourage, for among his secretaries and his servants are some people
who have sold themselves to our enemies, and who spy on our travelling
agents in order to intercept them.

""You will have an insignificant letter of introduction. At the moment
his Excellency looks at you, you will take out this watch of mine,
which I will lend you for the journey. Wear it now, it will be so much
done; at any rate give me yours.

""The duke himself will be good enough to write at your dictation the
four pages you have learnt by heart.

""Having done this, but not earlier, mind you, you can, if his
Excellency questions you, tell him about the meeting at which you are
now going to be present.

""You will be prevented from boring yourself on the journey between
Paris and the minister's residence by the thought that there are people
who would like nothing better than to fire a shot at M. the abbe Sorel.
In that case that gentleman's mission will be finished, and I see a
great delay, for how are we to know of your death, my dear friend? Even
your zeal cannot go to the length of informing us of it.

""Run straight away and buy a complete suit,"" went on the marquis
seriously. ""Dress in the fashion of two years ago. To-night you must
look somewhat badly groomed. When you travel, on the other hand, you
will be as usual. Does this surprise you? Does your suspiciousness
guess the secret? Yes, my friend, one of the venerable personages you
are going to hear deliver his opinion, is perfectly capable of giving
information as the result of which you stand a very good chance of
being given at least opium some fine evening in some good inn where you
will have asked for supper.""

""It is better,"" said Julien, ""to do an extra thirty leagues and not
take the direct road. It is a case of Rome, I suppose...."" The marquis
assumed an expression of extreme haughtiness and dissatisfaction which
Julien had never seen him wear since Bray-le-Haut.

""That is what you will know, monsieur, when I think it proper to tell
you. I do not like questions.""

""That was not one,"" answered Julien eagerly. ""I swear, monsieur, I was
thinking quite aloud. My mind was trying to find out the safest route.""

""Yes, it seems your mind was a very long way off. Remember that an
emissary, and particularly one of your age should not appear to be a
man who forces confidences.""

Julien was very mortified; he was in the wrong. His vanity tried to
find an excuse and did not find one.

""You understand,"" added monsieur de la Mole, ""that one always falls
back on one's heart when one has committed some mistake.""

An hour afterwards Julien was in the marquis's ante-chamber. He looked
quite like a servant with his old clothes, a tie of a dubious white,
and a certain touch of the usher in his whole appearance. The marquis
burst out laughing as he saw him, and it was only then that Julien's
justification was complete.

""If this young man betrays me,"" said M. de la Mole to himself, ""whom is
one to trust? And yet, when one acts, one must trust someone. My son
and his brilliant friends of the same calibre have as much courage and
loyalty as a hundred thousand men. If it were necessary to fight, they
would die on the steps of the throne. They know everything--except
what one needs in emergency. Devil take me if I can find a single one
among them who can learn four pages by heart and do a hundred leagues
without being tracked down. Norbert would know how to sell his life as
dearly as his grandfathers did. But any conscript could do as much.""

The marquis fell into a profound reverie. ""As for selling one's life
too,"" he said with a sigh, ""perhaps this Sorel would manage it quite as
well as he could.

""Let us get into the carriage,"" said the marquis as though to chase
away an unwanted idea.

""Monsieur,"" said Julien, ""while they were getting this suit ready for
me, I learnt the first page of to-days _Quotidienne_ by heart.""

The marquis took the paper. Julien recited it without making a single
mistake. ""Good,"" said the marquis, who this night felt very diplomatic.
""During the time he takes over this our young man will not notice the
streets through which we are passing.""

They arrived in a big salon that looked melancholy enough and was
partly upholstered in green velvet. In the middle of the room
a scowling lackey had just placed a big dining-table which he
subsequently changed into a writing-table by means of an immense green
inkstained tablecloth which had been plundered from some minister.

The master of the house was an enormous man whose name was not
pronounced. Julien thought he had the appearance and eloquence of a
man who ruminated. At a sign from the marquis, Julien had remained at
the lower end of the table. In order to keep himself in countenance,
he began to cut quills. He counted out of the corner of his eye seven
visitors, but Julien could only see their backs. Two seemed to him
to be speaking to M. de la Mole on a footing of equality, the others
seemed more or less respectful.

A new person entered without being announced. ""This is strange,""
thought Julien. ""People are not announced in this salon. Is this
precaution taken in my honour?"" Everybody got up to welcome the new
arrival. He wore the same extremely distinguished decoration as three
of the other persons who were in the salon. They talked fairly low. In
endeavouring to form an opinion of the new comer, Julien was reduced to
seeing what he could learn from his features and his appearance. He was
short and thick-set. He had a high colour and a brilliant eye and an
expression that looked like a malignant boar, and nothing else.

Julien's attention was partly distracted by the almost immediate
arrival of a very different kind of person. It was a tall very thin
man who wore three or four waistcoats. His eye was caressing, his
demeanour polite.

""He looks exactly like the old bishop of Besancon,"" thought Julien.
This man evidently belonged to the church, was apparently not more than
fifty to fifty-five years of age, and no one could have looked more
paternal than he did.

The young bishop of Agde appeared. He looked very astonished when,
in making a scrutiny of those present, his gaze fell upon Julien. He
had not spoken to him since the ceremony of Bray-le-Haut. His look of
surprise embarrassed and irritated Julien. ""What!"" he said to himself,
""will knowing a man always turn out unfortunate for me? I don't feel
the least bit intimidated by all those great lords whom I have never
seen, but the look of that young bishop freezes me. I must admit that I
am a very strange and very unhappy person.""

An extremely swarthy little man entered noisily soon afterwards and
started talking as soon as he reached the door. He had a yellow
complexion and looked a little mad. As soon as this ruthless talker
arrived, the others formed themselves into knots with the apparent
object of avoiding the bother of listening to him.

As they went away from the mantelpiece they came near the lower end
of the table where Julien was placed. His countenance became more and
more embarrassed, for whatever efforts he made, he could not avoid
hearing, and in spite of all his lack of experience he appreciated
all the moment of the things which they were discussing with such
complete frankness, and the importance which the high personages whom
he apparently had under his observation must attach to their being kept
secret.

Julien had already cut twenty quills as slowly as possible; this
distraction would shortly be no longer available. He looked in vain at
M. de la Mole's eyes for an order; the marquis had forgotten him.

""What I am doing is ridiculous,"" he said to himself as he cut his
quills, ""but persons with so mediocre an appearance and who are
handling such great interests either for themselves or for others must
be extremely liable to take offence. My unfortunate look has a certain
questioning and scarcely respectful expression, which will doubtless
irritate them. But if I palpably lower my eyes I shall look as if I
were picking up every word they said.""

His embarrassment was extreme, he was listening to strange things.





","The Marquis de La Mole summons Julien and tests his famous memory to see whether he can memorize an entire page of a newspaper instantly. He wants Julien to come with him to a secret political meeting and to memorize everything he hears so that he can deliver the message to a duke form a foreign country. The marquis is worried that spies will try to stop Julien along the way and read anything that's written down. That's why Julien needs to have the thing in his memory. The marquis tells him to buy himself some new clothes in order to disguise his identity. The marquis takes Julien to a secret meeting, ensuring that Julien is not aware of where they are in Paris. One by one, a bunch of very important people, including bishops and event the Prime Minister, enter the room."
122,"CHAPTER LVII

THE FINEST PLACES IN THE CHURCH


    Services! talents! merits! bah! belong to a coterie.
                                               _Telemaque_.


The idea of a bishopric had thus become associated with the idea of
Julien in the mind of a woman, who would sooner or later have at her
disposal the finest places in the Church of France. This idea had not
struck Julien at all; at the present time his thoughts were strictly
limited to his actual unhappiness. Everything tended to intensify
it. The sight of his room, for instance, had become unbearable. When
he came back in the evening with his candle, each piece of furniture
and each little ornament seemed to become articulate, and to announce
harshly some new phase of his unhappiness.

""I have a hard task before me today,"" he said to himself as he came in
with a vivacity which he had not experienced for a long time; ""let us
hope that the second letter will be as boring as the first.""

It was more so. What he was copying seemed so absurd that he finished
up by transcribing it line for line without thinking of the sense.

""It is even more bombastic,"" he said to himself, ""than those official
documents of the treaty of Munster which my professor of diplomacy made
me copy out at London.""

It was only then that he remembered madame de Fervaque's letters which
he had forgotten to give back to the grave Spaniard Don Diego Bustos.
He found them. They were really almost as nonsensical as those of
the young Russian nobleman. Their vagueness was unlimited. It meant
everything and nothing. ""It's the AEolian harp of style,"" thought
Julien. ""The only real thing I see in the middle of all these lofty
thoughts about annihilation, death, infinity, etc., is an abominable
fear of ridicule.""

The monologue which we have just condensed was repeated for fifteen
days on end. Falling off to sleep as he copied out a sort of commentary
on the Apocalypse, going with a melancholy expression to deliver it
the following day, taking his horse back to the stable in the hope
of catching sight of Mathilde's dress, working, going in the evening
to the opera on those evenings when madame de Fervaques did not come
to the Hotel de la Mole, such were the monotonous events in Julien's
life. His life had more interest, when madame la Fervaques visited the
marquise; he could then catch a glimpse of Mathilde's eyes underneath
a feather of the marechale's hat, and he would wax eloquent. His
picturesque and sentimental phrases began to assume a style, which was
both more striking and more elegant.

He quite realised that what he said was absurd in Mathilde's eyes, but
he wished to impress her by the elegance of his diction. ""The falser my
speeches are the more I ought to please,"" thought Julien, and he then
had the abominable audacity to exaggerate certain elements in his own
character. He soon appreciated that to avoid appearing vulgar in the
eyes of the marechale it was necessary to eschew simple and rational
ideas. He would continue on these lines, or would cut short his grand
eloquence according as he saw appreciation or indifference in the eyes
of the two great ladies whom he had set out to please.

Taking it all round, his life was less awful than when his days were
passed in inaction.

""But,"" he said to himself one evening, ""here I am copying out the
fifteenth of these abominable dissertations; the first fourteen have
been duly delivered to the marechale's porter. I shall have the honour
of filling all the drawers in her escritoire. And yet she treats me
as though I never wrote. What can be the end of all this? Will my
constancy bore her as much as it does me? I must admit that that
Russian friend of Korasoff's who was in love with the pretty Quakeress
of Richmond, was a terrible man in his time; no one could be more
overwhelming.""

Like all mediocre individuals, who chance to come into contact with the
manoeuvres of a great general, Julien understood nothing of the attack
executed by the young Russian on the heart of the young English girl.
The only purpose of the first forty letters was to secure forgiveness
for the boldness of writing at all. The sweet person, who perhaps lived
a life of inordinate boredom, had to be induced to contract the habit
of receiving letters, which were perhaps a little less insipid than her
everyday life.

One morning a letter was delivered to Julien. He recognised the arms
of madame la Fervaques, and broke the seal with an eagerness which
would have seemed impossible to him some days before. It was only an
invitation to dinner.

He rushed to prince Korasoffs instructions. Unfortunately the young
Russian had taken it into his head to be as flippant as Dorat, just
when he should have been simple and intelligible! Julien was not able
to form any idea of the moral position which he ought to take up at the
marechale's dinner.

The salon was extremely magnificent and decorated like the gallery de
Diane in the Tuileries with panelled oil-paintings.

There were some light spots on these pictures. Julien learnt later that
the mistress of the house had thought the subject somewhat lacking in
decency and that she had had the pictures corrected. ""What a moral
century!"" he thought.

He noticed in this salon three of the persons who had been present
at the drawing up of the secret note. One of them, my lord bishop of
---- the marechale's uncle had the disposition of the ecclesiastical
patronage, and could, it was said, refuse his niece nothing. ""What
immense progress I have made,"" said Julien to himself with a melancholy
smile, ""and how indifferent I am to it. Here I am dining with the
famous bishop of ----.""

The dinner was mediocre and the conversation wearisome.

""It's like the small talk in a bad book,"" thought Julien. ""All the
greatest subjects of human thought are proudly tackled. After listening
for three minutes one asks oneself which is greater--the speaker's
bombast, or his abominable ignorance?""

The reader has doubtless forgotten the little man of letters named
Tanbeau, who was the nephew of the Academician, and intended to be
professor, who seemed entrusted with the task of poisoning the salon of
the Hotel de la Mole with his base calumnies.

It was this little man who gave Julien the first inkling that though,
madame de Fervaques did not answer, she might quite well take an
indulgent view of the sentiment which dictated them. M. Tanbeau's
sinister soul was lacerated by the thought of Julien's success; ""but
since, on the other hand, a man of merit cannot be in two places at the
same time any more than a fool,"" said the future professor to himself,
""if Sorel becomes the lover of the sublime marechale, she will obtain
some lucrative position for him in the church, and I shall be rid of
him in the Hotel de la Mole.""

M. the abbe Pirard addressed long sermons to Julien concerning his
success at the hotel de Fervaques. There was a sectarian jealousy
between the austere Jansenist and the salon of the virtuous marechale
which was Jesuitical, reactionary, and monarchical.





","Weeks go by and Julien keeps sending Madame Fervaques all the letters Prince Korasoff gave him. He's not sure if his plan is working, but he sticks with it. One of Julien's enemies, Monsieur Tanbeau, is jealous of the success he's clearly having with Madame Fervaques. He assumes that Julien is angling for a promotion in the church, which Madame has the power to grant him. But either way, Tanbeau half-hopes that Julien will be promoted so he'll leave the de La Mole house."
123,"CHAPTER LVIII

MANON LESCAUT


        Accordingly once he was thoroughly convinced of the
        asinine stupidity of the prior, he would usually succeed
        well enough by calling white black, and black white.
        _Lichtenberg_.


The Russian instructions peremptorily forbade the writer from ever
contradicting in conversation the recipient of the letters. No pretext
could excuse any deviation from the role of that most ecstatic
admiration. The letters were always based on that hypothesis.

One evening at the opera, when in madame de Fervaques' box, Julien
spoke of the ballet of _Manon Lescaut_ in the most enthusiastic terms.
His only reason for talking in that strain was the fact that he thought
it insignificant.

The marechale said that the ballet was very inferior to the abbe
Prevost's novel.

""The idea,"" thought Julien, both surprised and amused, ""of so highly
virtuous a person praising a novel! Madame de Fervaques used to profess
two or three times a week the most absolute contempt for those writers,
who, by means of their insipid works, try to corrupt a youth which is,
alas! only too inclined to the errors of the senses.""

""_Manon Lescaut_"" continued the marechale, ""is said to be one of the
best of this immoral and dangerous type of book. The weaknesses and the
deserved anguish of a criminal heart are, they say, portrayed with a
truth which is not lacking in depth; a fact which does not prevent your
Bonaparte from stating at St. Helena that it is simply a novel written
for lackeys.""

The word Bonaparte restored to Julien all the activity of his mind.
""They have tried to ruin me with the marechale; they have told her of
my enthusiasm for Napoleon. This fact has sufficiently piqued her to
make her yield to the temptation to make me feel it."" This discovery
amused him all the evening, and rendered him amusing. As he took leave
of the marechale in the vestibule of the opera, she said to him,
""Remember, monsieur, one must not like Bonaparte if you like me; at
the best he can only be accepted as a necessity imposed by Providence.
Besides, the man did not have a sufficiently supple soul to appreciate
masterpieces of art.""

""When you like me,"" Julien kept on repeating to himself, ""that means
nothing or means everything. Here we have mysteries of language which
are beyond us poor provincials."" And he thought a great deal about
madame de Renal, as he copied out an immense letter destined for the
marechale.

""How is it,"" she said to him the following day, with an assumed
indifference which he thought was clumsily assumed, ""that you talk to
me about London and Richmond in a letter which you wrote last night, I
think, when you came back from the opera?""

Julien was very embarrassed. He had copied line by line without
thinking about what he was writing, and had apparently forgotten to
substitute Paris and Saint Cloud for the words London and Richmond
which occurred in the original. He commenced two or three sentences,
but found it impossible to finish them. He felt on the point of
succumbing to a fit of idiotic laughter. Finally by picking his words
he succeeded in formulating this inspiration: ""Exalted as I was by the
discussion of the most sublime and greatest interests of the human
soul, my own soul may have been somewhat absent in my letter to you.""

""I am making an impression,"" he said to himself, ""so I can spare myself
the boredom of the rest of the evening."" He left the Hotel de Fervaques
at a run. In the evening he had another look at the original of the
letter which he had copied out on the previous night, and soon came to
the fatal place where the young Russian made mention of London and of
Richmond. Julien was very astonished to find this letter almost tender.

It had been the contrast between the apparent lightness of his
conversation, and the sublime and almost apocalyptic profundity of
his letters which had marked him out for favour. The marechale was
particularly pleased by the longness of the sentences; this was very
far from being that sprightly style which that immoral man Voltaire
had brought into fashion. Although our hero made every possible human
effort to eliminate from his conversation any symptom of good sense, it
still preserved a certain anti-monarchical and blasphemous tinge which
did not escape madame de Fervaques. Surrounded as she was by persons
who, though eminently moral, had very often not a single idea during a
whole evening, this lady was profoundly struck by anything resembling
a novelty, but at the same time she thought she owed it to herself to
be offended by it. She called this defect: Keeping the imprint of the
lightness of the age.

But such salons are only worth observing when one has a favour to
procure. The reader doubtless shares all the ennui of the colourless
life which Julien was leading. This period represents the steppes of
our journey.

Mademoiselle de la Mole needed to exercise her self-control to avoid
thinking of Julien during the whole period filled by the de Fervaques
episode. Her soul was a prey to violent battles; sometimes she piqued
herself on despising that melancholy young man, but his conversation
captivated her in spite of herself. She was particularly astonished by
his absolute falseness. He did not say a single word to the marechale
which was not a lie, or at any rate, an abominable travesty of his own
way of thinking, which Mathilde knew so perfectly in every phase. This
Machiavellianism impressed her. ""What subtlety,"" she said to herself.
""What a difference between the bombastic coxcombs, or the common
rascals like Tanbeau who talk in the same strain.""

Nevertheless Julien went through awful days. It was only to accomplish
the most painful of duties that he put in a daily appearance in the
marechale's salon.

The strain of playing a part ended by depriving his mind of all its
strength. As he crossed each night the immense courtyard of the Hotel
de Fervaques, it was only through sheer force in character and logic
that he succeeded in keeping a little above the level of despair.

""I overcame despair at the seminary,"" he said, ""yet what an awful
prospect I had then. I was then either going to make my fortune or
come to grief just as I am now. I found myself obliged to pass all my
life in intimate association with the most contemptible and disgusting
things in the whole world. The following spring, just eleven short
months later, I was perhaps the happiest of all young people of my own
age.""

But very often all this fine logic proved unavailing against the awful
reality. He saw Mathilde every day at breakfast and at dinner. He knew
from the numerous letters which de la Mole dictated to him that she was
on the eve of marrying de Croisenois. This charming man already called
twice a day at the Hotel de la Mole; the jealous eye of a jilted lover
was alive to every one of his movements. When he thought he had noticed
that mademoiselle de la Mole was beginning to encourage her intended,
Julien could not help looking tenderly at his pistols as he went up to
his room.

""Ah,"" he said to himself, ""would it not be much wiser to take the marks
out of my linen and to go into some solitary forest twenty leagues from
Paris to put an end to this atrocious life? I should be unknown in the
district, my death would remain a secret for a fortnight, and who would
bother about me after a fortnight?""

This reasoning was very logical. But on the following day a glimpse of
Mathilde's arm between the sleeve of her dress and her glove sufficed
to plunge our young philosopher into memories which, though agonising,
none the less gave him a hold on life. ""Well,"" he said to himself, ""I
will follow this Russian plan to the end. How will it all finish?""

""So far as the marechale is concerned, after I have copied out these
fifty-three letters, I shall not write any others.

""As for Mathilde, these six weeks of painful acting will either leave
her anger unchanged, or will win me a moment of reconciliation. Great
God! I should die of happiness."" And he could not finish his train of
thought.

After a long reverie he succeeded in taking up the thread of his
argument. ""In that case,"" he said to himself, ""I should win one day of
happiness, and after that her cruelties which are based, alas, on my
lack of ability to please her will recommence. I should have nothing
left to do, I should be ruined and lost for ever. With such a character
as hers what guarantee can she give me? Alas! My manners are no doubt
lacking in elegance, and my style of speech is heavy and monotonous.
Great God, why am I myself?""





","At this point, Julien is accompanying Madame Fervaques to the opera in her private box. They discuss things like music and novels together. Julien is pleased to find that Madame has a bit of an obscene vein in her. The next day, Julien is almost caught in a lie. In one of his letters to Fervaque, he forgot to change the names of certain places that Prince Korasoff used in his letters. He manages to lie his way out of it, though. Incidentally, it's the first time Madame has ever acknowledged the fact that she's read his letters. Mathilde responds to this apparent romance by paying more attention to Croisenois, the man who wants to marry her. This kills Julien, but he's not willing to back down until he's done everything Korasoff told him."
124,"CHAPTER LIX

ENNUI


        Sacrificing one's self to one's passions, let it pass;
        but sacrificing one's self to passions which one has not
        got! Oh! melancholy nineteenth century!
                                            _Girodet_.


Madame de Fervaques had begun reading Julien's long letters without any
pleasure, but she now began to think about them; one thing, however,
grieved her. ""What a pity that M. Sorel was not a real priest! He could
then be admitted to a kind of intimacy; but in view of that cross,
and that almost lay dress, one is exposed to cruel questions and what
is one to answer?"" She did not finish the train of thought, ""Some
malicious woman friend may think, and even spread it about that he is
some lower middle-class cousin or other, a relative of my father, some
tradesman who has been decorated by the National Guard."" Up to the
time which she had seen Julien, madame de Fervaque's greatest pleasure
had been writing the word marechale after her name. Consequently a
morbid parvenu vanity, which was ready to take umbrage at everything,
combatted the awakening of her interest in him. ""It would be so easy
for me,"" said the marechale, ""to make him a grand vicar in some diocese
near Paris! but plain M. Sorel, and what is more, a man who is the
secretary of M. de la Mole! It is heart-breaking.""

For the first time in her life this soul, which was afraid of
everything, was moved by an interest which was alien to its own
pretensions to rank and superiority. Her old porter noticed that
whenever he brought a letter from this handsome young man, who always
looked so sad, he was certain to see that absent, discontented
expression, which the marechale always made a point of assuming on the
entry of any of her servants, immediately disappear. The boredom of a
mode of life whose ambitions were concentrated on impressing the public
without her having at heart any real faculty of enjoyment for that kind
of success, had become so intolerable since she had begun to think of
Julien that, all that was necessary to prevent her chambermaids being
bullied for a whole day, was that their mistress should have passed
an hour in the society of this strange young man on the evening of
the preceding day. His budding credit was proof against very cleverly
written anonymous letters. It was in vain that Tanbeau supplied M. de
Luz, de Croisenois, de Caylus, with two or three very clever calumnies
which these gentlemen were only too glad to spread, without making
too many enquiries of the actual truth of the charges. The marechale,
whose temperament was not calculated to be proof against these vulgar
expedients related her doubts to Mathilde, and was always consoled by
her.

One day, madame de Fervaques, after having asked three times if there
were any letters for her, suddenly decided to answer Julien. It was a
case of the triumph of ennui. On reaching the second letter in his name
the marechale almost felt herself pulled up sharp by the unbecomingness
of writing with her own hand so vulgar an address as to M. Sorel, care
of M. le Marquis de la Mole.

""You must bring me envelopes with your address on,"" she said very drily
to Julien in the evening. ""Here I am appointed lover and valet in one,""
thought Julien, and he bowed, amused himself by wrinkling his face up
like Arsene, the old valet of the marquis.

He brought the envelopes that very evening, and he received the third
letter very early on the following day: he read five or six lines at
the beginning, and two or three towards the end. There were four pages
of a small and very close writing. The lady gradually developed the
sweet habit of writing nearly every day. Julien answered by faithful
copies of the Russian letters; and such is the advantage of the
bombastic style that madame de Fervaques was not a bit astonished by
the lack of connection between his answers and her letters. How gravely
irritated would her pride have been if the little Tanbeau who had
constituted himself a voluntary spy on all Julien's movements had been
able to have informed her that all these letters were left unsealed and
thrown haphazard into Julien's drawer.

One morning the porter was bringing into the library a letter to him
from the marechale. Mathilde met the man, saw the letter together with
the address in Julien's handwriting. She entered the library as the
porter was leaving it, the letter was still on the edge of the table.
Julien was very busy with his work and had not yet put it in his drawer.

""I cannot endure this,"" exclaimed Mathilde, as she took possession
of the letter, ""you are completely forgetting me, me your wife, your
conduct is awful, monsieur.""

At these words her pride, shocked by the awful unseemliness of her
proceeding, prevented her from speaking. She burst into tears, and soon
seemed to Julien scarcely able to breathe.

Julien was so surprised and embarrassed that he did not fully
appreciate how ideally fortunate this scene was for himself. He helped
Mathilde to sit down; she almost abandoned herself in his arms.

The first minute in which he noticed this movement, he felt an extreme
joy. Immediately afterwards, he thought of Korasoff: ""I may lose
everything by a single word.""

The strain of carrying out his tactics was so great that his arms
stiffened. ""I dare not even allow myself to press this supple, charming
frame to my heart, or she will despise me or treat me badly. What an
awful character!"" And while he cursed Mathilde's character, he loved
her a hundred times more. He thought he had a queen in his arms.

Julien's impassive coldness intensified the anguished pride which was
lacerating the soul of mademoiselle de la Mole. She was far from having
the necessary self-possession to try and read in his eyes what he felt
for her at that particular moment. She could not make up her mind to
look at him. She trembled lest she might encounter a contemptuous
expression.

Seated motionless on the library divan, with her head turned in the
opposite direction to Julien, she was a prey to the most poignant
anguish that pride and love can inflict upon a human soul. What an
awful step had she just slipped into taking! ""It has been reserved
for me, unhappy woman that I am, to see my most unbecoming advances
rebuffed! and rebuffed by whom?"" added her maddened and wounded pride;
""rebuffed by a servant of my father's! That's more than I will put up
with,"" she said aloud, and rising in a fury, she opened the drawer of
Julien's table, which was two yards in front of her.

She stood petrified with horror when she saw eight or ten unopened
letters, completely like the one the porter had just brought up. She
recognised Julien's handwriting, though more or less disguised, on all
the addresses.

""So,"" she cried, quite beside herself, ""you are not only on good terms
with her, but you actually despise her. You, a nobody, despise madame
la marechale de Fervaques!""

""Oh, forgive me, my dear,"" she added, throwing herself on her knees;
""despise me if you wish, but love me. I cannot live without your love.""
And she fell down in a dead faint.

""So our proud lady is lying at my feet,"" said Julien to himself.





","Madame de Fervques is starting to find Julien's letters interesting. This is because Prince Korasoff intentionally wrote them to get better over time, nurturing love from a little seed. She is so bored one day that she finally writes a reply letter to Julien. After that, they get into the habit of writing to one another every day. Little does Madame know that all of her letters are tossed into Julien's desk without being read. Mathilde notices the letters coming to her house from Madame and finally snaps. She grabs one of the letters and confronts Julien about it, accusing him of adultery. She thinks that because they've had sex, they are now married. She begs Julien to take her back."
125,"CHAPTER LX

A BOX AT THE BOUFFES


   As the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest
               _Don Juan, c._ 1. _st_.76.


In the midst of these great transports Julien felt more surprised than
happy. Mathilde's abuse proved to him the shrewdness of the Russian
tactics. ""'Few words, few deeds,' that is my one method of salvation.""
He picked up Mathilde, and without saying a word, put her back on the
divan. She was gradually being overcome by tears.

In order to keep herself in countenance, she took madame de Fervaques'
letters in her hands, and slowly broke the seals. She gave a noticeable
nervous movement when she recognised the marechale's handwriting. She
turned over the pages of these letters without reading them. Most of
them were six pages.

""At least answer me,"" Mathilde said at last, in the most supplicatory
tone, but without daring to look at Julien: ""You know how proud I am.
It is the misfortune of my position, and of my temperament, too, I
confess. Has madame de Fervaques robbed me of your heart? Has she made
the sacrifices to which my fatal love swept me?""

A dismal silence was all Julien's answer. ""By what right,"" he thought,
""does she ask me to commit an indiscretion unworthy of an honest man?""
Mathilde tried to read the letters; her eyes were so wet with tears
that it was impossible for her to do so. She had been unhappy for a
month past, but this haughty soul had been very far from owning its own
feelings even to itself. Chance alone had brought about this explosion.
For one instant jealousy and love had won a victory over pride. She
was sitting on the divan, and very near him. He saw her hair and her
alabaster neck. For a moment he forgot all he owed to himself. He
passed his arm around her waist, and clasped her almost to his breast.

She slowly turned her head towards him. He was astonished by the
extreme anguish in her eyes. There was not a trace of their usual
expression.

Julien felt his strength desert him. So great was the deadly pain of
the courageous feat which he was imposing on himself.

""Those eyes will soon express nothing but the coldest disdain,"" said
Julien to himself, ""if I allow myself to be swept away by the happiness
of loving her."" She, however, kept repeatedly assuring him at this
moment, in a hushed voice, and in words which she had scarcely the
strength to finish, of all her remorse for those steps which her
inordinate pride had dictated.

""I, too, have pride,"" said Julien to her, in a scarcely articulate
voice, while his features portrayed the lowest depths of physical
prostration.

Mathilde turned round sharply towards him. Hearing his voice was a
happiness which she had given up hoping. At this moment her only
thought of her haughtiness was to curse it. She would have liked to
have found out some abnormal and incredible actions, in order to prove
to him the extent to which she adored him and detested herself.

""That pride is probably the reason,"" continued Julien, ""why you singled
me out for a moment. My present courageous and manly firmness is
certainly the reason why you respect me. I may entertain love for the
marechale.""

Mathilde shuddered; a strange expression came into her eyes. She was
going to hear her sentence pronounced. This shudder did not escape
Julien. He felt his courage weaken.

""Ah,"" he said to himself, as he listened to the sound of the vain words
which his mouth was articulating, as he thought it were some strange
sound, ""if I could only cover those pale cheeks with kisses without
your feeling it.""

""I may entertain love for the marechale,"" he continued, while his voice
became weaker and weaker, ""but I certainly have no definite proof of
her interest in me.""

Mathilde looked at him. He supported that look. He hoped, at any rate,
that his expression had not betrayed him. He felt himself bathed in a
love that penetrated even into the most secret recesses of his heart.
He had never adored her so much; he was almost as mad as Mathilde. If
she had mustered sufficient self-possession and courage to manoeuvre, he
would have abandoned all his play-acting, and fallen at her feet. He
had sufficient strength to manage to continue speaking: ""Ah, Korasoff,""
he exclaimed mentally, ""why are you not here? How I need a word from
you to guide me in my conduct."" During this time his voice was saying,

""In default of any other sentiment, gratitude would be sufficient to
attach me to the marechale. She has been indulgent to me; she has
consoled me when I have been despised. I cannot put unlimited faith
in certain appearances which are, no doubt, extremely flattering, but
possibly very fleeting.""

""Oh, my God!"" exclaimed Mathilde.

""Well, what guarantee will you give me?"" replied Julien with a sharp,
firm intonation, which seemed to abandon for a moment the prudent forms
of diplomacy. ""What guarantee, what god will warrant that the position
to which you seem inclined to restore me at the present moment will
last more than two days?""

""The excess of my love, and my unhappiness if you do not love me,"" she
said to him, taking his hands and turning towards him.

The spasmodic movement which she had just made had slightly displaced
her tippet; Julien caught a view of her charming shoulders. Her
slightly dishevelled hair recalled a delicious memory....

He was on the point of succumbing. ""One imprudent word,"" he said to
himself, ""and I have to start all over again that long series of days
which I have passed in despair. Madame de Renal used to find reasons
for doing what her heart dictated. This young girl of high society
never allows her heart to be moved except when she has proved to
herself by sound logic that it ought to be moved.""

He saw this proof in the twinkling of an eye, and in the twinkling
of an eye too, he regained his courage. He took away his hands which
Mathilde was pressing in her own, and moved a little away from her with
a marked respect.

Human courage could not go further. He then busied himself with
putting together madame de Fervaque's letters which were spread out on
the divan, and it was with all the appearance of extreme politeness
that he cruelly exploited the psychological moment by adding,

""Mademoiselle de la Mole will allow me to reflect over all this."" He
went rapidly away and left the library; she heard him shut all the
doors one after the other.

""The monster is not the least bit troubled,"" she said to herself. ""But
what am I saying? Monster? He is wise, prudent, good. It is I myself
who have committed more wrong than one can imagine.""

This point of view lasted. Mathilde was almost happy today, for she
gave herself up to love unreservedly. One would have said that this
soul had never been disturbed by pride (and what pride!)

She shuddered with horror when a lackey announced madame le Fervaques
into the salon in the evening. The man's voice struck her as sinister.
She could not endure the sight of the marechale, and stopped suddenly.
Julien who had felt little pride over his painful victory, had feared
to face her, and had not dined at the Hotel de la Mole.

His love and his happiness rapidly increased in proportion to the time
that elapsed from the moment of the battle. He was blaming himself
already. ""How could I resist her?"" he said to himself. ""Suppose she
were to go and leave off loving me! One single moment may change that
haughty soul, and I must admit that I have treated her awfully.""

In the evening he felt that it was absolutely necessary to put in
an appearance at the Bouffes in madame de Fervaques' box. She had
expressly invited him. Mathilde would be bound to know of his presence
or his discourteous absence. In spite of the clearness of this logic,
he could not at the beginning of the evening bring himself to plunge
into society. By speaking he would lose half his happiness. Ten o'clock
struck and it was absolutely necessary to show himself. Luckily he
found the marechale's box packed with women, and was relegated to a
place near the door where he was completely hidden by the hats. This
position saved him from looking ridiculous; Caroline's divine notes of
despair in the _Matrimonio Segreto_ made him burst into tears. Madame
de Fervaques saw these tears. They represented so great a contrast
with the masculine firmness of his usual expression that the soul
of the old-fashioned lady, saturated as it had been for many years
with all the corroding acid of parvenu haughtiness, was none the less
touched. Such remnants of a woman's heart as she still possessed
impelled her to speak: she wanted to enjoy the sound of his voice at
this moment.

""Have you seen the de la Mole ladies?"" she said to him. ""They are
in the third tier."" Julien immediately craned out over the theatre,
leaning politely enough on the front of the box. He saw Mathilde; her
eyes were shining with tears.

""And yet it is not their Opera day,"" thought Julien; ""how eager she
must be!""

Mathilde had prevailed on her mother to come to the Bouffes in spite
of the inconveniently high tier of the box, which a lady friend of the
family had hastened to offer her. She wanted to see if Julien would
pass the evening with the marechale.





","After telling Julien she wants him back, Mathilde asks if he has had sex with Madame de Fervaques yet. He decides not to answer, which just twists the knife in her all the more. Julien is conflicted. He wants to take Mathilde in his arms, but knows that she'll despise him in only a few days if he declares his love for her. Julien tells Mathilde straight up that he doesn't trust her. She's too fickle for him and he won't let himself love her anymore. With that, he leaves Mathilde to cry all by her lonesome self. Julien goes to the opera that night with Madame de Fervaques and cries because he's thinking of Mathilde. Madame thinks that he's just showing his sensitivity as a man because the opera is sad. It makes her like him even more. Of course, Mathilde is at the opera to see whether Julien is there with Fervaques."
126,"CHAPTER LXI

FRIGHTEN HER


        So this is the fine miracle of your civilisation; you
        have turned love into an ordinary business.--_Barnave_.


Julien rushed into madame de la Mole's box. His eyes first met the
tearful eyes of Mathilde; she was crying without reserve. There were
only insignificant personages present, the friend who had leant her
box, and some men whom she knew. Mathilde placed her hand on Julien's;
she seemed to have forgotten all fear of her mother. Almost stifled as
she was by her tears, she said nothing but this one word: ""Guarantees!""

""So long as I don't speak to her,"" said Julien to himself. He was
himself very moved, and concealed his eyes with his hand as best
he could under the pretext of avoiding the dazzling light of the
third tier of boxes. ""If I speak she may suspect the excess of my
emotion, the sound of my voice will betray me. All may yet be lost.""
His struggles were more painful than they had been in the morning,
his soul had had the time to become moved. He had been frightened at
seeing Mathilde piqued with vanity. Intoxicated as he was with love and
pleasure he resolved not to speak.

In my view this is one of the finest traits in his character, an
individual capable of such an effort of self-control may go far si
_fata sinant_.

Mademoiselle de la Mole insisted on taking Julien back to the hotel.
Luckily it was raining a great deal, but the marquise had him placed
opposite her, talked to him incessantly, and prevented him saying a
single word to her daughter. One might have thought that the marquise
was nursing Julien's happiness for him; no longer fearing to lose
everything through his excessive emotion, he madly abandoned himself to
his happiness.

Shall I dare to say that when he went back to his room Julien fell
on his knees and covered with kisses the love letters which prince
Korasoff had given him.

""How much I owe you, great man,"" he exclaimed in his madness. Little
by little he regained his self-possession. He compared himself to a
general who had just won a great battle. ""My advantage is definite and
immense,"" he said to himself, ""but what will happen to-morrow? One
instant may ruin everything.""

With a passionate gesture he opened the _Memoirs_ which Napoleon had
dictated at St. Helena and for two long hours forced himself to read
them. Only his eyes read; no matter, he made himself do it. During this
singular reading his head and his heart rose to the most exalted level
and worked unconsciously. ""Her heart is very different from madame de
Renal's,"" he said to himself, but he did not go further.

""Frighten her!"" he suddenly exclaimed, hurling away the book. ""The
enemy will only obey me in so far as I frighten him, but then he will
not dare to show contempt for me.""

Intoxicated with joy he walked up and down his little room. In point of
fact his happiness was based rather on pride than on love.

""Frighten her!"" he repeated proudly, and he had cause to be proud.

""Madame de Renal always doubted even in her happiest moments if my
love was equal to her own. In this case I have to subjugate a demon,
consequently I must subjugate her."" He knew quite well that Mathilde
would be in the library at eight o'clock in the morning of the
following day. He did not appear before nine o'clock. He was burning
with love, but his head dominated his heart.

Scarcely a single minute passed without his repeating to himself. ""Keep
her obsessed by this great doubt. Does he love me?"" Her own brilliant
position, together with the flattery of all who speak to her, tend a
little too much to make her reassure herself.

He found her sitting on the divan pale and calm, but apparently
completely incapable of making a single movement. She held out her
hand,

""Dear one, it is true I have offended you, perhaps you are angry with
me.""

Julien had not been expecting this simple tone. He was on the point of
betraying himself.

""You want guarantees, my dear, she added after a silence which she had
hoped would be broken. Take me away, let us leave for London. I shall
be ruined, dishonoured for ever."" She had the courage to take her hand
away from Julien to cover her eyes with it.

All her feelings of reserve and feminine virtue had come back into her
soul. ""Well, dishonour me,"" she said at last with a sigh, ""that will be
a guarantee.""

""I was happy yesterday, because I had the courage to be severe with
myself,"" thought Julien. After a short silence he had sufficient
control over his heart to say in an icy tone,

""Once we are on the road to London, once you are dishonoured, to employ
your own expression, who will answer that you will still love me? that
my very presence in the post-chaise will not seem importunate? I am not
a monster; to have ruined your reputation will only make me still more
unhappy. It is not your position in society which is the obstacle, it
is unfortunately your own character. Can you yourself guarantee that
you will love me for eight days?""

""Ah! let her love me for eight days, just eight days,"" whispered
Julien to himself, ""and I will die of happiness. What do I care for
the future, what do I care for life? And yet if I wish that divine
happiness can commence this very minute, it only depends on me.""

Mathilde saw that he was pensive.

""So I am completely unworthy of you,"" she said to him, taking his hand.

Julien kissed her, but at the same time the iron hand of duty gripped
his heart. If she sees how much I adore her I shall lose her. And
before leaving her arms, he had reassumed all that dignity which is
proper to a man.

He managed on this and the following days to conceal his inordinate
happiness. There were moments when he even refused himself the pleasure
of clasping her in his arms. At other times the delirium of happiness
prevailed over all the counsels of prudence.

He had been accustomed to station himself near a bower of honeysuckle
in the garden arranged in such a way so as to conceal the ladder when
he had looked up at Mathilde's blind in the distance, and lamented her
inconstancy. A very big oak tree was quite near, and the trunk of that
tree prevented him from being seen by the indiscreet.

As he passed with Mathilde over this very place which recalled his
excessive unhappiness so vividly, the contrast between his former
despair and his present happiness proved too much for his character.
Tears inundated his eyes, and he carried his sweetheart's hand to his
lips: ""It was here I used to live in my thoughts of you, it was from
here that I used to look at that blind, and waited whole hours for the
happy moment when I would see that hand open it.""

His weakness was unreserved. He portrayed the extremity of his former
despair in genuine colours which could not possibly have been invented.
Short interjections testified to that present happiness which had put
an end to that awful agony.

""My God, what am I doing?"" thought Julien, suddenly recovering himself.
""I am ruining myself.""

In his excessive alarm he thought that he already detected a diminution
of the love in mademoiselle de la Mole's eyes. It was an illusion, but
Julien's face suddenly changed its expression and became overspread
by a mortal pallor. His eyes lost their fire, and an expression of
haughtiness touched with malice soon succeeded to his look of the most
genuine and unreserved love.

""But what is the matter with you, my dear,"" said Mathilde to him, both
tenderly and anxiously.

""I am lying,"" said Julien irritably, ""and I am lying to you. I am
reproaching myself for it, and yet God knows that I respect you
sufficiently not to lie to you. You love me, you are devoted to me, and
I have no need of praises in order to please you.""

""Great heavens! are all the charming things you have been telling me
for the last two minutes mere phrases?""

""And I reproach myself for it keenly, dear one. I once made them up for
a woman who loved me, and bored me--it is the weakness of my character.
I denounce myself to you, forgive me.""

Bitter tears streamed over Mathilde's cheeks.

""As soon as some trifle offends me and throws me back on my
meditation,"" continued Julien, ""my abominable memory, which I curse at
this very minute, offers me a resource, and I abuse it.""

""So I must have slipped, without knowing it, into some action which has
displeased you,"" said Mathilde with a charming simplicity.

""I remember one day that when you passed near this honeysuckle you
picked a flower, M. de Luz took it from you and you let him keep it. I
was two paces away.""

""M. de Luz? It is impossible,"" replied Mathilde with all her natural
haughtiness. ""I do not do things like that.""

""I am sure of it,"" Julien replied sharply.

""Well, my dear, it is true,"" said Mathilde, as she sadly lowered her
eyes. She knew positively that many months had elapsed since she had
allowed M. de Luz to do such a thing.

Julien looked at her with ineffable tenderness, ""No,"" he said to
himself, ""she does not love me less.""

In the evening she rallied him with a laugh on his fancy for madame de
Fervaques. ""Think of a bourgeois loving a parvenu, those are perhaps
the only type of hearts that my Julien cannot make mad with love. She
has made you into a real dandy,"" she said playing with his hair.

During the period when he thought himself scorned by Mathilde, Julien
had become one of the best dressed men in Paris. He had, moreover,
a further advantage over other dandies, in as much as once he had
finished dressing he never gave a further thought to his appearance.

One thing still piqued Mathilde, Julien continued to copy out the
Russian letters and send them to the marechale.





","Julien checks Mathilde's box at the opera and sees her crying. He finds it more difficult than ever to tell her he loves her. The next day, he finds Mathilde sitting on a couch in the library. She says she's willing to offer him proof of her commitment. She offers to run away with him to London. The scandal this would cause would mean they basically have to get married. Julien wants to accept this offer, but he's still skeptical about her fickleness. One day, he can't take it anymore and kisses Mathilde's hand while they're walking in the garden. He says he totally can't live without her. Then he takes it all back and leaves Mathilde feeling crushed. By the end of their conversation, Mathilde thinks that Julien's heart might be swinging her way again. But she's irritated by the way he keeps sending letters to Madame de Fervaques."
127,"CHAPTER LXIII

THE HELL OF WEAKNESS


        A clumsy lapidary, in cutting this diamond, deprived
        it of some of its most brilliant facets. In the middle
        ages, nay, even under Richelieu, the Frenchman had
        _force of will_.--_Mirabeau_.


Julien found the marquis furious. For perhaps the first time in his
life this nobleman showed bad form. He loaded Julien with all the
insults that came to his lips. Our hero was astonished, and his
patience was tried, but his gratitude remained unshaken.

""The poor man now sees the annihilation, in a single minute, of all
the fine plans which he has long cherished in his heart. But I owe it
to him to answer. My silence tends to increase his anger."" The part of
Tartuffe supplied the answer;

""I am not an angel.... I served you well; you paid me generously.... I
was grateful, but I am twenty-two.... Only you and that charming person
understood my thoughts in this household.""

""Monster,"" exclaimed the marquis. ""Charming! Charming, to be sure! The
day when you found her charming you ought to have fled.""

""I tried to. It was then that I asked permission to leave for
Languedoc.""

Tired of stampeding about and overcome by his grief, the marquis threw
himself into an arm-chair. Julien heard him whispering to himself, ""No,
no, he is not a wicked man.""

""No, I am not, towards you,"" exclaimed Julien, falling on his knees.
But he felt extremely ashamed of this manifestation, and very quickly
got up again.

The marquis was really transported. When he saw this movement, he
began again to load him with abominable insults, which were worthy of
the driver of a fiacre. The novelty of these oaths perhaps acted as a
distraction.

""What! is my daughter to go by the name of madame Sorel? What! is my
daughter not to be a duchess?"" Each time that these two ideas presented
themselves in all their clearness M. de la Mole was a prey to torture,
and lost all power over the movements of his mind.

Julien was afraid of being beaten.

In his lucid intervals, when he was beginning to get accustomed to his
unhappiness, the marquis addressed to Julien reproaches which were
reasonable enough. ""You should have fled, sir,"" he said to him. ""Your
duty was to flee. You are the lowest of men.""

Julien approached the table and wrote:

        ""I have found my life unbearable for a long time; I am
        putting an end to it. I request monsieur the marquis to
        accept my apologies (together with the expression of my
        infinite gratitude) for any embarrassment that may be
        occasioned by my death in his hotel.""

""Kindly run your eye over this paper, M. the marquis,"" said Julien.
""Kill me, or have me killed by your valet. It is one o'clock in the
morning. I will go and walk in the garden in the direction of the wall
at the bottom.""

""Go to the devil,"" cried the marquis, as he went away.

""I understand,"" thought Julien. ""He would not be sorry if I were to
spare his valet the trouble of killing me....

""Let him kill me, if he likes; it is a satisfaction which I offer
him.... But, by heaven, I love life. I owe it to my son.""

This idea, which had not previously presented itself with so much
definiteness to his imagination, completely engrossed him during his
walk after the first few minutes which he had spent thinking about his
danger.

This novel interest turned him into a prudent man. ""I need advice as to
how to behave towards this infuriated man.... He is devoid of reason;
he is capable of everything. Fouque is too far away; besides, he would
not understand the emotions of a heart like the marquis's.""

""Count Altamira ... am I certain of eternal silence? My request
for advice must not be a fresh step which will raise still further
complications. Alas! I have no one left but the gloomy abbe Pirard. His
mind is crabbed by Jansenism.... A damned Jesuit would know the world,
and would be more in my line. M. Pirard is capable of beating me at the
very mention of my crime.""

The genius of Tartuffe came to Julien's help. ""Well, I will go and
confess to him."" This was his final resolution after having walked
about in the garden for two good hours. He no longer thought about
being surprised by a gun shot. He was feeling sleepy.

Very early the next day, Julien was several leagues away from Paris
and knocked at the door of the severe Jansenist. He found to his great
astonishment that he was not unduly surprised at his confidence.

""I ought perhaps to reproach myself,"" said the abbe, who seemed more
anxious than irritated. ""I thought I guessed that love. My affection
for you, my unhappy boy, prevented me from warning the father.""

""What will he do?"" said Julien keenly.

At that moment he loved the abbe, and would have found a scene between
them very painful.

""I see three alternatives,"" continued Julien.

""M. de la Mole can have me put to death,"" and he mentioned the suicide
letter which he had left with the Marquis; (2) ""He can get Count
Norbert to challenge me to a duel, and shoot at me point blank.""

""You would accept?"" said the abbe furiously as he got up.

""You do not let me finish. I should certainly never fire upon my
benefactor's son. (3) He can send me away. If he says go to Edinburgh
or New York, I will obey him. They can then conceal mademoiselle de la
Mole's condition, but I will never allow them to suppress my son.""

""Have no doubt about it, that will be the first thought of that
depraved man.""

At Paris, Mathilde was in despair. She had seen her father about seven
o'clock. He had shown her Julien's letter. She feared that he might
have considered it noble to put an end to his life; ""and without my
permission?"" she said to herself with a pain due solely to her anger.

""If he dies I shall die,"" she said to her father. ""It will be you
who will be the cause of his death.... Perhaps you will rejoice at
it but I swear by his shades that I shall at once go into mourning,
and shall publicly appear as _Madame the widow Sorel_, I shall send
out my invitations, you can count on it.... You will find me neither
pusillanimous nor cowardly.""

Her love went to the point of madness. M. de la Mole was flabbergasted
in his turn.

He began to regard what had happened with a certain amount of logic.
Mathilde did not appear at breakfast. The marquis felt an immense
weight off his mind, and was particularly flattered when he noticed
that she had said nothing to her mother.

Julien was dismounting from his horse. Mathilde had him called and
threw herself into his arms almost beneath the very eyes of her
chambermaid. Julien was not very appreciative of this transport. He had
come away from his long consultation with the abbe Pirard in a very
diplomatic and calculating mood. The calculation of possibilities had
killed his imagination. Mathilde told him, with tears in her eyes, that
she had read his suicide letter.

""My father may change his mind; do me the favour of leaving for
Villequier this very minute. Mount your horse again, and leave the
hotel before they get up from table.""

When Julien's coldness and astonishment showed no sign of abatement,
she burst into tears.

""Let me manage our affairs,"" she exclaimed ecstatically, as she clasped
him in her arms. ""You know, dear, it is not of my own free will that
I separate from you. Write under cover to my maid. Address it in a
strange hand-writing, I will write volumes to you. Adieu, flee.""

This last word wounded Julien, but he none the less obeyed. ""It will
be fatal,"" he thought ""if, in their most gracious moments these
aristocrats manage to shock me.""

Mathilde firmly opposed all her father's prudent plans. She would
not open negotiations on any other basis except this. She was to be
Madame Sorel, and was either to live with her husband in poverty in
Switzerland, or with her father in Paris. She rejected absolutely the
suggestion of a secret accouchement. ""In that case I should begin to
be confronted with a prospect of calumny and dishonour. I shall go
travelling with my husband two months after the marriage, and it will
be easy to pretend that my son was born at a proper time.""

This firmness though at first received with violent fits of anger,
eventually made the marquis hesitate.

""Here,"" he said to his daughter in a moment of emotion, ""is a gift of
ten thousand francs a year. Send it to your Julien, and let him quickly
make it impossible for me to retract it.""

In order to obey Mathilde, whose imperious temper he well knew, Julien
had travelled forty useless leagues; he was superintending the accounts
of the farmers at Villequier. This act of benevolence on the part of
the marquis occasioned his return. He went and asked asylum of the abbe
Pirard, who had become Mathilde's most useful ally during his absence.
Every time that he was questioned by the marquis, he would prove to him
that any other course except public marriage would be a crime in the
eyes of God.

""And happily,"" added the abbe, ""worldly wisdom is in this instance in
agreement with religion. Could one, in view of Mdlle. de la Mole's
passionate character, rely for a minute on her keeping any secret which
she did not herself wish to preserve? If one does not reconcile oneself
to the frankness of a public marriage, society will concern itself much
longer with this strange mesalliance__. Everything must be said all
at once without either the appearance or the reality of the slightest
mystery.""

""It is true,"" said the marquis pensively.

Two or three friends of M. de la Mole were of the same opinion as the
abbe Pirard. The great obstacle in their view was Mathilde's decided
character. But in spite of all these fine arguments the marquis's soul
could not reconcile itself to giving up all hopes of a coronet for his
daughter.

He ransacked his memory and his imagination for all the variations of
knavery and duplicity which had been feasible in his youth. Yielding to
necessity and having fear of the law seemed absurd and humiliating for
a man in his position. He was paying dearly now for the luxury of those
enchanting dreams concerning the future of his cherished daughter in
which he had indulged for the last ten years.

""Who could have anticipated it?"" he said to himself. ""A girl of so
proud a character, of so lofty a disposition, who is even prouder than
I am of the name she bears? A girl whose hand has already been asked
for by all the cream of the nobility of France.""

""We must give up all faith in prudence. This age is made to confound
everything. We are marching towards chaos.""





","The Marquis de La Mole showers Julien with every insult he can think of. Julien tries to smooth things out, but it isn't easy. Julien goes to his old mentor, Father Pirard, the next day and tells him what has happened. Pirard isn't surprised, though he's disappointed in Julien. Back in Paris, Mathilde reads a letter that Julien has given to the marquis. It suggests that Julien might be going off to commit suicide. When Julien comes back safe and sound, Mathilde tells him to ride off to a nearby village called Villequier and wait for her there. While Julien is gone, Mathilde convinces her father that the only way forward is for her to marry Julien. She won't consent to any sort of secret birth. She needs to be with him. The marquis reflects on all the big plans he used to have for Mathilde's future. But now they've all gone up in smoke."
128,"CHAPTER LXVII

A TURRET


        The tomb of a friend.--_Sterne_.


He heard a loud noise in the corridor. It was not the time when the
gaoler usually came up to his prison. The osprey flew away with a
shriek. The door opened, and the venerable cure Chelan threw himself
into his arms. He was trembling all over and had his stick in his hands.

""Great God! Is it possible, my child--I ought to say monster?""

The good old man could not add a single word. Julien was afraid he
would fall down. He was obliged to lead him to a chair. The hand of
time lay heavy on this man who had once been so active. He seemed to
Julien the mere shadow of his former self.

When he had regained his breath, he said, ""It was only the day before
yesterday that I received your letter from Strasbourg with your five
hundred francs for the poor of Verrieres. They brought it to me in
the mountains at Liveru where I am living in retirement with my
nephew Jean. Yesterday I learnt of the catastrophe.... Heavens, is it
possible?"" And the old man left off weeping. He did not seem to have
any ideas left, but added mechanically, ""You will have need of your
five hundred francs, I will bring them back to you.""

""I need to see you, my father,"" exclaimed Julien, really touched. ""I
have money, anyway.""

But he could not obtain any coherent answer. From time to time, M.
Chelan shed some tears which coursed silently down his cheeks. He then
looked at Julien, and was quite dazed when he saw him kiss his hands
and carry them to his lips. That face which had once been so vivid,
and which had once portrayed with such vigour the most noble emotions
was now sunk in a perpetual apathy. A kind of peasant came soon to
fetch the old man. ""You must not fatigue him,"" he said to Julien, who
understood that he was the nephew. This visit left Julien plunged in a
cruel unhappiness which found no vent in tears. Everything seemed to
him gloomy and disconsolate. He felt his heart frozen in his bosom.

This moment was the cruellest which he had experienced since the
crime. He had just seen death and seen it in all its ugliness. All his
illusions about greatness of soul and nobility of character had been
dissipated like a cloud before the hurricane.

This awful plight lasted several hours. After moral poisoning, physical
remedies and champagne are necessary. Julien would have considered
himself a coward to have resorted to them. ""What a fool I am,"" he
exclaimed, towards the end of the horrible day that he had spent
entirely in walking up and down his narrow turret. ""It's only, if I
had been going to die like anybody else, that the sight of that poor
old man would have had any right to have thrown me into this awful fit
of sadness: but a rapid death in the flower of my age simply puts me
beyond the reach of such awful senility.""

In spite of all his argumentation, Julien felt as touched as any
weak-minded person would have been, and consequently felt unhappy
as the result of the visit. He no longer had any element of rugged
greatness, or any Roman virtue. Death appeared to him at a great height
and seemed a less easy proposition.

""This is what I shall take for my thermometer,"" he said to himself.
""To-night I am ten degrees below the courage requisite for
guillotine-point level. I had that courage this morning. Anyway, what
does it matter so long as it comes back to me at the necessary moment?""
This thermometer idea amused him and finally managed to distract him.

When he woke up the next day he was ashamed of the previous day. ""My
happiness and peace of mind are at stake."" He almost made up his mind
to write to the Procureur-General to request that no one should be
admitted to see him. ""And how about Fouque,"" he thought? ""If he takes
it upon himself to come to Besancon, his grief will be immense.""
It had perhaps been two months since he had given Fouque a thought.
""I was a great fool at Strasbourg. My thoughts did not go beyond my
coat-collar. He was much engrossed by the memory of Fouque, which
left him more and more touched. He walked nervously about. Here I
am, clearly twenty degrees below death point.... If this weakness
increases, it will be better for me to kill myself. What joy for the
abbe Maslon, and the Valenods, if I die like an usher.""

Fouque arrived. The good, simple man, was distracted by grief. His one
idea, so far as he had any at all, was to sell all he possessed in
order to bribe the gaoler and secure Julien's escape. He talked to him
at length of M. de Lavalette's escape.

""You pain me,"" Julien said to him. ""M. de Lavalette was innocent--I
am guilty. Though you did not mean to, you made me think of the
difference....""

""But is it true? What? were you going to sell all you possessed?"" said
Julien, suddenly becoming mistrustful and observant.

Fouque was delighted at seeing his friend answer his obsessing idea,
and detailed at length, and within a hundred francs, what he would get
for each of his properties.

""What a sublime effort for a small country land-owner,"" thought Julien.
""He is ready to sacrifice for me the fruits of all the economies, and
all the little semi-swindling tricks which I used to be ashamed of when
I saw him practice them.""

""None of the handsome young people whom I saw in the Hotel de la Mole,
and who read Rene, would have any of his ridiculous weaknesses: but,
except those who are very young and who have also inherited riches
and are ignorant of the value of money, which of all those handsome
Parisians would be capable of such a sacrifice?""

All Fouque's mistakes in French and all his common gestures seemed to
disappear. He threw himself into his arms. Never have the provinces
in comparison with Paris received so fine a tribute. Fouque was so
delighted with the momentary enthusiasm which he read in his friend's
eyes that he took it for consent to the flight.

This view of the sublime recalled to Julien all the strength that the
apparition of M. Chelan had made him lose. He was still very young;
but in my view he was a fine specimen. Instead of his character passing
from tenderness to cunning, as is the case with the majority of men,
age would have given him that kindness of heart which is easily melted
... but what avail these vain prophecies.

The interrogations became more frequent in spite of all the efforts
of Julien, who always endeavoured by his answers to shorten the whole
matter.

""I killed, or at any rate, I wished to occasion death, and I did so
with premeditation,"" he would repeat every day. But the judge was
a pedant above everything. Julien's confessions had no effect in
curtailing the interrogations. The judge's conceit was wounded. Julien
did not know that they had wanted to transfer him into an awful cell,
and that it was only, thanks to Fouque's efforts, that he was allowed
to keep his pretty room at the top of a hundred and eighty steps.

M. the abbe de Frilair was one of the important customers who entrusted
Fouque with the purveying of their firewood. The good tradesmen managed
to reach the all powerful grand vicar. M. de Frilair informed him,
to his unspeakable delight, that he was so touched by Julien's good
qualities, and by the services which he had formerly rendered to the
seminary, that he intended to recommend him to the judges. Fouque
thought he saw a hope of saving his friend, and as he went out, bowing
down to the ground, requested M. the grand vicar, to distribute a sum
of ten louis in masses to entreat the acquittal of the accused.

Fouque was making a strange mistake. M. de Frilair was very far from
being a Valenod. He refused, and even tried to make the good peasant
understand that he would do better to keep his money. Seeing that it
was impossible to be clear without being indiscreet, he advised him to
give that sum as alms for the use of the poor prisoners, who, in point
of fact, were destitute of everything.

""This Julien is a singular person, his action is unintelligible,""
thought M. de Frilair, ""and I ought to find nothing unintelligible.
Perhaps it will be possible to make a martyr of him.... In any case,
I shall get to the bottom of the matter, and shall perhaps find an
opportunity of putting fear into the heart of that madame de Renal
who has no respect for us, and at the bottom detests me.... Perhaps
I might be able to utilise all this as a means of a brilliant
reconciliation with M. de la Mole, who has a weakness for the little
seminarist.""

The settlement of the lawsuit had been signed some weeks previously,
and the abbe Pirard had left Besancon after having duly mentioned
Julien's mysterious birth, on the very day when the unhappy man tried
to assassinate madame de Renal in the church of Verrieres.

There was only one disagreeable event between himself and his death
which Julien anticipated. He consulted Fouque concerning his idea
of writing to M. the Procureur-General asking to be exempt from all
visits. This horror at the sight of a father, above all at a moment
like this, deeply shocked the honest middle-class heart of the wood
merchant.

He thought he understood why so many people had a passionate hatred for
his friend. He concealed his feelings out of respect for misfortune.

""In any case,"" he answered coldly, ""such an order for privacy would not
be applied to your father.""





","Julien's old friend Father Chelan visits him. The man calls him a monster. His old buddy Fouqe comes and tells him he has a good chance of avoiding the death penalty in court, since Madame de Renal survived. Fouqe also offers to sell everything he owns to bribe Julien's way out of prison. Nonetheless, Julien tells every lawyer who visits him that he tried to kill Madame and that it was premeditated. If he lied, he could probably get off. But he won't."
129,"CHAPTER LXIX

THE INTRIGUE


        Castres 1676--A brother has just murdered his sister
        in the house next to mine. This gentleman had already
        been guilty of one murder. His father saved his life by
        causing five-hundred crowns to be distributed among the
        councillors.--_Locke: Journey in France_.


When she left the bishop's palace, Mathilde did not hesitate to
despatch a courier to madame de Fervaques. The fear of compromising
herself did not stop her for a moment. She entreated her rival to
obtain for M. de Frilair an autograph letter from the bishop of ----.
She went as far as to entreat her to come herself to Besancon with all
speed. This was an heroic act on the part of a proud and jealous soul.

Acting on Fouque's advice, she had had the discretion to refrain from
mentioning the steps she had taken for Julien. Her presence troubled
him enough without that. A better man when face to face with death than
he had ever been during his life, he had remorse not only towards M. de
la Mole, but also towards Mathilde.

""Come,"" he said to himself, ""there are times when I feel absent-minded
and even bored by her society. She is ruining herself on my account,
and this is how I reward her. Am I really a scoundrel?"" This question
would have bothered him but little in the days when he was ambitious.
In those days he looked upon failure as the only disgrace.

His moral discomfort when with Mathilde was proportionately emphasized
by the fact that he inspired her at this time with the maddest and most
extraordinary passion. She talked of nothing but the strange sacrifices
that she was ready to make in order to save him.

Exalted as she was by a sentiment on which she plumed herself, to the
complete subordination of her pride, she would have liked not to have
let a single minute of her life go by without filling it with some
extraordinary act. The strangest projects, and ones involving her in
the utmost danger, supplied the topics of her long interviews with
Julien. The well-paid gaolers allowed her to reign over the prison.
Mathilde's ideas were not limited by the sacrifice of her reputation.
She would have thought nothing of making her condition known to society
at large. Throwing herself on her knees before the king's carriage
as it galloped along, in order to ask for Julien's pardon, and thus
attracting the attention of the prince, at the risk of being crushed
a thousand times over, was one of the least fantastic dreams in which
this exalted and courageous imagination chose to indulge. She was
certain of being admitted into the reserved portion of the park of St.
Cloud, through those friends of hers who were employed at the king's
court.

Julien thought himself somewhat unworthy of so much devotion. As a
matter of fact, he was tired of heroism. A simple, naive, and almost
timid tenderness was what would have appealed to him, while Mathilde's
haughty soul, on the other hand, always required the idea of a public
and an audience.

In the midst of all her anguish and all her fears for the life of
that lover whom she was unwilling to survive, she felt a secret need
of astonishing the public by the extravagance of her love and the
sublimity of her actions.

Julien felt irritated at not finding himself touched by all this
heroism. What would he have felt if he had known of all the mad ideas
with which Mathilde overwhelmed the devoted but eminently logical and
limited spirit of the good Fouque?

He did not know what to find fault with in Mathilde's devotion. For
he, too, would have sacrificed all his fortune, and have exposed his
life to the greatest risks in order to save Julien. He was dumbfounded
by the quantity of gold which Mathilde flung away. During the first
days Fouque, who had all the provincial's respect for money, was much
impressed by the sums she spent in this way.

He at last discovered that mademoiselle de la Mole's projects
frequently varied, and he was greatly relieved at finding a word with
which to express his blame for a character whom he found so exhausting.
She was changeable. There is only a step from this epithet to that of
wrong-headed, the greatest term of opprobrium known to the provinces.

""It is singular,"" said Julien to himself, as Mathilde was going out
of his prison one day, ""that I should be so insensible at being the
object of so keen a passion! And two months ago I adored her! I have,
of course, read that the approach of death makes one lose interest
in everything, but it is awful to feel oneself ungrateful, and not
to be able to change. Am I an egoist, then?"" He addressed the most
humiliating reproaches to himself on this score.

Ambition was dead in his heart; another passion had arisen from its
ashes. He called it remorse at having assassinated madame de Renal.

As a matter of fact, he loved her to the point of distraction. He
experienced a singular happiness on these occasions when, being left
absolutely alone, and without being afraid of being interrupted, he
could surrender himself completely to the memory of the happy days
which he had once passed at Verrieres, or at Vergy. The slightest
incidents of these days, which had fleeted away only too rapidly,
possessed an irresistible freshness and charm. He never gave a thought
to his Paris successes; they bored him.

These moods, which became intensified with every succeeding day, were
partly guessed by the jealous Mathilde. She realised very clearly that
she had to struggle against his love of solitude. Sometimes, with
terror in her heart, she uttered madame de Renal's name.

She saw Julien quiver. Henceforth her passion had neither bounds nor
limit.

""If he dies, I will die after him,"" she said to herself in all good
faith. ""What will the Paris salons say when they see a girl of my own
rank carry her adoration for a lover who is condemned to death to such
a pitch as this? For sentiments like these you must go back to the age
of the heroes. It was loves of this kind which thrilled the hearts of
the century of Charles IX. and Henri III.""

In the midst of her keenest transports, when she was clasping Julien's
head against her heart, she would say to herself with horror, ""What!
is this charming head doomed to fall? Well,"" she added, inflamed by
a not unhappy heroism, ""these lips of mine, which are now pressing
against this pretty hair, will be icy cold less than twenty-four hours
afterwards.""

Thoughts of the awful voluptuousness of such heroic moments gripped
her in a compelling embrace. The idea of suicide, absorbing enough
in itself, entered that haughty soul (to which, up to the present it
had been so utterly alien), and soon reigned over it with an absolute
dominion.

""No, the blood of my ancestors has not grown tepid in descending to
me,"" said Mathilde proudly to herself.

""I have a favour to ask of you,"" said her lover to her one day. ""Put
your child out to nurse at Verrieres. Madame de Renal will look after
the nurse.""

""Those words of yours are very harsh."" And Mathilde paled.

""It is true, and I ask your pardon a thousand times,"" exclaimed Julien,
emerging from his reverie, and clasping her in his arms.

After having dried his tears, he reverted to his original idea, but
with greater tact. He had given a twist of melancholy philosophy to the
conversation. He talked of that future of his which was so soon going
to close. ""One must admit, dear one, that passions are an accident in
life, but such accidents only occur in superior souls.... My son's
death would be in reality a happiness for your own proud family, and
all the servants will realize as much. Neglect will be the lot of that
child of shame and unhappiness. I hope that, at a time which I do not
wish to fix, but which nevertheless I am courageous enough to imagine,
you will obey my last advice: you will marry the marquis de Croisenois.""

""What? Dishonoured?""

""Dishonour cannot attach to a name such as yours. You will be a widow,
and the widow of a madman--that is all. I will go further--my crime
will confer no dishonour, since it had no money motive. Perhaps when
the time comes for your marriage, some philosophic legislator will have
so far prevailed on the prejudice of his contemporaries as to have
secured the suppression of the death penalty. Then some friendly voice
will say, by way of giving an instance: 'Why, madame de la Mole's first
husband was a madman, but not a wicked man or a criminal. It was absurd
to have his head cut off.' So my memory will not be infamous in any
way--at least, after a certain time.... Your position in society, your
fortune, and, if you will allow me to say so, your genius, will make M.
de Croisenois, once he is your husband, play a part which he would have
never managed to secure unaided. He only possesses birth and bravery,
and those qualities alone, though they constituted an accomplished man
in 1729, are an anachronism a century later on, and only give rise to
unwarranted pretensions. You need other things if you are to place
yourself at the head of the youth of France.""

""You will take all the help of your firm and enterprising character
to the political party which you will make your husband join. You may
be able to be a successor to the Chevreuses and the Longuevilles of
the Fronde--but then, dear one, the divine fire which animates you
at present will have grown a little tepid. Allow me to tell you,"" he
added, ""after many other preparatory phrases, that in fifteen years'
time you will look upon the love you once had for me as a madness,
which though excusable, was a piece of madness all the same.""

He stopped suddenly and became meditative. He found himself again
confronted with the idea which shocked Mathilde so much: ""In fifteen
years, madame de Renal will adore my son and you will have forgotten
him.""





","Mathilde runs all over town pleading Julien's case. But no matter what she does for him, all he can feel toward her is indifference. It sounds like he's really checked out from the hotel of life. The next time Mathilde visits him, Julien says that he would like Madame de Renal to look after their child growing up. You can imagine how this goes over with Mathilde. Julien tries to cheer Mathilde up by saying that she still has time to hide her scandal and to marry a successful young man in Paris."
130,"CHAPTER LXX

TRANQUILITY


        It is because I was foolish then that I am wise to-day.
        Oh thou philosopher who seest nothing except the actual
        instant. How short-sighted are thy views! Thine eye
        is not adapted to follow the subterranean work of the
        passions.--_M. Goethe_.


This conversation was interrupted by an interrogation followed by
a conference with the advocate entrusted with the defence. These
moments were the only absolutely unpleasant ones in a life made up of
nonchalance and tender reveries.

""There is murder, and murder with premeditation,"" said Julien to the
judge as he had done to the advocate, ""I am sorry, gentlemen, he added
with a smile, that this reduces your functions to a very small compass.""

""After all,"" said Julien to himself, when he had managed to rid
himself of those two persons, ""I must really be brave, and apparently
braver than those two men. They regard that duel with an unfortunate
termination, which I can only seriously bother myself about on the
actual day, as the greatest of evils and the arch-terror.""

""The fact is that I have known a much greater unhappiness,"" continued
Julien, as he went on philosophising with himself. ""I suffered far
more acutely during my first journey to Strasbourg, when I thought I
was abandoned by Mathilde--and to think that I desired so passionately
that same perfect intimacy which to-day leaves me so cold--as a matter
of fact I am more happy alone than when that handsome girl shares my
solitude.""

The advocate, who was a red-tape pedant, thought him mad, and believed,
with the public, that it was jealousy which had lead him to take up
the pistol. He ventured one day to give Julien to understand that
this contention, whether true or false, would be an excellent way of
pleading. But the accused man became in a single minute a passionate
and drastic individual.

""As you value your life, monsieur,"" exclaimed Julien, quite beside
himself, ""mind you never put forward such an abominable lie."" The
cautious advocate was for a moment afraid of being assassinated.

He was preparing his case because the decisive moment was drawing near.
The only topic of conversation in Besancon, and all the department, was
the _cause celebre_. Julien did not know of this circumstance. He had
requested his friends never to talk to him about that kind of thing.

On this particular day, Fouque and Mathilde had tried to inform him
of certain rumours which in their view were calculated to give hope.
Julien had stopped them at the very first word.

""Leave me my ideal life. Your pettifogging troubles and details of
practical life all more or less jar on me and bring me down from my
heaven. One dies as best one can: but I wish to chose my own way of
thinking about death. What do I care for other people? My relations
with other people will be sharply cut short. Be kind enough not to talk
to me any more about those people. Seeing the judge and the advocate is
more than enough.""

""As a matter of fact,"" he said to himself, ""it seems that I am fated
to die dreaming. An obscure creature like myself, who is certain to be
forgotten within a fortnight, would be very silly, one must admit, to
go and play a part. It is nevertheless singular that I never knew so
much about the art of enjoying life, as since I have seen its end so
near me.""

He passed his last day in promenading upon the narrow terrace at the
top of the turret, smoking some excellent cigars which Mathilde had
had fetched from Holland by a courier. He had no suspicion that his
appearance was waited for each day by all the telescopes in the town.
His thoughts were at Vergy. He never spoke to Fouque about madame de
Renal, but his friend told him two or three times that she was rapidly
recovering, and these words reverberated in his heart.

While Julien's soul was nearly all the time wholly in the realm
of ideas, Mathilde, who, as befits an aristocratic spirit, had
occupied herself with concrete things, had managed to make the
direct and intimate correspondence between madame de Fervaques and
M. de Frilair progress so far that the great word bishopric had been
already pronounced. The venerable prelate, who was entrusted with the
distribution of the benefices, added in a postscript to one of his
niece's letters, ""This poor Sorel is only a lunatic. I hope he will be
restored to us.""

At the sight of these lines, M. de Frilair felt transported. He had no
doubts about saving Julien.

""But for this Jacobin law which has ordered the formation of an
unending panel of jurymen, and which has no other real object, except
to deprive well-born people of all their influence,"" he said to
Mathilde on the eve of the balloting for the thirty-six jurymen of the
session, ""I would have answered for the verdict. I certainly managed to
get the cure N---- acquitted.""

When the names were selected by ballot on the following day, M. de
Frilair experienced a genuine pleasure in finding that they contained
five members of the Besancon congregation and that amongst those who
were strangers to the town were the names of MM. Valenod, de Moirod,
de Cholin. I can answer for these eight jurymen he said to Mathilde.
The first five are mere machines, Valenod is my agent: Moirod owes me
everything: de Cholin is an imbecile who is frightened of everything.

The journal published the names of the jurymen throughout the
department, and to her husband's unspeakable terror, madame de Renal
wished to go to Besancon. All that M. de Renal could prevail on her
to promise was that she would not leave her bed so as to avoid the
unpleasantness of being called to give evidence. ""You do not understand
my position,"" said the former mayor of Verrieres. ""I am now said to
be disloyal and a Liberal. No doubt that scoundrel Valenod and M. de
Frilair will get the procureur-general and the judges to do all they
can to cause me unpleasantness.""

Madame de Renal found no difficulty in yielding to her husband's
orders. ""If I appear at the assize court,"" she said to herself, ""I
should seem as if I were asking for vengeance."" In spite of all the
promises she had made to the director of her conscience and to her
husband that she would be discreet, she had scarcely arrived at
Besancon before she wrote with her own hand to each of the thirty-six
jurymen:--

""I shall not appear on the day of the trial, monsieur, because my
presence might be prejudicial to M. Sorel's case. I only desire one
thing in the world, and that I desire passionately--for him to be
saved. Have no doubt about it, the awful idea that I am the cause of an
innocent man being led to his death would poison the rest of my life
and would no doubt curtail it. How can you condemn him to death while I
continue to live? No, there is no doubt about it, society has no right
to take away a man's life, and above all, the life of a being like
Julien Sorel. Everyone at Verrieres knew that there were moments when
he was quite distracted. This poor young man has some powerful enemies,
but even among his enemies, (and how many has he not got?) who is there
who casts any doubt on his admirable talents and his deep knowledge?
The man whom you are going to try, monsieur, is not an ordinary person.
For a period of nearly eighteen months we all knew him as a devout and
well behaved student. Two or three times in the year he was seized by
fits of melancholy that went to the point of distraction. The whole
town of Verrieres, all our neighbours at Vergy, where we live in the
fine weather, my whole family, and monsieur the sub-prefect himself
will render justice to his exemplary piety. He knows all the Holy Bible
by heart. Would a blasphemer have spent years of study in learning the
Sacred Book. My sons will have the honour of presenting you with this
letter, they are children. Be good enough to question them, monsieur,
they will give you all the details concerning this poor young man which
are necessary to convince you of how barbarous it would be to condemn
him. Far from revenging me, you would be putting me to death.

""What can his enemies argue against this? The wound, which was the
result of one of those moments of madness, which my children themselves
used to remark in their tutor, is so little dangerous than in less
than two months it has allowed me to take the post from Verrieres to
Besancon. If I learn, monsieur, that you show the slightest hesitation
in releasing so innocent a person from the barbarity of the law, I will
leave my bed, where I am only kept by my husband's express orders, and
I will go and throw myself at your feet. Bring in a verdict, monsieur,
that the premeditation has not been made out, and you will not have an
innocent man's blood on your head, etc.""





","Julien's defense lawyer finally shows up, but Julien just tells him what he's been telling everyone else: he shot Madame de Renal with the intent to kill. The lawyer thinks Julien is crazy. Things are looking good for Julien nonetheless. More than half of the jurors selected for his trial are people that the vicar-general has some influence over. Meanwhile, Madame de Renal has realized that she still loves Julien. She writes a letter to the judge saying that she forgives Julien and doesn't want him killed for his actions."
131,"CHAPTER LXXII[1]


When Julien was taken back to prison he had been taken into a room
intended for those who were condemned to death. Although a man who in
the usual way would notice the most petty details, he had quite failed
to observe that he had not been taken up to his turret. He was thinking
of what he would say to madame de Renal if he had the happiness of
seeing her before the final moment. He thought that she would break
into what he was saying and was anxious to be able to express his
absolute repentance with his very first words. ""How can I convince her
that I love her alone after committing an action like that? For after
all, it was either out of ambition, or out of love for Mathilde, that I
wanted to kill her.""

As he went to bed, he came across sheets of a rough coarse material.
""Ah! I am in the condemned cell, he said to himself. That is right.

""Comte Altamira used to tell me that Danton, on the eve of his death,
would say in his loud voice: 'it is singular but you cannot conjugate
the verb guillotine in all its tenses: of course you can say, I shall
be guillotined, thou shalt be guillotined, but you don't say, I have
been guillotined.'

""Why not?"" went on Julien, ""if there is another life.... Upon my word,
it will be all up with me if I find the God of the Christians there: He
is a tyrant, and as such, he is full of ideas of vengeance: his Bible
speaks of nothing but atrocious punishment. I never liked him--I could
never get myself to believe that anyone really liked him. He has no
pity (and he remembered several passages in the Bible) he will punish
me atrociously.

""But supposing I find Fenelon's God: He will perhaps say to me: 'Much
forgiveness will be vouchsafed to thee, inasmuch as thou hast loved
much.'

""Have I loved much? Ah! I loved madame de Renal, but my conduct has
been atrocious. In that, as in other cases, simple modest merit was
abandoned for the sake of what was brilliant.

""But still, what fine prospects? Colonel of Hussars, if we had had a
war: secretary of a legation during peace: then ambassador ... for
I should soon have picked up politics ... and even if I had been an
idiot, would the marquis de la Mole's son-in-law have had any rivalry
to fear? All my stupidities have been forgiven, or rather, counted
as merits. A man of merit, then, and living in the grandest style at
Vienna or London.

""Not exactly, monsieur. Guillotined in three days' time.""

Julien laughed heartily at this sally of his wit. ""As a matter of fact,
man has two beings within him, he thought. Who the devil can have
thought of such a sinister notion?""

""Well, yes, my friend: guillotined in three days,"" he answered the
interruptor. ""M. de Cholin will hire a window and share the expense
with the abbe Maslon. Well, which of those two worthy personages
will rob the other over the price paid for hiring that window?"" The
following passage from Rotrou's ""Venceslas"" suddenly came back into his
mind:--

              LADISLAS
    .................Mon ame est toute prete.
    THE KING, _father of Ladislas_.
    L'echafaud l'est aussi: portez-y-votre tete.

""A good repartee"" he thought, as he went to sleep. He was awakened in
the morning by someone catching hold of him violently.

""What! already,"" said Julien, opening his haggard eyes. He thought he
was already in the executioner's hands.

It was Mathilde. ""Luckily, she has not understood me."" This reflection
restored all his self possession. He found Mathilde as changed as
though she had gone through a six months' illness: she was really not
recognisable.

""That infamous Frilair has betrayed me,"" she said to him, wringing her
hands. Her fury prevented her from crying.

""Was I not fine when I made my speech yesterday?"" answered Julien. ""I
was improvising for the first time in my life! It is true that it is to
be feared that it will also be the last.""

At this moment, Julien was playing on Mathilde's character with all
the self-possession of a clever pianist, whose fingers are on the
instrument.... ""It is true,"" he added, ""that I lack the advantage of a
distinguished birth, but Mathilde's great soul has lifted her lover up
to her own level. Do you think that Boniface de la Mole would have cut
a better figure before his judges?""

On this particular day, Mathilde was as unaffectedly tender as a poor
girl living in a fifth storey. But she failed to extract from him any
simpler remark. He was paying her back without knowing it for all the
torture she had frequently inflicted on him.

""The sources of the Nile are unknown,"" said Julien to himself: ""it has
not been vouchsafed to the human eye to see the king of rivers as a
simple brook: similarly, no human eye shall see Julien weak. In the
first place because he is not so. But I have a heart which it is easy
to touch. The most commonplace words, if said in a genuine tone, can
make my voice broken and even cause me to shed tears. How often have
frigid characters not despised me for this weakness. They thought that
I was asking a favour: that is what I cannot put up with.

""It is said that when at the foot of the scaffold, Danton was affected
by the thought of his wife: but Danton had given strength to a nation
of coxcombs and prevented the enemy from reaching Paris.... I alone
know what I should have been able to do.... I represent to the others
at the very outside, simply A PERHAPS.

""If madame de Renal had been here in my cell instead of Mathilde,
should I have been able to have answered for myself? The extremity of
my despair and my repentance would have been taken for a craven fear of
death by the Valenods and all the patricians of the locality. They are
so proud, are those feeble spirits, whom their pecuniary position puts
above temptation! 'You see what it is to be born a carpenter's son,'
M. de Moirod and de Cholin doubtless said after having condemned me to
death! 'A man can learn to be learned and clever, but the qualities of
the heart--the qualities of the heart cannot be learnt.' Even in the
case of this poor Mathilde, who is crying now, or rather, who cannot
cry,"" he said to himself, as he looked at her red eyes.... And he
clasped her in his arms: the sight of a genuine grief made him forget
the sequence of his logic.... ""She has perhaps cried all the night,"" he
said to himself, ""but how ashamed she will be of this memory on some
future day! She will regard herself as having been led astray in her
first youth by a plebeian's low view of life.... Le Croisenois is weak
enough to marry her, and upon my word, he will do well to do so. She
will make him play a part.""

    ""Du droit qu'un esprit ferme et vaste en ses desseins
    A sur l'esprit grossier des vulgaires humaines.""

""Ah! that's really humorous; since I have been doomed to die, all the
verses I ever knew in my life are coming back into my memory. It must
be a sign of demoralisation.""

Mathilde kept on repeating in a choked voice: ""He is there in the next
room."" At last he paid attention to what she was saying. ""Her voice is
weak,"" he thought, ""but all the imperiousness of her character comes
out in her intonation. She lowers her voice in order to avoid getting
angry.""

""And who is there?"" he said, gently.

""The advocate, to get you to sign your appeal.""

""I shall not appeal.""

""What! you will not appeal,"" she said, getting up, with her eyes
sparkling with rage. ""And why, if you please?""

""Because I feel at the present time that I have the courage to die
without giving people occasion to laugh too much at my expense. And
who will guarantee that I shall be in so sound a frame of mind in two
months' time, after living for a long time in this damp cell? I foresee
interviews with the priests, with my father. I can imagine nothing more
unpleasant. Let's die.""

This unexpected opposition awakened all the haughtiness of Mathilde's
character. She had not managed to see the abbe de Frilair before the
time when visitors were admitted to the cells in the Besancon prison.
Her fury vented itself on Julien. She adored him, and nevertheless she
exhibited for a good quarter of an hour in her invective against his,
Julien's, character, and her regret at having ever loved him, the
same haughty soul which had formerly overwhelmed him with such cutting
insults in the library of the Hotel de la Mole.

""In justice to the glory of your stock, Heaven should have had you born
a man,"" he said to her.

""But as for myself,"" he thought, ""I should be very foolish to go on
living for two more months in this disgusting place, to serve as a
butt for all the infamous humiliations which the patrician party can
devise,[2] and having the outburst of this mad woman for my only
consolation.... Well, the morning after to-morrow I shall fight a duel
with a man known for his self-possession and his remarkable skill ...
his very remarkable skill,"" said the Mephistophelian part of him; ""he
never makes a miss. Well, so be it--good."" (Mathilde continued to wax
eloquent). ""No, not for a minute,"" he said to himself, ""I shall not
appeal.""

Having made this resolution, he fell into meditation....

""The courier will bring the paper at six o'clock as usual, as he
passes; at eight o'clock, after M. de Renal has finished reading it,
Elisa will go on tiptoe and place it on her bed. Later on she will wake
up; suddenly, as she reads it she will become troubled; her pretty
hands will tremble; she will go on reading down to these words: _At
five minutes past ten he had ceased to exist_.

""She will shed hot tears, I know her; it will matter nothing that I
tried to assassinate her--all will be forgotten, and the person whose
life I wished to take will be the only one who will sincerely lament my
death.

""Ah, that's a good paradox,"" he thought, and he thought about nothing
except madame de Renal during the good quarter of an hour which the
scene Mathilde was making still lasted. In spite of himself, and though
he made frequent answers to what Mathilde was saying, he could not take
his mind away from the thought of the bedroom at Verrieres. He saw the
Besancon Gazette on the counterpane of orange taffeta; he saw that
white hand clutching at it convulsively. He saw madame de Renal cry....
He followed the path of every tear over her charming face.

Mademoiselle de la Mole, being unable to get anything out of Julien,
asked the advocate to come in. Fortunately, he was an old captain of
the Italian army of 1796, where he had been a comrade of Manuel.

He opposed the condemned man's resolution as a matter of form. Wishing
to treat him with respect, Julien explained all his reasons.

""Upon my word, I can understand a man taking the view you do,"" said
M. Felix Vaneau (that was the advocate's name) to him at last. ""But
you have three full days in which to appeal, and it is my duty to come
back every day. If a volcano were to open under the prison between now
and two months' time you would be saved. You might die of illness,"" he
said, looking at Julien.

Julien pressed his hand--""I thank you, you are a good fellow. I will
think it over.""

And when Mathilde eventually left with the advocate, he felt much more
affection for the advocate than for her.


[1] There is no heading to this and the following chapters in the
original.--TRANSL.

[2] The speaker is a Jacobin.





","Julien returns to prison and goes into a cell reserved for people on death row. So yeah, the trial didn't work out so well. He can't help but think of what a bright future he's wasting, and he gives into despair. In three days, he'll have his head chopped off. Mathilde comes in and starts talking about his appeal, but he says he has no intention of appealing. His lawyer visits again, and he gets the guy to go away by saying that he's willing to consider an appeal."
132,"CHAPTER LXXIII


When he was deep asleep an hour afterwards, he was woken up by feeling
tears flow over his hand. ""Oh, it is Mathilde again,"" he thought, only
half awake. ""She has come again, faithful to her tactics of attacking
my resolution by her sentimentalism."" Bored by the prospect of this
new scene of hackneyed pathos he did not open his eyes. The verses of
Belphgor, as he ran away from his wife, came into his mind. He heard a
strange sigh. He opened his eyes. It was madame de Renal.

""Ah, so I see you again before I die, or is it an illusion,"" he
exclaimed as he threw himself at her feet.

""But, forgive me, madame, you must look upon me as a mere murderer,"" he
said, immediately, as he recovered himself.

""Monsieur, I have come to entreat you to appeal; I know you do not want
to...."" her sobs choked her; she was unable to speak.

""Deign to forgive me.""

""If you want me to forgive you,"" she said to him, getting up and
throwing herself into his arms, ""appeal immediately against your death
sentence.""

Julien covered her with kisses.

""Will you come and see me every day during those two months?""

""I swear it--every day, unless my husband forbids me.""

""I will sign it,"" exclaimed Julien.

""What! you really forgive me! Is it possible?""

He clasped her in his arms; he was mad. She gave a little cry.

""It is nothing,"" she said to him. ""You hurt me.""

""Your shoulder,"" exclaimed Julien, bursting into tears. He drew back
a little, and covered her hands with kisses of fire. ""Who could
have prophesied this, dear, the last time I saw you in your room at
Verrieres?""

""Who could have prophesied then that I should write that infamous
letter to M. de la Mole?""

""Know that I have always loved you, and that I have never loved anyone
but you.""

""Is it possible?"" cried Madame de Renal, who was delighted in her turn.
She leant on Julien, who was on his knees, and they cried silently for
a long time.

Julien had never experienced moments like this at any period of his
whole life.

""And how about that young madame Michelet?"" said Madame de Renal, a
long time afterwards when they were able to speak. ""Or rather, that
mademoiselle de la Mole? for I am really beginning to believe in that
strange romance.""

""It is only superficially true,"" answered Julien. ""She is my wife, but
she is not my mistress.""

After interrupting each other a hundred times over, they managed with
great difficulty to explain to each other what they did not know. The
letter written to M. de la Mole had been drafted by the young priest
who directed Madame de Renal's conscience, and had been subsequently
copied by her, ""What a horrible thing religion has made me do,"" she
said to him, ""and even so I softened the most awful passages in the
letter.""

Julien's ecstatic happiness proved the fulness of her forgiveness. He
had never been so mad with love.

""And yet I regard myself as devout,"" madame de Renal went on to say to
him in the ensuing conversation. ""I believe sincerely in God! I equally
believe, and I even have full proof of it, that the crime which I am
committing is an awful one, and yet the very minute I see you, even
after you have fired two pistol shots at me--"" and at this point, in
spite of her resistance, Julien covered her with kisses.

""Leave me alone,"" she continued, ""I want to argue with you, I am
frightened lest I should forget.... The very minute I see you all my
duties disappear. I have nothing but love for you, dear, or rather, the
word love is too weak. I feel for you what I ought only to feel for
God; a mixture of respect, love, obedience.... As a matter of fact, I
don't know what you inspire me with.... If you were to tell me to stab
the gaoler with a knife, the crime would be committed before I had
given it a thought. Explain this very clearly to me before I leave you.
I want to see down to the bottom of my heart; for we shall take leave
of each other in two months.... By the bye, shall we take leave of each
other?"" she said to him with a smile.

""I take back my words,"" exclaimed Julien, getting up, ""I shall not
appeal from my death sentence, if you try, either by poison, knife,
pistol, charcoal, or any other means whatsoever, to put an end to your
life, or make any attempt upon it.""

Madame de Renal's expression suddenly changed. The most lively
tenderness was succeeded by a mood of deep meditation.

""Supposing we were to die at once,"" she said to him.

""Who knows what one will find in the other life,"" answered Julien,
""perhaps torment, perhaps nothing at all. Cannot we pass two delicious
months together? Two months means a good many days. I shall never have
been so happy.""

""You will never have been so happy?""

""Never,"" repeated Julien ecstatically, ""and I am talking to you just as
I should talk to myself. May God save me from exaggerating.""

""Words like that are a command,"" she said with a timid melancholy smile.

""Well, you will swear by the love you have for me, to make no attempt
either direct or indirect, upon your life ... remember,"" he added,
""that you must live for my son, whom Mathilde will hand over to lackeys
as soon as she is marquise de Croisenois.""

""I swear,"" she answered coldly, ""but I want to take away your notice
of appeal, drawn and signed by yourself. I will go myself to M. the
procureur-general.""

""Be careful, you will compromise yourself.""

""After having taken the step of coming to see you in your prison, I
shall be a heroine of local scandal for Besancon, and the whole of
Franche-Comte,"" she said very dejectedly. ""I have crossed the bounds of
austere modesty.... I am a woman who has lost her honour; it is true
that it is for your sake....""

Her tone was so sad that Julien embraced her with a happiness which was
quite novel to him. It was no longer the intoxication of love, it was
extreme gratitude. He had just realised for the first time the full
extent of the sacrifice which she had made for him.

Some charitable soul, no doubt informed M. de Renal of the long visits
which his wife paid to Julien's prison; for at the end of three days
he sent her his carriage with the express order to return to Verrieres
immediately.

This cruel separation had been a bad beginning for Julien's day. He
was informed two or three hours later that a certain intriguing priest
(who had, however, never managed to make any headway among the Jesuits
of Besancon) had, since the morning, established himself in the street
outside the prison gates. It was raining a great deal, and the man out
there was pretending to play the martyr. Julien was in a weak mood, and
this piece of stupidity annoyed him deeply.

In the morning, he had already refused this priest's visit, but the man
had taken it into his head to confess Julien, and to win a name for
himself among the young women of Besancon by all the confidences which
he would pretend to have received from him.

He declared in a loud voice that he would pass the day and the night by
the prison gates. ""God has sent me to touch the heart of this apostate
..."" and the lower classes, who are always curious to see a scene,
began to make a crowd.

""Yes, my brothers,"" he said to them, ""I will pass the day here and the
night, as well as all the days and all the nights which will follow.
The Holy Ghost has spoken to me. I am commissioned from above; I am the
man who must save the soul of young Sorel. Do you join in my prayers,
etc.""

Julien had a horror of scandal, and of anything which could attract
attention to him. He thought of seizing the opportunity of escaping
from the world incognito; but he had some hope of seeing madame de
Renal again, and he was desperately in love.

The prison gates were situated in one of the most populous streets. His
soul was tortured by the idea of this filthy priest attracting a crowd
and creating a scandal--""and doubtless he is repeating my name at every
single minute!"" This moment was more painful than death.

He called the turnkey who was devoted to him, and sent sent him two or
three times at intervals of one hour to see if the priest was still by
the prison gates.

""Monsieur,"" said the turnkey to him on each occasion, ""he is on both
his knees in the mud; he is praying at the top of his voice, and saying
litanies for your soul.

""The impudent fellow,"" thought Julien. At this moment he actually heard
a dull buzz. It was the responses of the people to the litanies. His
patience was strained to the utmost when he saw the turnkey himself
move his lips while he repeated the Latin words.

""They are beginning to say,"" added the turnkey, ""that you must have a
very hardened heart to refuse the help of this holy man.""

""Oh my country, how barbarous you still are!"" exclaimed Julien, beside
himself with anger. And he continued his train of thought aloud,
without giving a thought to the turn-key's presence.

""The man wants an article in the paper about him, and that's a way in
which he will certainly get it.

""Oh you cursed provincials! At Paris I should not be subjected to all
these annoyances. There they are more skilled in their charlatanism.

""Show in the holy priest,"" he said at last to the turnkey, and great
streams of sweat flowed down his forehead. The turnkey made the sign of
the cross and went out rejoicing.

The holy priest turned out to be very ugly, he was even dirtier than he
was ugly. The cold rain intensified the obscurity and dampness of the
cell. The priest wanted to embrace Julien, and began to wax pathetic as
he spoke to him. The basest hypocrisy was only too palpable; Julien had
never been so angry in his whole life.

A quarter of an hour after the priest had come in Julien felt an
absolute coward. Death appeared horrible to him for the first time. He
began to think about the state of decomposition which his body would be
in two days after the execution, etc., etc.

He was on the point of betraying himself by some sign of weakness or
throwing himself on the priest and strangling him with his chain, when
it occurred to him to beg the holy man to go and say a good forty franc
mass for him on that very day.

It was twelve o'clock, so the priest took himself off.





",Julien awakes from a nap to the feeling of tears falling on his hand. Madame de Renal is standing over him. She begs him to appeal his conviction. Julien realizes how much he still loves Madame. He agrees to appeal as long as she comes to visit him every day. It turns out that the letter Madame de Renal sent the Marquis de La Mole about her affair with Julien wasn't actually written by her. A young priest wrote it and made her copy it in her own hand. Madame offers to kill herself if this will make Julien happy. He says he'll only appeal his sentence if she promises not to do this.
133,"ACT II. _SCENE I.

The house of _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_._

  _Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA._

_Adr._ Neither my husband nor the slave return'd,
That in such haste I sent to seek his master!
Sure, Luciana, it is two o'clock.

_Luc._ Perhaps some merchant hath invited him,
And from the mart he's somewhere gone to dinner.                     5
Good sister, let us dine, and never fret:
A man is master of his liberty:
Time is their master; and when they see time,
They'll go or come: if so, be patient, sister.

_Adr._ Why should their liberty than ours be more?                  10

_Luc._ Because their business still lies out o' door.

_Adr._ Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.

_Luc._ O, know he is the bridle of your will.

_Adr._ There's none but asses will be bridled so.

_Luc._ Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe.                  15
There's nothing situate under heaven's eye
But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:
The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,
Are their males' subjects and at their controls:
Men, more divine, the masters of all these,                         20
Lords of the wide world and wild watery seas,
Indued with intellectual sense and souls,
Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls,
Are masters to their females, and their lords:
Then let your will attend on their accords.                         25

_Adr._ This servitude makes you to keep unwed.

_Luc._ Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.

_Adr._ But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.

_Luc._ Ere I learn love, I'll practise to obey.

_Adr._ How if your husband start some other where?                  30

_Luc._ Till he come home again, I would forbear.

_Adr._ Patience unmoved! no marvel though she pause;
They can be meek that have no other cause.
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;                                35
But were we burden'd with like weight of pain,
As much, or more, we should ourselves complain:
So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,
With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me;
But, if thou live to see like right bereft,                         40
This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left.

_Luc._ Well, I will marry one day, but to try.
Here comes your man; now is your husband nigh.

  _Enter _DROMIO of Ephesus_._

_Adr._ Say, is your tardy master now at hand?

_Dro. E._ Nay, he's at two hands with me, and that my               45
two ears can witness.

_Adr._ Say, didst thou speak with him? know'st thou his mind?

_Dro. E._ Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear:
Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

_Luc._ Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his            50
meaning?

_Dro. E._ Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well
feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully, that I could scarce
understand them.

_Adr._ But say, I prithee, is he coming home?                       55
It seems he hath great care to please his wife.

_Dro. E._ Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.

_Adr._ Horn-mad, thou villain!

_Dro. E._                      I mean not cuckold-mad;
But, sure, he is stark mad.
When I desired him to come home to dinner,                          60
He ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold:
''Tis dinner-time,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he:
'Your meat doth burn,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he:
'Will you come home?' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he,
'Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?'                 65
'The pig,' quoth I, 'is burn'd;' 'My gold!' quoth he:
'My mistress, sir,' quoth I; 'Hang up thy mistress!
I know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!'

_Luc._ Quoth who?

_Dro. E._ Quoth my master:                                          70
'I know,' quoth he, 'no house, no wife, no mistress.'
So that my errand, due unto my tongue,
I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders;
For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.

_Adr._ Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home.               75

_Dro. E._ Go back again, and be new beaten home?
For God's sake, send some other messenger.

_Adr._ Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.

_Dro. E._ And he will bless that cross with other beating:
Between you I shall have a holy head.                               80

_Adr._ Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home.

_Dro. E._ Am I so round with you as you with me,
That like a football you do spurn me thus?
You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:
If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.
    [_Exit._                                               85

_Luc._ Fie, how impatience lowereth in your face!

_Adr._ His company must do his minions grace,
Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.
Hath homely age the alluring beauty took
From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it:                         90
Are my discourses dull? barren my wit?
If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd,
Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard:
Do their gay vestments his affections bait?
That's not my fault; he's master of my state:                       95
What ruins are in me that can be found,
By him not ruin'd? then is he the ground
Of my defeatures. My decayed fair
A sunny look of his would soon repair:
But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale,                          100
And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.

_Luc._ Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence!

_Adr._ Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.
I know his eye doth homage otherwhere;
Or else what lets it but he would be here?                         105
Sister, you know he promised me a chain;
Would that alone, alone he would detain,
So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!
I see the jewel best enamelled
Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still,                    110
That others touch, and often touching will
Wear gold: and no man that hath a name,
By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.
Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,
I'll weep what's left away, and weeping die.                       115

_Luc._ How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

    [_Exeunt._



  NOTES: II, 1.

  The house ... Ephesus.] Pope. The same (i.e. A publick place).
    Capell, and passim.
  11: _o' door_] Capell. _adore_ F1 F2 F3. _adoor_ F4.
  12: _ill_] F2 F3 F4. _thus_ F1.
  15: _lash'd_] _leashed_ ""a learned lady"" conj. ap. Steevens.
    _lach'd_ or _lac'd_ Becket conj.
  17: _bound, ... sky:_] _bound: ... sky,_ Anon. conj.
  19: _subjects_] _subject_ Capell.
  20, 21: _Men ... masters ... Lords_] Hanmer. _Man ... master
    ... Lord_ Ff.
  21: _wild watery_] _wilde watry_ F1. _wide watry_ F2 F3 F4.
  22, 23: _souls ... fowls_] F1. _soul ... fowl_ F2 F3 F4.
  30: _husband start_] _husband's heart's_ Jackson conj.
  _other where_] _other hare_ Johnson conj. See note (III).
  31: _home_] om. Boswell (ed. 1821).
  39: _wouldst_] Rowe. _would_ Ff.
  40: _see_] _be_ Hanmer.
  41: _fool-begg'd_] _fool-egg'd_ Jackson conj. _fool-bagg'd_
    Staunton conj. _fool-badged_ Id. conj.
  44: SCENE II. Pope.
  _now_] _yet_ Capell.
  45: _Nay_] _At hand? Nay_ Capell.
  _and_] om. Capell.
  45, 46: _two ... two_] _too ... two_ F1.
  50-53: _doubtfully_] _doubly_ Collier MS.
  53: _withal_] _therewithal_ Capell.
  _that_] om. Capell, who prints lines 50-54 as four verses ending
    _feel ... I ... therewithal ... them._
  59: _he is_] _he's_ Pope. om. Hanmer.
  61: _a thousand_] F4. _a hundred_ F1 _a 1000_ F2 F3.
  64: _home_] Hanmer. om. Ff.
  68: _I know not thy mistress_] _Thy mistress I know not_ Hanmer.
    _I know not of thy mistress_ Capell. _I know thy mistress not_
    Seymour conj.
  _out on thy mistress_] F1 F4. _out on my mistress_ F2 F3.
    _'out on thy mistress,' Quoth he_ Capell. _I know no mistress;
    out upon thy mistress_ Steevens conj.
  70: _Quoth_] _Why, quoth_ Hanmer.
  71-74: Printed as prose in Ff. Corrected by Pope.
  73: _bare_] _bear_ Steevens.
  _my_] _thy_ F2.
  74: _there_] _thence_ Capell conj.
  85: _I last_] _I'm to last_ Anon. conj.
  [Exit.] F2.
  87: SCENE III. Pope.
  93: _blunts_] F1. _blots_ F2 F3 F4.
  107: _alone, alone_] F2 F3 F4. _alone, a love_ F1.
    _alone, alas!_ Hanmer. _alone, O love,_ Capell conj.
    _alone a lone_ Nicholson conj.
  110: _yet the_] Ff. _and the_ Theobald. _and tho'_ Hanmer.
    _yet though_ Collier.
  111: _That others touch_] _The tester's touch_ Anon. (Fras. Mag.)
    conj. _The triers' touch_ Singer.
  _and_] Ff. _yet_ Theobald. _an_ Collier. _though_ Heath conj.
  111, 112: _will Wear_] Theobald (Warburton). _will, Where_] F1.
  112, 113: F2 F3 F4 omit these two lines. See note (IV).
  112: _and no man_] F1. _and so no man_ Theobald.
    _and e'en so man_ Capell. _and so a man_ Heath conj.
  113: _By_] F1. _But_ Theobald.
  115: _what's left away_] _(what's left away)_ F1.
    _(what's left) away_ F2 F3 F4.


","E. Antipholus's wife Adriana, and her sister, Luciana, are at E. Antipholus's house waiting for the man to come home for dinner. They have a little philosophical exchange, during which Luciana insists that men are freer than women because their work and responsibilities take them out of the home. She thinks her sister should just wait patiently for his return and understand that she can't control him. Adriana doesn't take this comment so kindly. She says it's this warped view of male-female relations that's keeping Luciana from getting married. Nope, Luciana says. It's because she's not interested in what happens in the marriage bed. . Besides, before she gets married, she has to learn to obey. Adriana again chastises her for preaching patience and servitude when she doesn't really know what it's like to be married. Whatever, says Luciana. Here comes Dromio. That must mean Antipholus will be here shortly. E. Dromio enters the scene, and explains what happened with S. Antipholus at the marketplace--still, of course, thinking S. Antipholus was actually his master, E. Antipholus. Then E. Dromio explains to Adriana that her husband has gone mad, and denies that he has a wife--her. Now Adriana is even more miffed. She sends E. Dromio back to the marketplace to get E. Antipholus again. E. Dromio hesitantly goes again, but only after Adriana threatens to beat him. Adriana now begins to worry that she must be old and ugly, so her husband prefers other company to hers. She blames E. Antipholus for wasting the beauty of her youth. Though Luciana tries to get her sister to pull it together, Adriana continues to complain. Now Adriana's convinced E. Antipholus is out having a snack in some other woman's kitchen. She mentions that her husband was supposed to be bringing her a necklace, but she fears it's not a jewelry store that's detaining him."
134,"ACT IV. SCENE I.

A public place.

  _Enter _Second Merchant_, ANGELO, and an _Officer_._

_Sec. Mer._ You know since Pentecost the sum is due,
And since I have not much importuned you;
Nor now I had not, but that I am bound
To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage:
Therefore make present satisfaction,                                 5
Or I'll attach you by this officer.

_Ang._ Even just the sum that I do owe to you
Is growing to me by Antipholus;
And in the instant that I met with you
He had of me a chain: at five o'clock                               10
I shall receive the money for the same.
Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,
I will discharge my bond, and thank you too.

  _Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_ and _DROMIO of Ephesus_ from
  the courtezan's._

_Off._ That labour may you save: see where he comes.

_Ant. E._ While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou              15
And buy a rope's end: that will I bestow
Among my wife and her confederates,
For locking me out of my doors by day.--
But, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;
Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me.                           20

_Dro. E._ I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope.
    [_Exit._

_Ant. E._ A man is well holp up that trusts to you:
I promised your presence and the chain;
But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me.
Belike you thought our love would last too long,                    25
If it were chain'd together, and therefore came not.

_Ang._ Saving your merry humour, here's the note
How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat,
The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion,
Which doth amount to three odd ducats more                          30
Than I stand debted to this gentleman:
I pray you, see him presently discharged,
For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it.

_Ant. E._ I am not furnish'd with the present money;
Besides, I have some business in the town.                          35
Good signior, take the stranger to my house,
And with you take the chain, and bid my wife
Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof:
Perchance I will be there as soon as you.

_Ang._ Then you will bring the chain to her yourself?               40

_Ant. E._ No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.

_Ang._ Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?

_Ant. E._ An if I have not, sir, I hope you have;
Or else you may return without your money.

_Ang._ Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain:               45
Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,
And I, to blame, have held him here too long.

_Ant. E._ Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse
Your breach of promise to the Porpentine.
I should have chid you for not bringing it,                         50
But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.

_Sec. Mer._ The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch.

_Ang._ You hear how he importunes me;--the chain!

_Ant. E._ Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money.

_Ang._ Come, come, you know I gave it you even now.                 55
Either send the chain, or send me by some token.

_Ant. E._ Fie, now you run this humour out of breath.
Come, where's the chain? I pray you, let me see it.

_Sec. Mer._ My business cannot brook this dalliance.
Good sir, say whether you'll answer me or no:                       60
If not, I'll leave him to the officer.

_Ant. E._ I answer you! what should I answer you?

_Ang._ The money that you owe me for the chain.

_Ant. E._ I owe you none till I receive the chain.

_Ang._ You know I gave it you half an hour since.                   65

_Ant. E._ You gave me none: you wrong me much to say so.

_Ang._ You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:
Consider how it stands upon my credit.

_Sec. Mer._ Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.

_Off._ I do; and charge you in the duke's name to obey me.          70

_Ang._ This touches me in reputation.
Either consent to pay this sum for me,
Or I attach you by this officer.

_Ant. E._ Consent to pay thee that I never had!
Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest.                          75

_Ang._ Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer.
I would not spare my brother in this case,
If he should scorn me so apparently.

_Off._ I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit.

_Ant. E._ I do obey thee till I give thee bail.                     80
But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear
As all the metal in your shop will answer.

_Ang._ Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus,
To your notorious shame; I doubt it not.

  _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_, from the bay._

_Dro. S._ Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum                      85
That stays but till her owner comes aboard,
And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,
I have convey'd aboard; and I have bought
The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitae.
The ship is in her trim; the merry wind                             90
Blows fair from land: they stay for nought at all
But for their owner, master, and yourself.

_Ant. E._ How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,
What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?

_Dro. S._ A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.                   95

_Ant. E._ Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope,
And told thee to what purpose and what end.

_Dro. S._ You sent me for a rope's end as soon:
You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.

_Ant. E._ I will debate this matter at more leisure,               100
And teach your ears to list me with more heed.
To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight:
Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk
That's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry
There is a purse of ducats; let her send it:                       105
Tell her I am arrested in the street,
And that shall bail me: hie thee, slave, be gone!
On, officer, to prison till it come.

    [_Exeunt Sec. Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and Ant. E._

_Dro. S._ To Adriana! that is where we dined,
Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:                       110
She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.
Thither I must, although against my will,
For servants must their masters' minds fulfil.    [_Exit._



  NOTES: IV, 1.

  8: _growing_] _owing_ Pope.
  12: _Pleaseth you_] Ff. _Please you but_ Pope. _Please it you_
    Anon. conj.
  14: _may you_] F1 F2 F3. _you may_ F4.
  17: _her_] Rowe. _their_ Ff. _these_ Collier MS.
  26: _and_] om. Pope.
  28: _carat_] Pope. _charect_ F1. _Raccat_ F2 F3 F4. _caract_ Collier.
  29: _chargeful_] _charge for_ Anon. conj.
  41: _time enough_] _in time_ Hanmer.
  46: _stays_] _stay_ Pope.
  _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.
  47: _to blame_] F3. _too blame_ F1 F2 F4.
  53: _the chain!_] Dyce. _the chain,_ Ff. _the chain--_ Johnson.
  56: _Either_] _Or_ Pope.
  _me by_] _by me_ Heath conj.
  60: _whether_] _whe'r_ Ff. _where_ Rowe. _if_ Pope.
  62: _what_] F1. _why_ F2 F3 F4.
  67: _more_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
  70: Printed as verse by Capell.
  73: _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.
  74: _thee_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _for_ Rowe.
  85: SCENE II. Pope.
  _there is_] Pope. _there's_ Ff.
  87: _And then, sir,_] F1. _Then, sir,_ F2 F3 F4. _And then_ Capell.
  _she_] om. Steevens.
  88: _bought_] F1. _brought_ F2 F3 F4.
  98: _You sent me_] _A rope! You sent me_ Capell.
    _You sent me, Sir,_ Steevens.


","At the marketplace in Ephesus, Angelo the goldsmith talks with a merchant. Apparently, Angelo owes him some money, and the Merchant wants to collect it before he sets sail to Persia. Angelo expects to pay off the Merchant with the money he'll get from E. Antipholus, who he thinks owes him for Adriana's necklace...which he would, if Angelo hadn't just given the necklace to S. Antipholus. Just then, E. Antipholus and E. Dromio enter the scene, having just left the Porpentine. E. Antipholus has arrived, expecting to collect the necklace from Angelo , but he's in for a surprise. E. Antipholus sends E. Dromio off to buy some rope and then chides Angelo for not showing up at the Porpentine with the necklace. A squabble ensues, where it becomes clear that neither man has the necklace. Angelo insists he gave it to Antipholus not half an hour ago , but E. Antipholus insists he got no such thing . Are you following this? Payment for the chain is increasingly important, as the Merchant is halting his sails until Angelo pays him, though Angelo needs to get the money from Antipholus first. Ultimately, the Merchant calls for E. Antipholus to be arrested. Though Angelo regrets it, as he isn't getting paid, he corroborates with the Merchant to get E. Antipholus jailed. Justifiably, E. Antipholus is angry and confused. To add to the confusion, S. Dromio arrives, mistakes E. Antipholus for his master, and informs him that he's secured the ship to get out of Ephesus. E. Antipholus curses S. Dromio for talking nonsense , and then gives him instructions to go to Adriana and get money for his bail. As the jailer runs off with E. Antipholus, S. Dromio is left to wonder why he's instructed to go back to the awful place where they had dinner. Still, he follows E. Antipholus's instructions, because he knows his place as a servant."
135,"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.


","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."
136,"SCENE III.

A public place.

  _Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse_._

_Ant. S._ There's not a man I meet but doth salute me
As if I were their well-acquainted friend;
And every one doth call me by my name.
Some tender money to me; some invite me;
Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;                            5
Some offer me commodities to buy;--
Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop,
And show'd me silks that he had bought for me,
And therewithal took measure of my body.
Sure, these are but imaginary wiles,                                10
And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

  _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._

_Dro. S._ Master, here's the gold you sent me for.--
What, have you got the picture of old Adam new-apparelled?

_Ant. S._ What gold is this? what Adam dost thou mean?

_Dro. S._ Not that Adam that kept the Paradise, but that            15
Adam that keeps the prison: he that goes in the calf's skin
that was killed for the Prodigal; he that came behind you,
sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty.

_Ant. S._ I understand thee not.

_Dro. S._ No? why, 'tis a plain case: he that went, like a          20
base-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir, that, when
gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob, and 'rests them; he, sir,
that takes pity on decayed men, and gives them suits of
durance; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with
his mace than a morris-pike.                                        25

_Ant. S._ What, thou meanest an officer?

_Dro. S._ Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band; he that
brings any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that
thinks a man always going to bed, and says, 'God give you
good rest!'                                                         30

_Ant. S._ Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there
any ship puts forth to-night? may we be gone?

_Dro. S._ Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since,
that the bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were
you hindered by the sergeant, to tarry for the hoy Delay.           35
Here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you.

_Ant. S._ The fellow is distract, and so am I;
And here we wander in illusions:
Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

  _Enter a _Courtezan_._

_Cour._ Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.                      40
I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:
Is that the chain you promised me to-day?

_Ant. S._ Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not.

_Dro. S._ Master, is this Mistress Satan?

_Ant. S._ It is the devil.                                          45

_Dro. S._ Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's dam; and
here she comes in the habit of a light wench: and thereof
comes that the wenches say, 'God damn me;' that's as
much to say, 'God make me a light wench.' It is written,
they appear to men like angels of light: light is an effect of      50
fire, and fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come
not near her.

_Cour._ Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir.
Will you go with me? We'll mend our dinner here?

_Dro. S._ Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat; or bespeak          55
a long spoon.

_Ant. S._ Why, Dromio?

_Dro. S._ Marry, he must have a long spoon that must
eat with the devil.

_Ant. S._ Avoid then, fiend! what tell'st thou me of supping?       60
Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress:
I conjure thee to leave me and be gone.

_Cour._ Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,
Or, for my diamond, the chain you promised,
And I'll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.                         65

_Dro. S._ Some devils ask but the parings of one's nail,
A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,
A nut, a cherry-stone;
But she, more covetous, would have a chain.
Master, be wise: an if you give it her,                             70
The devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it.

_Cour._ I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain:
I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.

_Ant. S._ Avaunt, thou witch! --Come, Dromio, let us go.

_Dro. S._ 'Fly pride,' says the peacock: mistress, that you know.

    [_Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S._                                   75

_Cour._ Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad,
Else would he never so demean himself.
A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,
And for the same he promised me a chain:
Both one and other he denies me now.                                80
The reason that I gather he is mad,--
Besides this present instance of his rage,--
Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,
Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.
Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits,                          85
On purpose shut the doors against his way.
My way is now to his home to his house,
And tell his wife that, being lunatic,
He rush'd into my house, and took perforce
My ring away. This course I fittest choose;                         90
For forty ducats is too much to lose.    [_Exit._



  NOTES: IV, 3.

  SCENE III.] SCENE V. Pope.
  13: _What, have_] Pope. _What have_ Ff.
  _got_] _got rid of_ Theobald. _not_ Anon. conj.
  16: _calf's skin_] _calves-skin_ Ff.
  22: _sob_] _fob_ Rowe. _bob_ Hanmer. _sop_ Dyce conj.
    _stop_ Grant White.
  _'rests_] Warburton. _rests_ Ff.
  25: _morris_] _Moris_ Ff. _Maurice_ Hanmer (Warburton).
  28: _band_] _bond_ Rowe.
  29: _says_] Capell. _saies_ F1. _saieth_ F2. _saith_ F3 F4.
  32: _ship_] F2 F3 F4. _ships_ F1.
  34: _put_] _puts_ Pope.
  40: SCENE VI. Pope.
  44-62: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
  47-49: _and ... wench.'_] Marked as spurious by Capell, MS.
  48, 49: _as much_] _as much as_ Pope.
  54: _me? ... here?_] _me, ... here?_ Ff. _me? ... here._ Steevens.
  55: _if you do, expect_] F2 F3 F4. _if do expect_ F1.
  _or_] om. Rowe. _so_ Capell. _either stay away, or_ Malone conj.
    _and_ Ritson conj. _Oh!_ Anon. conj.
  60: _then_] F1 F2 F3. _thou_ F4. _thee_ Dyce.
  61: _are all_] _all are_ Boswell.
  66-71: Printed as prose by Ff, as verse by Capell, ending the
    third line at _covetous_.
  75: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
  76: SCENE VII. Pope.
  84: _doors_] _door_ Johnson.


","S. Antipholus is still at the marketplace, waiting for S. Dromio to come tell him about whether any ships are leaving. S. Antipholus wonders at his good luck; it seems everyone in the whole city knows him and is kind to him, though he has no idea who they are. He's convinced the place is overrun with sorcery, and his mind is being played with. S. Dromio then arrives with the gold to pay E. Antipholus's debt, and tries to give it to S. Antipholus. S. Dromio then has to explain to the confused S. Antipholus that he was recently arrested, which one would think a person would remember. S. Antipholus, however, just wants to know about the ships he asked S. Dromio to look for. He is certain he already told S. Antipholus about a departing ship a long time ago, only to be told to bring money for bail instead. S. Antipholus, rather than investigate the matter further, simply declares the two of them seem insane as they wander in an illusion. A Courtesan enters, seeming another vision of the devil. Of course she's familiar with E. Antipholus, but S. Antipholus only recognizes in her the usual courtesanly stuff--gaudy but sweet temptation. S. Antipholus and S. Dromio joke happily about light, which they pun on. They call the Courtesan light, as the devil himself was an angel of light, and they also twist the notion that the woman is ""light,"" meaning ""easy."" Finally, they decide that she is light like fire, which will burn. Anyway, the Courtesan talks about the dinner she just had with E. Antipholus, where he took a ring from her worth forty ducats, and promised her a gold chain in exchange. She notes S. Antipholus wears the chain, but when she asks for it, or her ring back, he runs away. The Courtesan, out a ring and a customer, decides she'll go to his wife, which is a dangerous but useful tactic. The Courtesan is sure Antipholus is mad, and she intends to tell Adriana that Antipholus ran into her house and stole her valuable ring."
137,"ACT III. SCENE I.

_Before PROSPERO'S cell._

  _Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log._

_Fer._ There be some sports are painful, and their labour
Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but                               5
The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead,
And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed.
And he's composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up,                     10
Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness
Had never like executor. I forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,
Most busy lest, when I do it.

  _Enter MIRANDA; and PROSPERO at a distance, unseen._

_Mir._                  Alas, now, pray you,                        15
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin'd to pile!
Pray, set it down, and rest you: when this burns,
'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself;                         20
He's safe for these three hours.

_Fer._                         O most dear mistress,
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.

_Mir._                  If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that;
I'll carry it to the pile.

_Fer._                   No, precious creature;                     25
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While I sit lazy by.

_Mir._             It would become me
As well as it does you: and I should do it
With much more ease; for my good will is to it,                     30
And yours it is against.

_Pros._                Poor worm, thou art infected!
This visitation shows it.

_Mir._                  You look wearily.

_Fer._ No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me
When you are by at night. I do beseech you,--
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,--                        35
What is your name?

_Mir._           Miranda. --O my father,
I have broke your hest to say so!

_Fer._                          Admired Miranda!
Indeed the top of admiration! worth
What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard, and many a time                       40
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues
Have I liked several women; never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,                        45
And put it to the foil: but you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best!

_Mir._             I do not know
One of my sex; no woman's face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen                      50
More that I may call men than you, good friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad,
I am skilless of; but, by my modesty,
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you;                                 55
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father's precepts
I therein do forget.

_Fer._             I am, in my condition,
A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;                              60
I would, not so!--and would no more endure
This wooden slavery than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides,                        65
To make me slave to it; and for your sake
Am I this patient log-man.

_Mir._                   Do you love me?

_Fer._ O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound,
And crown what I profess with kind event,
If I speak true! if hollowly, invert                                70
What best is boded me to mischief! I,
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world,
Do love, prize, honour you.

_Mir._                    I am a fool
To weep at what I am glad of.

_Pros._                     Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace                     75
On that which breeds between 'em!

_Fer._                          Wherefore weep you?

_Mir._ At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer
What I desire to give; and much less take
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself,                           80
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
I am your wife, if you will marry me;
If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I'll be your servant,                          85
Whether you will or no.

_Fer._                My mistress, dearest;
And I thus humble ever.

_Mir._                My husband, then?

_Fer._ Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e'er of freedom: here's my hand.

_Mir._ And mine, with my heart in't: and now farewell               90
Till half an hour hence.

_Fer._                 A thousand thousand!

    [_Exeunt Fer. and Mir. severally._

_Pros._ So glad of this as they I cannot be,
Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I'll to my book;
For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform                            95
Much business appertaining.    [_Exit._


  Notes: III, 1.

  1: _and_] _but_ Pope.
  2: _sets_] Rowe. _set_ Ff.
  4, 5: _my ... odious_] _my mean task would be As heavy to me as
    'tis odious_ Pope.
  9: _remove_] _move_ Pope.
  14: _labours_] _labour_ Hanmer.
  15: _Most busy lest_] F1. _Most busy least_ F2 F3 F4. _Least busy_
    Pope. _Most busie-less_ Theobald._ Most busiest_ Holt White conj.
    _Most busy felt_ Staunton. _Most busy still_ Staunton conj.
    _Most busy-blest_ Collier MS. _Most busiliest_ Bullock conj.
  _Most busy lest, when I do_ (_doe_ F1 F2 F3) _it_] _Most busy when
    least I do it_ Brae conj. _Most busiest when idlest_ Spedding
    conj. _Most busy left when idlest_ Edd. conj. See note (XIII).
  at a distance, unseen] Rowe.
  17: _you are_] F1. _thou art_ F2 F3 F4.
  31: _it is_] _is it_ Steevens conj. (ed. 1, 2, and 3). om. Steevens
    (ed. 4) (Farmer conj.).
  34, 35: _I do beseech you,--Chiefly_] _I do beseech you Chiefly_ Ff.
  59: _I therein do_] _I do_ Pope. _Therein_ Steevens.
  62: _wooden_] _wodden_ F1.
  _than to_] _than I would_ Pope.
  72: _what else_] _aught else_ Malone conj. (withdrawn).
  80: _seeks_] _seekd_ F3 F4.
  88: _as_] F1. _so_ F2 F3 F4.
  91: _severally_] Capell.
  93: _withal_] Theobald. _with all_ Ff.



","Ferdinand has been made to take Caliban's place as a servant, despite his royal status; and though he does not like Prospero, he does the work because it will benefit his new love, Miranda. Ferdinand and Miranda express their love for each other, and both express their desire to be marriedthough they have known each other for less than a day"
138,"SCENE III.

_Another part of the island._

  _Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO,
  and others._

_Gon._ By'r lakin, I can go no further, sir;
My old bones ache: here's a maze trod, indeed,
Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,
I needs must rest me.

_Alon._             Old lord, I cannot blame thee,
Who am myself attach'd with weariness,                               5
To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.
Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer: he is drown'd
Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.                     10

_Ant._ [_Aside to Seb._] I am right glad that he's so out of hope.
Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose
That you resolved to effect.

_Seb._ [_Aside to Ant._] The next advantage
Will we take throughly.

_Ant._ [_Aside to Seb._] Let it be to-night;
For, now they are oppress'd with travel, they                       15
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance
As when they are fresh.

_Seb._ [_Aside to Ant._] I say, to-night: no more.

  [_Solemn and strange music._

_Alon._ What harmony is this?--My good friends, hark!

_Gon._ Marvellous sweet music!

  _Enter PROSPERO above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes,
  bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of
  salutation; and, inviting the King, &c. to eat, they depart._

_Alon._ Give us kind keepers, heavens!--What were these?            20

_Seb._ A living drollery. Now I will believe
That there are unicorns; that in Arabia
There is one tree, the phoenix' throne; one phoenix
At this hour reigning there.

_Ant._                     I'll believe both;
And what does else want credit, come to me,                         25
And I'll be sworn 'tis true: travellers ne'er did lie,
Though fools at home condemn 'em.

_Gon._                          If in Naples
I should report this now, would they believe me?
If I should say, I saw such islanders,--
For, certes, these are people of the island,--                      30
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,
Their manners are more gentle-kind than of
Our human generation you shall find
Many, nay, almost any.

_Pros._              [_Aside_] Honest lord,
Thou hast said well; for some of you there present                  35
Are worse than devils.

_Alon._              I cannot too much muse
Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing--
Although they want the use of tongue--a kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.

_Pros._                    [_Aside_] Praise in departing.

_Fran._ They vanish'd strangely.

_Seb._                         No matter, since                     40
They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.--
Will't please you taste of what is here?

_Alon._                                Not I.

_Gon._ Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,
Who would believe that there were mountaineers
Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'em             45
Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men
Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find
Each putter-out of five for one will bring us
Good warrant of.

_Alon._        I will stand to, and feed,
Although my last: no matter, since I feel                           50
The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke,
Stand to, and do as we.

  _Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL, like a harpy; claps his
  wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet
  vanishes._

_Ari._ You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,--
That hath to instrument this lower world
And what is in't,--the never-surfeited sea                          55
Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island,
Where man doth not inhabit,--you 'mongst men
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;
And even with such-like valour men hang and drown
Their proper selves.    [_Alon., Seb. &c. draw their swords._
                   You fools! I and my fellows                      60
Are ministers of Fate: the elements,
Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle that's in my plume: my fellow-ministers                   65
Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,
And will not be uplifted. But remember,--
For that's my business to you,--that you three
From Milan did supplant good Prospero;                              70
Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,
Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,
Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,                        75
They have bereft; and do pronounce by me:
Lingering perdition--worse than any death
Can be at once--shall step by step attend
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from,--
Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls                  80
Upon your heads,--is nothing but heart-sorrow
And a clear life ensuing.

  _He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the Shapes
  again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carrying out the
  table._

_Pros._ Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou
Perform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:
Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated                           85
In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life
And observation strange, my meaner ministers
Their several kinds have done. My high charms work,
And these mine enemies are all knit up
In their distractions: they now are in my power;                    90
And in these fits I leave them, while I visit
Young Ferdinand,--whom they suppose is drown'd,--
And his and mine loved darling.    [_Exit above._

_Gon._ I' the name of something holy, sir, why stand you
In this strange stare?

_Alon._              O, it is monstrous, monstrous!                 95
Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it;
The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder,
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced
The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.
Therefore my son i' th' ooze is bedded; and                        100
I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded,
And with him there lie mudded.    [_Exit._

_Seb._                       But one fiend at a time,
I'll fight their legions o'er.

_Ant._                       I'll be thy second.

    [_Exeunt Seb. and Ant._

_Gon._ All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,
Like poison given to work a great time after,                      105
Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you,
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly,
And hinder them from what this ecstasy
May now provoke them to.

_Adr._                 Follow, I pray you.    [_Exeunt._


  Notes: III, 3.

  2: _ache_] _ake_ F2 F3 F4. _akes_ F1.
  3: _forth-rights_] F2 F3 F4. _fourth rights_ F1.
  8: _flatterer_] F1. _flatterers_ F2 F3 F4.
  17: Prospero above] Malone. Prosper on the top Ff. See note (XIV).
  20: _were_] F1 F2 F3. _are_ F4.
  26: _'tis true_] _to 't_ Steevens conj.
  _did lie_] _lied_ Hanmer.
  29: _islanders_] F2 F3 F4. _islands_ F1.
  32: _gentle-kind_] Theobald. _gentle, kind_ Ff. _gentle kind_ Rowe.
  36: _muse_] F1 F2 F3. _muse_, F4. _muse_; Capell.
  48: _of five for one_] Ff. _on five for one_ Theobald.
    _of one for five_ Malone, (Thirlby conj.) See note (XV).
  49-51: _I will ... past_] Mason conjectured that these lines formed
    a rhyming couplet.
  53: SCENE IV. Pope.
  54: _instrument_] _instruments_ F4.
  56: _belch up you_] F1 F2 F3. _belch you up_ F4. _belch up_ Theobald.
  60: [... draw their swords] Hanmer.
  65: _dowle_] _down_ Pope.]
  _plume_] Rowe. _plumbe_ F1 F2 F3. _plumb_ F4.
  67: _strengths_] _strength_ F4.
  79: _wraths_] _wrath_ Theobald.
  81: _heart-sorrow_] Edd. _hearts-sorrow_ Ff. _heart's-sorrow_ Rowe.
    _heart's sorrow_ Pope.
  82: mocks] mopps Theobald.
  86: _life_] _list_ Johnson conj.
  90: _now_] om. Pope.
  92: _whom_] _who_ Hanmer.
  93: _mine_] _my_ Rowe.
  [Exit above] Theobald.]
  94: _something holy, sir_,] _something, holy Sir_, F4.
  99: _bass_] Johnson. _base_ Ff.
  106: _do_] om. Pope.





","Alonso, Adrian, Francisco, Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo are still wandering about the island, and Alonzo has finally given up any hope of his son Ferdinand being alive. Antonio and Sebastian decide to make their murderous move later that night, but their conspiracy is interrupted by Prospero sending in a huge banquet via his spirits, with he himself there, but invisible. They are all amazed, but not too taken aback that they will not eat the food; but, as they are about to eat, a vengeful Ariel enters, taking credit for their shipwreck, and makes the banquet vanish. Alonso recognizes Ariel's words as being of Prospero's pen, and the great guilt of Alonso, Antonio, and Sebastian begins to take them over, at the thought of Prospero being alive, and so nearby."
139,"ACT I. SCENE I.

On a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise of thunder
and lightning heard._

  _Enter _a Ship-Master_ and _a Boatswain_._

_Mast._ Boatswain!

_Boats._ Here, master: what cheer?

_Mast._ Good, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely, or
we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.    [_Exit._

  _Enter _Mariners_._

_Boats._ Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts!              5
yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's
whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!

  _Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND, GONZALO,
  and others._

_Alon._ Good boatswain, have care. Where's the master?
Play the men.

_Boats._ I pray now, keep below.                                    10

_Ant._ Where is the master, boatswain?

_Boats._ Do you not hear him? You mar our labour:
keep your cabins: you do assist the storm.

_Gon._ Nay, good, be patient.

_Boats._ When the sea is. Hence! What cares these                   15
roarers for the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble
us not.

_Gon._ Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.

_Boats._ None that I more love than myself. You are a
Counsellor; if you can command these elements to silence,           20
and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope
more; use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you
have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin
for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good
hearts! Out of our way, I say.    [_Exit._                          25

_Gon._ I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks
he hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is
perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging:
make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth
little advantage. If he be not born to be hanged, our case          30
is miserable.    [_Exeunt._

  _Re-enter Boatswain._

_Boats._ Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower!
Bring her to try with main-course. [_A cry within._] A
plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather
or our office.                                                      35

  _Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO._

Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er, and
drown? Have you a mind to sink?

_Seb._ A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous,
incharitable dog!

_Boats._ Work you, then.                                            40

_Ant._ Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noise-maker.
We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.

_Gon._ I'll warrant him for drowning; though the ship
were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched
wench.                                                              45

_Boats._ Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses off
to sea again; lay her off.

  _Enter _Mariners_ wet._

_Mariners._ All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!

_Boats._ What, must our mouths be cold?

_Gon._ The king and prince at prayers! let's assist them,           50
For our case is as theirs.

_Seb._                   I'm out of patience.

_Ant._ We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards:
This wide-chapp'd rascal,--would thou mightst lie drowning
The washing of ten tides!

_Gon._                  He'll be hang'd yet,
Though every drop of water swear against it,                        55
And gape at widest to glut him.

  [_A confused noise within:_ ""Mercy on us!""--
  ""We split, we split!""-- ""Farewell my wife and children!""--
  ""Farewell, brother!""-- ""We split, we split, we split!""]

_Ant._ Let's all sink with the king.                                60

_Seb._ Let's take leave of him. [_Exeunt Ant. and Seb._

_Gon._ Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for
an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any
thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a
dry death.    [_Exeunt._                                            65


  Notes: I, 1.

  SC. I. On a ship at sea] Pope.
  Enter ... Boatswain] Collier MS. adds 'shaking off wet.'
  3: _Good,_] Rowe. _Good:_ Ff. _Good._ Collier.
  7: _till thou burst thy wind_] _till thou burst, wind_ Johnson conj.
    _till thou burst thee, wind_ Steevens conj.
  8: Capell adds stage direction [Exeunt Mariners aloft.
  11: _boatswain_] Pope. _boson_ Ff.
  11-18: Verse. S. Walker conj.
  15: _cares_] _care_ Rowe. See note (I).
  31:  [Exeunt] Theobald. [Exit. Ff.
  33: _Bring her to try_] F4. _Bring her to Try_ F1 F2 F3.
    _Bring her to. Try_ Story conj.
  33-35: Text as in Capell. _A plague_--A cry within. Enter Sebastian,
    Anthonio, and Gonzalo. _upon this howling._ Ff.
  34-37: Verse. S. Walker conj.
  43: _for_] _from_ Theobald.
  46: _two courses off to sea_] _two courses; off to sea_ Steevens
    (Holt conj.).
  46: [Enter...] [Re-enter... Dyce.
  47: [Exeunt. Theobald.
  50: _at_] _are at_ Rowe.
  50-54: Printed as prose in Ff.
  56: _to glut_] _t' englut_ Johnson conj.
  57: See note (II).
  59: _Farewell, brother!_] _Brother, farewell!_ Theobald.
  60: _with the_] Rowe. _with'_ F1 F2. _with_ F3 F4.
  61: [Exeunt A. and S.] [Exit. Ff.
  63: _furze_ Rowe. _firrs_ F1 F2 F3. _firs_ F4.
  _long heath, brown furze_] _ling, heath, broom, furze_ Hanmer.]
  65: [Exeunt] [Exit F1, om. F2 F3 F4.]



","A ship is being bombarded by thunder, lightning and rain--in short--a tempest that seems worse than the big storm in King Lear. Boat crew members try to keep everything afloat for their passengers, who are, as follows: Alonso , Sebastian , Antonio , Ferdinand , and Gonzalo . Basically, it's a hubbub of courtly figures putzing around while the experienced sailors are trying to save everyone from drowning. Drowning is likely in this storm, since the ship is described as ""leaky as an unstaunched wench."" The King and Prince take the advice of the sailors and go below deck to pray while Antonio, Sebastian, and Gonzalo stay above. Gonzalo has already exchanged words with the boatswain, who was testy to the royals. Antonio and Sebastian show their nasty dispositions, calling the boatswain an uncharitable dog and a whoreson. Yowch. While everyone's busy being friendly, a mariner demands that everyone should get busy and pray because ""all's lost!"" The boat splits and everyone seems to go their separate ways into the water. Brain Snack: Shakespeare has always liked to insert a good shipwreck into his plays but the wreck in The Tempest may have been inspired by a real-life accident at sea. In 1609, the Sea Venture was on its way from England to Jamestown when it wrecked in the Bermudas. The crew was thought to be lost forever but managed to survive on an uninhabited island for about nine months--to everyone's shock and dismay, the crew built two new ships and sailed on to Jamestown."
140,"ACT I. SCENE I.
Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

Enter DEMETRIUS and PHILO

  PHILO. Nay, but this dotage of our general's
    O'erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes,
    That o'er the files and musters of the war
    Have glow'd like plated Mars, now bend, now turn,
    The office and devotion of their view
    Upon a tawny front. His captain's heart,
    Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst
    The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper,
    And is become the bellows and the fan
    To cool a gipsy's lust.

     Flourish. Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, her LADIES, the train,
                    with eunuchs fanning her

    Look where they come!
    Take but good note, and you shall see in him
    The triple pillar of the world transform'd
    Into a strumpet's fool. Behold and see.
  CLEOPATRA. If it be love indeed, tell me how much.
  ANTONY. There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.
  CLEOPATRA. I'll set a bourn how far to be belov'd.
  ANTONY. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

                       Enter a MESSENGER

  MESSENGER. News, my good lord, from Rome.
  ANTONY. Grates me the sum.
  CLEOPATRA. Nay, hear them, Antony.
    Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows
    If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent
    His pow'rful mandate to you: 'Do this or this;
    Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that;
    Perform't, or else we damn thee.'
  ANTONY. How, my love?
  CLEOPATRA. Perchance? Nay, and most like,
    You must not stay here longer; your dismission
    Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.
    Where's Fulvia's process? Caesar's I would say? Both?
    Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt's Queen,
    Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine
    Is Caesar's homager. Else so thy cheek pays shame
    When shrill-tongu'd Fulvia scolds. The messengers!
  ANTONY. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch
    Of the rang'd empire fall! Here is my space.
    Kingdoms are clay; our dungy earth alike
    Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life
    Is to do thus [emhracing], when such a mutual pair
    And such a twain can do't, in which I bind,
    On pain of punishment, the world to weet
    We stand up peerless.
  CLEOPATRA. Excellent falsehood!
    Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?
    I'll seem the fool I am not. Antony
    Will be himself.
  ANTONY. But stirr'd by Cleopatra.
    Now for the love of Love and her soft hours,
    Let's not confound the time with conference harsh;
    There's not a minute of our lives should stretch
    Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night?
  CLEOPATRA. Hear the ambassadors.
  ANTONY. Fie, wrangling queen!
    Whom everything becomes- to chide, to laugh,
    To weep; whose every passion fully strives
    To make itself in thee fair and admir'd.
    No messenger but thine, and all alone
    To-night we'll wander through the streets and note
    The qualities of people. Come, my queen;
    Last night you did desire it. Speak not to us.
                     Exeunt ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, with the train
  DEMETRIUS. Is Caesar with Antonius priz'd so slight?
  PHILO. Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony,
    He comes too short of that great property
    Which still should go with Antony.
  DEMETRIUS. I am full sorry
    That he approves the common liar, who
    Thus speaks of him at Rome; but I will hope
    Of better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy!            Exeunt





","Two Roman soldiers, Demetrius and Philo, are at Cleopatra's palace in Alexandria, Egypt. They discuss how their dear leader and friend, Mark Antony, is totally smitten with Egypt's queen, Cleopatra. Because of this, he acts less like a ruler and more like a teenager in love. Cleopatra and Antony show up, and Cleopatra demands that Antony tells her how much he loves her. He does so with much fawning. A messenger arrives with news from Rome, and Cleopatra taunts him that the message is either from Antony's wife Fulvia, who's angry about his absence, or maybe orders from Octavius Caesar in Rome. Antony insists he won't hear the message, because everything he cares about is in front of him. Cleopatra again taunts her love: she wonders whether Antony might care as little for her as for Fulvia, his wife back home. Antony scolds her for being so hot and cold. They leave the messenger without hearing the message, and Demetrius and Philo lament that all the rumors in Rome about Antony having fallen off the manly wagon are true."
141,"SCENE III.
Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS

  CLEOPATRA. Where is he?
  CHARMIAN. I did not see him since.
  CLEOPATRA. See where he is, who's with him, what he does.
    I did not send you. If you find him sad,
    Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report
    That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return.        Exit ALEXAS
  CHARMIAN. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,
    You do not hold the method to enforce
    The like from him.
  CLEOPATRA. What should I do I do not?
  CHARMIAN. In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.
  CLEOPATRA. Thou teachest like a fool- the way to lose him.
  CHARMIAN. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear;
    In time we hate that which we often fear.

                            Enter ANTONY

    But here comes Antony.
  CLEOPATRA. I am sick and sullen.
  ANTONY. I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose-
  CLEOPATRA. Help me away, dear Charmian; I shall fall.
    It cannot be thus long; the sides of nature
    Will not sustain it.
  ANTONY. Now, my dearest queen-
  CLEOPATRA. Pray you, stand farther from me.
  ANTONY. What's the matter?
  CLEOPATRA. I know by that same eye there's some good news.
    What says the married woman? You may go.
    Would she had never given you leave to come!
    Let her not say 'tis I that keep you here-
    I have no power upon you; hers you are.
  ANTONY. The gods best know-
  CLEOPATRA. O, never was there queen
    So mightily betray'd! Yet at the first
    I saw the treasons planted.
  ANTONY. Cleopatra-
  CLEOPATRA. Why should I think you can be mine and true,
    Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,
    Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,
    To be entangled with those mouth-made vows,
    Which break themselves in swearing!
  ANTONY. Most sweet queen-
  CLEOPATRA. Nay, pray you seek no colour for your going,
    But bid farewell, and go. When you sued staying,
    Then was the time for words. No going then!
    Eternity was in our lips and eyes,
    Bliss in our brows' bent, none our parts so poor
    But was a race of heaven. They are so still,
    Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,
    Art turn'd the greatest liar.
  ANTONY. How now, lady!
  CLEOPATRA. I would I had thy inches. Thou shouldst know
    There were a heart in Egypt.
  ANTONY. Hear me, queen:
    The strong necessity of time commands
    Our services awhile; but my full heart
    Remains in use with you. Our Italy
    Shines o'er with civil swords: Sextus Pompeius
    Makes his approaches to the port of Rome;
    Equality of two domestic powers
    Breed scrupulous faction; the hated, grown to strength,
    Are newly grown to love. The condemn'd Pompey,
    Rich in his father's honour, creeps apace
    Into the hearts of such as have not thrived
    Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten;
    And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge
    By any desperate change. My more particular,
    And that which most with you should safe my going,
    Is Fulvia's death.
  CLEOPATRA. Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
     It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?
  ANTONY. She's dead, my Queen.
    Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read
    The garboils she awak'd. At the last, best.
    See when and where she died.
  CLEOPATRA. O most false love!
    Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill
    With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,
    In Fulvia's death how mine receiv'd shall be.
  ANTONY. Quarrel no more, but be prepar'd to know
    The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,
    As you shall give th' advice. By the fire
    That quickens Nilus' slime, I go from hence
    Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war
    As thou affects.
  CLEOPATRA. Cut my lace, Charmian, come!
    But let it be; I am quickly ill and well-
    So Antony loves.
  ANTONY. My precious queen, forbear,
    And give true evidence to his love, which stands
    An honourable trial.
  CLEOPATRA. So Fulvia told me.
    I prithee turn aside and weep for her;
    Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears
    Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene
    Of excellent dissembling, and let it look
    Like perfect honour.
  ANTONY. You'll heat my blood; no more.
  CLEOPATRA. You can do better yet; but this is meetly.
  ANTONY. Now, by my sword-
  CLEOPATRA. And target. Still he mends;
    But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,
    How this Herculean Roman does become
    The carriage of his chafe.
  ANTONY. I'll leave you, lady.
  CLEOPATRA. Courteous lord, one word.
    Sir, you and I must part- but that's not it.
    Sir, you and I have lov'd- but there's not it.
    That you know well. Something it is I would-
    O, my oblivion is a very Antony,
    And I am all forgotten!
  ANTONY. But that your royalty
    Holds idleness your subject, I should take you
    For idleness itself.
  CLEOPATRA. 'Tis sweating labour
    To bear such idleness so near the heart
    As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me;
    Since my becomings kill me when they do not
    Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence;
    Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,
    And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword
    Sit laurel victory, and smooth success
    Be strew'd before your feet!
  ANTONY. Let us go. Come.
    Our separation so abides and flies
    That thou, residing here, goes yet with me,
    And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.
    Away!                                                 Exeunt





","Meanwhile Cleopatra sends Alexas, her servant, to see what Antony is doing and tells her if she finds him upset, she should tell him Cleopatra is super happy; if he's happy, she should tell him Cleopatra is sad. But most importantly, she can't let Antony know that Cleopatra sent her. Cleo believes the best way to keep a man's interest is to seem as disinterested in him as possible. Charmian tries to advise Cleopatra against playing these games with Antony, but Cleopatra tells her she doesn't know what she's talking about. Cleo knows how to keep a man around--Charmian only knows how to lose one. Just then, Antony shows up with the news that he's leaving for Rome. Cleopatra swoons this way and that, wishing she'd never met him. He finally explains that he needs to take care of the war brewing with Sextus Pompeius. Further, Cleopatra should feel okay about him going because Fulvia is dead. Cleopatra has a moment of seriousness. She is shocked by Fulvia's death, but also at Antony's calmness over the death. Cleopatra worries that Antony would be equally unaffected by her death. They argue a bit over how much Antony loves Cleopatra, and whether Antony will forget Cleopatra as quickly as he forgot Fulvia. Finally Cleopatra concedes he should go to Rome and take care of his affairs. She wishes him well, and they both promise they'll be with each other in spirit while they're apart physically. Antony leaves."
142,"SCENE IV.
Rome. CAESAR'S house

Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, reading a letter; LEPIDUS, and their train

  CAESAR. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,
    It is not Caesar's natural vice to hate
    Our great competitor. From Alexandria
    This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes
    The lamps of night in revel; is not more manlike
    Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy
    More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or
    Vouchsaf'd to think he had partners. You shall find there
    A man who is the abstract of all faults
    That all men follow.
  LEPIDUS. I must not think there are
    Evils enow to darken all his goodness.
    His faults, in him, seem as the spots of heaven,
    More fiery by night's blackness; hereditary
    Rather than purchas'd; what he cannot change
    Than what he chooses.
  CAESAR. You are too indulgent. Let's grant it is not
    Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy,
    To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit
    And keep the turn of tippling with a slave,
    To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet
    With knaves that smell of sweat. Say this becomes him-
    As his composure must be rare indeed
    Whom these things cannot blemish- yet must Antony
    No way excuse his foils when we do bear
    So great weight in his lightness. If he fill'd
    His vacancy with his voluptuousness,
    Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones
    Call on him for't! But to confound such time
    That drums him from his sport and speaks as loud
    As his own state and ours- 'tis to be chid
    As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge,
    Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,
    And so rebel to judgment.

                   Enter a MESSENGER

  LEPIDUS. Here's more news.
  MESSENGER. Thy biddings have been done; and every hour,
    Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report
    How 'tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea,
    And it appears he is belov'd of those
    That only have fear'd Caesar. To the ports
    The discontents repair, and men's reports
    Give him much wrong'd.
  CAESAR. I should have known no less.
    It hath been taught us from the primal state
    That he which is was wish'd until he were;
    And the ebb'd man, ne'er lov'd till ne'er worth love,
    Comes dear'd by being lack'd. This common body,
    Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,
    Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,
    To rot itself with motion.
  MESSENGER. Caesar, I bring thee word
    Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates,
    Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound
    With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads
    They make in Italy; the borders maritime
    Lack blood to think on't, and flush youth revolt.
    No vessel can peep forth but 'tis as soon
    Taken as seen; for Pompey's name strikes more
    Than could his war resisted.
  CAESAR. Antony,
    Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once
    Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew'st
    Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel
    Did famine follow; whom thou fought'st against,
    Though daintily brought up, with patience more
    Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink
    The stale of horses and the gilded puddle
    Which beasts would cough at. Thy palate then did deign
    The roughest berry on the rudest hedge;
    Yea, like the stag when snow the pasture sheets,
    The barks of trees thou brows'd. On the Alps
    It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh,
    Which some did die to look on. And all this-
    It wounds thine honour that I speak it now-
    Was borne so like a soldier that thy cheek
    So much as lank'd not.
  LEPIDUS. 'Tis pity of him.
  CAESAR. Let his shames quickly
    Drive him to Rome. 'Tis time we twain
    Did show ourselves i' th' field; and to that end
    Assemble we immediate council. Pompey
    Thrives in our idleness.
  LEPIDUS. To-morrow, Caesar,
    I shall be furnish'd to inform you rightly
    Both what by sea and land I can be able
    To front this present time.
  CAESAR. Till which encounter
    It is my business too. Farewell.
  LEPIDUS. Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime
    Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,
    To let me be partaker.
  CAESAR. Doubt not, sir;
    I knew it for my bond.                                Exeunt





","Back in Rome, Octavius Caesar conferences with Lepidus, another member of the triumvirate that leads Rome. Caesar complains that Antony, the third member of the triumvirate, has been fishing, drinking, and partying in Egypt, instead of doing his duty to Rome. Lepidus tries to defend Antony, suggesting his faults are in his nature, maybe inherited, and that they're not that big of a deal compared to his good traits. Caesar's not having any of it, though. He says it's one thing for Antony to give up his manhood and follow a woman in drunken revelry, but he leaves too great a burden on the other two members of the triumvirate. Basically he's been letting everyone down. This is no time for him to be fooling around in Egypt, there's serious business is afoot in Rome. A messenger enters with the news that Pompey's forces at sea are strong. Worse, it turns out that Caesar's men are defecting and joining Pompey's army because they were only with Caesar out of fear, not out of loyalty. Even worse news soon arrives: the sea is overrun with pirates. Caesar wishes Antony, who has already proven himself as a soldier, would hurry up and get there, as they need his help. He and Lepidus agree to raise their forces together against Pompey, and presumably wait for Antony."
143,"SCENE V.
Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN

  CLEOPATRA. Charmian!
  CHARMIAN. Madam?
  CLEOPATRA. Ha, ha!
    Give me to drink mandragora.
  CHARMIAN. Why, madam?
  CLEOPATRA. That I might sleep out this great gap of time
    My Antony is away.
  CHARMIAN. You think of him too much.
  CLEOPATRA. O, 'tis treason!
  CHARMIAN. Madam, I trust, not so.
  CLEOPATRA. Thou, eunuch Mardian!
  MARDIAN. What's your Highness' pleasure?
  CLEOPATRA. Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleasure
    In aught an eunuch has. 'Tis well for thee
    That, being unseminar'd, thy freer thoughts
    May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?
  MARDIAN. Yes, gracious madam.
  CLEOPATRA. Indeed?
  MARDIAN. Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing
    But what indeed is honest to be done.
    Yet have I fierce affections, and think
    What Venus did with Mars.
  CLEOPATRA. O Charmian,
    Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he or sits he?
    Or does he walk? or is he on his horse?
    O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
    Do bravely, horse; for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?
    The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm
    And burgonet of men. He's speaking now,
    Or murmuring 'Where's my serpent of old Nile?'
    For so he calls me. Now I feed myself
    With most delicious poison. Think on me,
    That am with Phoebus' amorous pinches black,
    And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,
    When thou wast here above the ground, I was
    A morsel for a monarch; and great Pompey
    Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;
    There would he anchor his aspect and die
    With looking on his life.

                         Enter ALEXAS

  ALEXAS. Sovereign of Egypt, hail!
  CLEOPATRA. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!
    Yet, coming from him, that great med'cine hath
    With his tinct gilded thee.
    How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?
  ALEXAS. Last thing he did, dear Queen,
    He kiss'd- the last of many doubled kisses-
    This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.
  CLEOPATRA. Mine ear must pluck it thence.
  ALEXAS. 'Good friend,' quoth he
    'Say the firm Roman to great Egypt sends
    This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,
    To mend the petty present, I will piece
    Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the East,
    Say thou, shall call her mistress.' So he nodded,
    And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,
    Who neigh'd so high that what I would have spoke
    Was beastly dumb'd by him.
  CLEOPATRA. What, was he sad or merry?
  ALEXAS. Like to the time o' th' year between the extremes
    Of hot and cold; he was nor sad nor merry.
  CLEOPATRA. O well-divided disposition! Note him,
    Note him, good Charmian; 'tis the man; but note him!
    He was not sad, for he would shine on those
    That make their looks by his; he was not merry,
    Which seem'd to tell them his remembrance lay
    In Egypt with his joy; but between both.
    O heavenly mingle! Be'st thou sad or merry,
    The violence of either thee becomes,
    So does it no man else. Met'st thou my posts?
  ALEXAS. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers.
    Why do you send so thick?
  CLEOPATRA. Who's born that day
    When I forget to send to Antony
    Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.
    Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,
    Ever love Caesar so?
  CHARMIAN. O that brave Caesar!
  CLEOPATRA. Be chok'd with such another emphasis!
    Say 'the brave Antony.'
  CHARMIAN. The valiant Caesar!
  CLEOPATRA. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth
    If thou with Caesar paragon again
    My man of men.
  CHARMIAN. By your most gracious pardon,
    I sing but after you.
  CLEOPATRA. My salad days,
    When I was green in judgment, cold in blood,
    To say as I said then. But come, away!
    Get me ink and paper.
    He shall have every day a several greeting,
    Or I'll unpeople Egypt.                               Exeunt






","We're back with Cleopatra in Alexandria. She's verbally toying with Mardian, her eunuch , about whether he can feel anything for women, alluding to her self, obviously. She then returns to sighing over Antony, and laments that when she was Julius Caesar's mistress, she was ""a morsel fit for a monarch."" Her other lover, one of the elder Pompeys, was overcome by her looks alone. She worries she's past her prime. Just then, Alexas, another of her servants, enters with a pearl. It's a gift from Antony, who made a big deal about the thing before giving it to Alexas to take to the Queen. Antony promises Cleopatra will soon be called mistress of the East, because of the kingdoms he'll win for her. Cleopatra asks Alexas how Antony looked, and is glad to hear he wasn't really sad or really happy. She praises his moderation: seeming sad would make his followers sad, while seeming merry would make it seem like he took his job in Rome lightly. She's so pleased that she demands twenty messengers immediately, so she can write a ton of love letters to Antony. She claims she never loved Julius Caesar this way, but Charmian points out she has a habit of being in and out of love. Cleopatra dismisses her sighs over Caesar as youthful folly, and goes back to penning her affections for Antony."
144,"ACT II. SCENE I.
Messina. POMPEY'S house

Enter POMPEY, MENECRATES, and MENAS, in warlike manner

  POMPEY. If the great gods be just, they shall assist
    The deeds of justest men.
  MENECRATES. Know, worthy Pompey,
    That what they do delay they not deny.
  POMPEY. Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays
    The thing we sue for.
  MENECRATES. We, ignorant of ourselves,
    Beg often our own harms, which the wise pow'rs
    Deny us for our good; so find we profit
    By losing of our prayers.
  POMPEY. I shall do well.
    The people love me, and the sea is mine;
    My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope
    Says it will come to th' full. Mark Antony
    In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make
    No wars without doors. Caesar gets money where
    He loses hearts. Lepidus flatters both,
    Of both is flatter'd; but he neither loves,
    Nor either cares for him.
  MENAS. Caesar and Lepidus
    Are in the field. A mighty strength they carry.
  POMPEY. Where have you this? 'Tis false.
  MENAS. From Silvius, sir.
  POMPEY. He dreams. I know they are in Rome together,
    Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love,
    Salt Cleopatra, soften thy wan'd lip!
    Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both;
    Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts,
    Keep his brain fuming. Epicurean cooks
    Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite,
    That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour
    Even till a Lethe'd dullness-

                       Enter VARRIUS

    How now, Varrius!
  VARRIUS. This is most certain that I shall deliver:
    Mark Antony is every hour in Rome
    Expected. Since he went from Egypt 'tis
    A space for farther travel.
  POMPEY. I could have given less matter
    A better ear. Menas, I did not think
    This amorous surfeiter would have donn'd his helm
    For such a petty war; his soldiership
    Is twice the other twain. But let us rear
    The higher our opinion, that our stirring
    Can from the lap of Egypt's widow pluck
    The ne'er-lust-wearied Antony.
  MENAS. I cannot hope
    Caesar and Antony shall well greet together.
    His wife that's dead did trespasses to Caesar;
    His brother warr'd upon him; although, I think,
    Not mov'd by Antony.
  POMPEY. I know not, Menas,
    How lesser enmities may give way to greater.
    Were't not that we stand up against them all,
    'Twere pregnant they should square between themselves;
    For they have entertained cause enough
    To draw their swords. But how the fear of us
    May cement their divisions, and bind up
    The petty difference we yet not know.
    Be't as our gods will have't! It only stands
    Our lives upon to use our strongest hands.
    Come, Menas.                                          Exeunt





","At Pompey's house in Messina, Pompey confers with his friends Menecrates and Menas about the upcoming battle. He's convinced they'll win, because his army is strong at sea and the Romans love him. He is most confident, however, because he knows he won't have to face Antony, whom he thinks is being distracted by Cleopatra's feminine wiles in Egypt. Pompey thinks Caesar can win money, but not loyalty. Since Lepidus is fawning, he believes that the two men can't really compete with him. Menas, with great timing, announces that, actually, Caesar and Lepidus have raised a strong army in the field. Worse, Pompey gets the news that Antony is on his way back to Rome. Antony's soldier skills are twice the other men's. Pompey chooses to take it as a compliment to his own strength that Antony should come specifically to fight him. Menas points out that Antony and Caesar might not get along so well together, especially since Antony has been out carousing with the Egyptian Queen. Pompey, however, responds that the threat he poses to both men will surely be enough to get them fighting together against him."
145,"SCENE IV.
Rome. A street

Enter LEPIDUS, MAECENAS, and AGRIPPA

  LEPIDUS. Trouble yourselves no further. Pray you hasten
    Your generals after.
  AGRIPPA. Sir, Mark Antony
    Will e'en but kiss Octavia, and we'll follow.
  LEPIDUS. Till I shall see you in your soldier's dress,
    Which will become you both, farewell.
  MAECENAS. We shall,
    As I conceive the journey, be at th' Mount
    Before you, Lepidus.
  LEPIDUS. Your way is shorter;
    My purposes do draw me much about.
    You'll win two days upon me.
  BOTH. Sir, good success!
  LEPIDUS. Farewell.                                      Exeunt





","Lepidus meets with Maecenas and Agrippa. They are to gather their troops and meet together at Mount Misenum, where they'll face off with Pompey's army. Lepidus has some other stuff to do, so he'll be there two days later than the other men."
146,"SCENE VI.
Near Misenum

Flourish. Enter POMPEY and MENAS at one door, with drum and
trumpet;
at another, CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, ENOBARBUS, MAECENAS,
AGRIPPA,
with soldiers marching

  POMPEY. Your hostages I have, so have you mine;
    And we shall talk before we fight.
  CAESAR. Most meet
    That first we come to words; and therefore have we
    Our written purposes before us sent;
    Which if thou hast considered, let us know
    If 'twill tie up thy discontented sword
    And carry back to Sicily much tall youth
    That else must perish here.
  POMPEY. To you all three,
    The senators alone of this great world,
    Chief factors for the gods: I do not know
    Wherefore my father should revengers want,
    Having a son and friends, since Julius Caesar,
    Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,
    There saw you labouring for him. What was't
    That mov'd pale Cassius to conspire? and what
    Made the all-honour'd honest Roman, Brutus,
    With the arm'd rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom,
    To drench the Capitol, but that they would
    Have one man but a man? And that is it
    Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden
    The anger'd ocean foams; with which I meant
    To scourge th' ingratitude that despiteful Rome
    Cast on my noble father.
  CAESAR. Take your time.
  ANTONY. Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails;
    We'll speak with thee at sea; at land thou know'st
    How much we do o'er-count thee.
  POMPEY. At land, indeed,
    Thou dost o'er-count me of my father's house.
    But since the cuckoo builds not for himself,
    Remain in't as thou mayst.
  LEPIDUS. Be pleas'd to tell us-
    For this is from the present- how you take
    The offers we have sent you.
  CAESAR. There's the point.
  ANTONY. Which do not be entreated to, but weigh
    What it is worth embrac'd.
  CAESAR. And what may follow,
    To try a larger fortune.
  POMPEY. You have made me offer
    Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must
    Rid all the sea of pirates; then to send
    Measures of wheat to Rome; this 'greed upon,
    To part with unhack'd edges and bear back
    Our targes undinted.
  ALL. That's our offer.
  POMPEY. Know, then,
    I came before you here a man prepar'd
    To take this offer; but Mark Antony
    Put me to some impatience. Though I lose
    The praise of it by telling, you must know,
    When Caesar and your brother were at blows,
    Your mother came to Sicily and did find
    Her welcome friendly.
  ANTONY. I have heard it, Pompey,
    And am well studied for a liberal thanks
    Which I do owe you.
  POMPEY. Let me have your hand.
    I did not think, sir, to have met you here.
  ANTONY. The beds i' th' East are soft; and thanks to you,
    That call'd me timelier than my purpose hither;
    For I have gained by't.
  CAESAR. Since I saw you last
    There is a change upon you.
  POMPEY. Well, I know not
    What counts harsh fortune casts upon my face;
    But in my bosom shall she never come
    To make my heart her vassal.
  LEPIDUS. Well met here.
  POMPEY. I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed.
    I crave our composition may be written,
    And seal'd between us.
  CAESAR. That's the next to do.
  POMPEY. We'll feast each other ere we part, and let's
    Draw lots who shall begin.
  ANTONY. That will I, Pompey.
  POMPEY. No, Antony, take the lot;
    But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
    Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar
    Grew fat with feasting there.
  ANTONY. You have heard much.
  POMPEY. I have fair meanings, sir.
  ANTONY. And fair words to them.
  POMPEY. Then so much have I heard;
    And I have heard Apollodorus carried-
  ENOBARBUS. No more of that! He did so.
  POMPEY. What, I pray you?
  ENOBARBUS. A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.
  POMPEY. I know thee now. How far'st thou, soldier?
  ENOBARBUS. Well;
    And well am like to do, for I perceive
    Four feasts are toward.
  POMPEY. Let me shake thy hand.
    I never hated thee; I have seen thee fight,
    When I have envied thy behaviour.
  ENOBARBUS. Sir,
    I never lov'd you much; but I ha' prais'd ye
    When you have well deserv'd ten times as much
    As I have said you did.
  POMPEY. Enjoy thy plainness;
    It nothing ill becomes thee.
    Aboard my galley I invite you all.
    Will you lead, lords?
  ALL. Show's the way, sir.
  POMPEY. Come.               Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS
  MENAS. [Aside] Thy father, Pompey, would ne'er have made this
    treaty.- You and I have known, sir.
  ENOBARBUS. At sea, I think.
  MENAS. We have, sir.
  ENOBARBUS. You have done well by water.
  MENAS. And you by land.
  ENOBARBUS. I Will praise any man that will praise me; though it


    cannot be denied what I have done by land.
  MENAS. Nor what I have done by water.
  ENOBARBUS. Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you
    have been a great thief by sea.
  MENAS. And you by land.
  ENOBARBUS. There I deny my land service. But give me your hand,
    Menas; if our eyes had authority, here they might take two
    thieves kissing.
  MENAS. All men's faces are true, whatsome'er their hands are.
  ENOBARBUS. But there is never a fair woman has a true face.
  MENAS. No slander: they steal hearts.
  ENOBARBUS. We came hither to fight with you.
  MENAS. For my part, I am sorry it is turn'd to a drinking.
    Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune.
  ENOBARBUS. If he do, sure he cannot weep't back again.
  MENAS. Y'have said, sir. We look'd not for Mark Antony here.
Pray
    you, is he married to Cleopatra?
  ENOBARBUS. Caesar' sister is call'd Octavia.
  MENAS. True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus.
  ENOBARBUS. But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.
  MENAS. Pray ye, sir?
  ENOBARBUS. 'Tis true.
  MENAS. Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.
  ENOBARBUS. If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not
    prophesy so.
  MENAS. I think the policy of that purpose made more in the
marriage
    than the love of the parties.
  ENOBARBUS. I think so too. But you shall find the band that
seems
    to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler
of
    their amity: Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still
conversation.
  MENAS. Who would not have his wife so?
  ENOBARBUS. Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony.
He
    will to his Egyptian dish again; then shall the sighs of
Octavia
    blow the fire up in Caesar, and, as I said before, that which
is
    the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author
of
    their variance. Antony will use his affection where it is; he
    married but his occasion here.
  MENAS. And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a
    health for you.
  ENOBARBUS. I shall take it, sir. We have us'd our throats in
Egypt.
  MENAS. Come, let's away.                                Exeunt

ACT_2|SC_7


","Back at Mount Misenum, in southern Italy, Pompey's crew has just walked in to meet with the triumvirate and attendants. They're ready to do some old-school negotiating before they fight. Caesar refers to a letter the triumvirs sent that outlines some terms the enemies can discuss. Pompey points out he's fighting to avenge the death of his father. was defeated by Julius Caesar and had to flee to Egypt, where he was murdered.) Ignoring this, Antony points out that although Pompey's force at sea is masterful, Rome's land forces far outweigh Pompey's. Pompey knows they're right about his troops being out of their league on land, and when pressed, he goes over the terms that have been offered. The triumvirs have said that Pompey can have Sicily and Sardinia if he rids the sea of pirates and sends wheat to Rome on occasion. Pompey is ready to agree to the terms except for one little thing. It seems that he entertained Antony's mom in Sicily while Caesar and Antony's brother Lucius was at war. Pompey just wants his generosity to be acknowledged. Antony apologizes and admits he owes Pompey some big thank yous. Thousands of lives are saved and war is averted. They shake on it, and agree to feast together, but not before Pompey gets in a few jibes at Antony about how being with Cleopatra means that he's getting Julius Caesar's sloppy seconds. Enobarbus, Antony's friend and confidante, stops the joking around before someone gets their throat cut, and they all go carousing on Pompey's ship. Menas, Pompey's friend, and Enobarbus, from Antony's camp, are left alone to discuss the newly made truce. They're friends, though they admit there's a little edge to this whole affair. Pompey the elder would never have done what Pompey the younger has done. Having made this compromising pact, the younger Pompey can kiss his good fortune goodbye. You weren't supposed to make nice with the enemy, it seems. It wasn't the manly, Roman thing to do. They then discuss how Antony has married Octavia, which was clearly for political purposes, as Octavia is a quiet and cold, especially compared to the sultry Cleopatra waiting in Egypt. Enobarbus predicts that, rather than seal the bond between Antony and Caesar, the marriage will ruin any goodwill between the men because there's no way that Antony will remain faithful to Octavia. Antony's inevitable betrayal of Octavia is bound to anger Caesar."
147,"SCENE VII.
             On board POMPEY'S galley, off Misenum

     Music plays. Enter two or three SERVANTS with a banquet

  FIRST SERVANT. Here they'll be, man. Some o' their plants are
    ill-rooted already; the least wind i' th' world will blow
them
    down.
  SECOND SERVANT. Lepidus is high-colour'd.
  FIRST SERVANT. They have made him drink alms-drink.
  SECOND SERVANT. As they pinch one another by the disposition,
he
    cries out 'No more!'; reconciles them to his entreaty and
himself
    to th' drink.
  FIRST SERVANT. But it raises the greater war between him and
his
    discretion.
  SECOND SERVANT. Why, this it is to have a name in great men's
    fellowship. I had as lief have a reed that will do me no
service
    as a partizan I could not heave.
  FIRST SERVANT. To be call'd into a huge sphere, and not to be
seen
    to move in't, are the holes where eyes should be, which
pitifully
    disaster the cheeks.

           A sennet sounded. Enter CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS,
            POMPEY, AGRIPPA, MAECENAS, ENOBARBUS, MENAS,
                         with other CAPTAINS

  ANTONY. [To CAESAR] Thus do they, sir: they take the flow o'
th'
      Nile
    By certain scales i' th' pyramid; they know
    By th' height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth
    Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells
    The more it promises; as it ebbs, the seedsman
    Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain,
    And shortly comes to harvest.
  LEPIDUS. Y'have strange serpents there.
  ANTONY. Ay, Lepidus.
  LEPIDUS. Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the
    operation of your sun; so is your crocodile.
  ANTONY. They are so.
  POMPEY. Sit- and some wine! A health to Lepidus!
  LEPIDUS. I am not so well as I should be, but I'll ne'er out.
  ENOBARBUS. Not till you have slept. I fear me you'll be in till


    then.
  LEPIDUS. Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies' pyramises
are
    very goodly things. Without contradiction I have heard that.
  MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] Pompey, a word.
  POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] Say in mine ear; what is't?
  MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee,
      Captain,
    And hear me speak a word.
  POMPEY. [ Whispers in's ear ] Forbear me till anon-
    This wine for Lepidus!
  LEPIDUS. What manner o' thing is your crocodile?
  ANTONY. It is shap'd, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as
it
    hath breadth; it is just so high as it is, and moves with it
own
    organs. It lives by that which nourisheth it, and the
elements
    once out of it, it transmigrates.
  LEPIDUS. What colour is it of?
  ANTONY. Of it own colour too.
  LEPIDUS. 'Tis a strange serpent.
  ANTONY. 'Tis so. And the tears of it are wet.
  CAESAR. Will this description satisfy him?
  ANTONY. With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a
very
    epicure.
  POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] Go, hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that!
      Away!
    Do as I bid you.- Where's this cup I call'd for?
  MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] If for the sake of merit thou wilt
hear
      me,
    Rise from thy stool.
  POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] I think th'art mad. [Rises and walks
    aside] The matter?
  MENAS. I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.
  POMPEY. Thou hast serv'd me with much faith. What's else to
say?-
    Be jolly, lords.
  ANTONY. These quicksands, Lepidus,
    Keep off them, for you sink.
  MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of all the world?
  POMPEY. What say'st thou?
  MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That's twice.
  POMPEY. How should that be?
  MENAS. But entertain it,
    And though you think me poor, I am the man
    Will give thee all the world.
  POMPEY. Hast thou drunk well?
  MENAS. No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.
    Thou art, if thou dar'st be, the earthly Jove;
    Whate'er the ocean pales or sky inclips
    Is thine, if thou wilt ha't.
  POMPEY. Show me which way.
  MENAS. These three world-sharers, these competitors,
    Are in thy vessel. Let me cut the cable;
    And when we are put off, fall to their throats.
    All there is thine.
  POMPEY. Ah, this thou shouldst have done,
    And not have spoke on't. In me 'tis villainy:
    In thee't had been good service. Thou must know
    'Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour:
    Mine honour, it. Repent that e'er thy tongue
    Hath so betray'd thine act. Being done unknown,
    I should have found it afterwards well done,
    But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.
  MENAS. [Aside] For this,
    I'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more.
    Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,
    Shall never find it more.
  POMPEY. This health to Lepidus!
  ANTONY. Bear him ashore. I'll pledge it for him, Pompey.
  ENOBARBUS. Here's to thee, Menas!
  MENAS. Enobarbus, welcome!
  POMPEY. Fill till the cup be hid.
  ENOBARBUS. There's a strong fellow, Menas.
               [Pointing to the servant who carries off LEPIDUS]
  MENAS. Why?
  ENOBARBUS. 'A bears the third part of the world, man; see'st
not?
  MENAS. The third part, then, is drunk. Would it were all,
    That it might go on wheels!
  ENOBARBUS. Drink thou; increase the reels.
  MENAS. Come.
  POMPEY. This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.
  ANTONY. It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho!
    Here's to Caesar!
  CAESAR. I could well forbear't.
    It's monstrous labour when I wash my brain
    And it grows fouler.
  ANTONY. Be a child o' th' time.
  CAESAR. Possess it, I'll make answer.
    But I had rather fast from all four days
    Than drink so much in one.
  ENOBARBUS. [To ANTONY] Ha, my brave emperor!
    Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals
    And celebrate our drink?
  POMPEY. Let's ha't, good soldier.
  ANTONY. Come, let's all take hands,
    Till that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense
    In soft and delicate Lethe.
  ENOBARBUS. All take hands.
    Make battery to our ears with the loud music,
    The while I'll place you; then the boy shall sing;
    The holding every man shall bear as loud
    As his strong sides can volley.
               [Music plays. ENOBARBUS places them hand in hand]


                        THE SONG
            Come, thou monarch of the vine,
            Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!
            In thy fats our cares be drown'd,
            With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd.
            Cup us till the world go round,
            Cup us till the world go round!

  CAESAR. What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother,
    Let me request you off; our graver business
    Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let's part;
    You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb
    Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue
    Splits what it speaks. The wild disguise hath almost
    Antick'd us all. What needs more words? Good night.
    Good Antony, your hand.
  POMPEY. I'll try you on the shore.
  ANTONY. And shall, sir. Give's your hand.
  POMPEY. O Antony,
    You have my father's house- but what? We are friends.
    Come, down into the boat.
  ENOBARBUS. Take heed you fall not.
                              Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS
    Menas, I'll not on shore.
  MENAS. No, to my cabin.
    These drums! these trumpets, flutes! what!
    Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell
    To these great fellows. Sound and be hang'd, sound out!
                                  [Sound a flourish, with drums]
  ENOBARBUS. Hoo! says 'a. There's my cap.
  MENAS. Hoo! Noble Captain, come.                        Exeunt
ACT_3|SC_1



","Back at Pompey's ship, the former enemies are all making merry together. The servants note that Lepidus is wasted, and the others tease him. He's clearly not as great as the others, and hangs on like a third wheel. Antony and Lepidus have a long exchange about life in Egypt, and Lepidus is really interested in Egyptian pyramids, snakes, and crocodiles. Meanwhile, Pompey's man Menas has been whispering in his ear to get him away from the table. Pompey finally gets up to hear what the man won't tell him in his ear. Menas proposes that he cut the boat from the dock, and murder the three drunken triumvirs. This would make Pompey ruler of their shares of the world. Pompey laments on hearing the plan: while he would've been glad if Menas had done it without asking, now that Menas has told him, he has to admit the murders would be dishonorable. He tells Menas to go back to drinking, and forget the whole thing. Menas is angry and vows to leave Pompey's service becausethe man won't answer opportunity when it knocks him about the head. Meanwhile, Lepidus has to be carried out from too much drinking, and the remaining men dance the ""Egyptian bacchanals."" Hand-holding, singing, and drinking continues late into the night. Eventually, Caesar leaves and Antony stays on Pompey's boat. Enobarbus stays with Menas."
148,"ACT III. SCENE I.
                     A plain in Syria

       Enter VENTIDIUS, as it were in triumph, with SILIUS
      and other Romans, OFFICERS and soldiers; the dead body
                of PACORUS borne before him

  VENTIDIUS. Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck, and now
    Pleas'd fortune does of Marcus Crassus' death
    Make me revenger. Bear the King's son's body
    Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes,
    Pays this for Marcus Crassus.
  SILIUS. Noble Ventidius,
    Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm
    The fugitive Parthians follow; spur through Media,
    Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither
    The routed fly. So thy grand captain, Antony,
    Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and
    Put garlands on thy head.
  VENTIDIUS. O Silius, Silius,
    I have done enough. A lower place, note well,
    May make too great an act; for learn this, Silius:
    Better to leave undone than by our deed
    Acquire too high a fame when him we serve's away.
    Caesar and Antony have ever won
    More in their officer, than person. Sossius,
    One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant,
    For quick accumulation of renown,
    Which he achiev'd by th' minute, lost his favour.
    Who does i' th' wars more than his captain can
    Becomes his captain's captain; and ambition,
    The soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss
    Than gain which darkens him.
    I could do more to do Antonius good,
    But 'twould offend him; and in his offence
    Should my performance perish.
  SILIUS. Thou hast, Ventidius, that
    Without the which a soldier and his sword
    Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony?
  VENTIDIUS. I'll humbly signify what in his name,
    That magical word of war, we have effected;
    How, with his banners, and his well-paid ranks,
    The ne'er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia
    We have jaded out o' th' field.
  SILIUS. Where is he now?
  VENTIDIUS. He purposeth to Athens; whither, with what haste
    The weight we must convey with's will permit,
    We shall appear before him.- On, there; pass along.
                                                          Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_2



","Now we're in Syria, where Ventidius has returned victorious from his earlier battle. Ventidius brings with him the body of the King of Parthia's son, Pacorus. He thinks of this as revenge for Marcus Crassus , who was killed by the Parthians. Silius, another Roman, urges Ventidius to quickly go to Antony and tell of all the good deeds he's performed, as surely Antony will reward and praise him. Ventidius is a smart guy and realizes that by showing up Antony at battle, he will lose favor, not gain it. To rise too quickly under powerful men makes you a threat, not an asset. Ventidius agrees he'll write a letter to Antony, praising him for making their victory possible. They all set off to meet Antony at his house in Athens."
149,"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



","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."
150,"SCENE III.
              Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

         Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS

  CLEOPATRA. Where is the fellow?
  ALEXAS. Half afeard to come.
  CLEOPATRA. Go to, go to.

                Enter the MESSENGER as before

    Come hither, sir.
  ALEXAS. Good Majesty,
    Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you
    But when you are well pleas'd.
  CLEOPATRA. That Herod's head
    I'll have. But how, when Antony is gone,
    Through whom I might command it? Come thou near.
  MESSENGER. Most gracious Majesty!
  CLEOPATRA. Didst thou behold Octavia?
  MESSENGER. Ay, dread Queen.
  CLEOPATRA. Where?
  MESSENGER. Madam, in Rome
    I look'd her in the face, and saw her led
    Between her brother and Mark Antony.
  CLEOPATRA. Is she as tall as me?
  MESSENGER. She is not, madam.
  CLEOPATRA. Didst hear her speak? Is she shrill-tongu'd or low?
  MESSENGER. Madam, I heard her speak: she is low-voic'd.
  CLEOPATRA. That's not so good. He cannot like her long.
  CHARMIAN. Like her? O Isis! 'tis impossible.
  CLEOPATRA. I think so, Charmian. Dull of tongue and dwarfish!
    What majesty is in her gait? Remember,
    If e'er thou look'dst on majesty.
  MESSENGER. She creeps.
    Her motion and her station are as one;
    She shows a body rather than a life,
    A statue than a breather.
  CLEOPATRA. Is this certain?
  MESSENGER. Or I have no observance.
  CHARMIAN. Three in Egypt
    Cannot make better note.
  CLEOPATRA. He's very knowing;
    I do perceive't. There's nothing in her yet.
    The fellow has good judgment.
  CHARMIAN. Excellent.
  CLEOPATRA. Guess at her years, I prithee.
  MESSENGER. Madam,
    She was a widow.
  CLEOPATRA. Widow? Charmian, hark!
  MESSENGER. And I do think she's thirty.
  CLEOPATRA. Bear'st thou her face in mind? Is't long or round?
  MESSENGER. Round even to faultiness.
  CLEOPATRA. For the most part, too, they are foolish that are
so.
    Her hair, what colour?
  MESSENGER. Brown, madam; and her forehead
    As low as she would wish it.
  CLEOPATRA. There's gold for thee.
    Thou must not take my former sharpness ill.
    I will employ thee back again; I find thee
    Most fit for business. Go make thee ready;
    Our letters are prepar'd.                   Exeunt MESSENGER

  CHARMIAN. A proper man.
  CLEOPATRA. Indeed, he is so. I repent me much
    That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him,
    This creature's no such thing.
  CHARMIAN. Nothing, madam.
  CLEOPATRA. The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.
  CHARMIAN. Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend,
    And serving you so long!
  CLEOPATRA. I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian.
    But 'tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me
    Where I will write. All may be well enough.
  CHARMIAN. I warrant you, madam.                         Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_4



","Cleopatra and her servants meet the messenger she had previously whipped. He's bearing news on just how Octavia matches up with Cleopatra in the competition for Antony's affection. The news turns out to be good. He watched Octavia in Rome as she walked between Antony and Caesar. The woman, he reports, isn't beautiful. She's short, brown-haired and round-faced, with a low forehead, walks with a creep instead of a saunter, and she's at least 30. Cleopatra is overjoyed and repents that she cursed Antony. She promises the messenger plenty of gold, and asks forgiveness for that one time when she tried to knife him. Cleopatra's certain that she can win Antony's affections back."
151,"SCENE IV.
                  Athens. ANTONY'S house

                 Enter ANTONY and OCTAVIA

  ANTONY. Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that-
    That were excusable, that and thousands more
    Of semblable import- but he hath wag'd
    New wars 'gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it
    To public ear;
    Spoke scandy of me; when perforce he could not
    But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly
    He vented them, most narrow measure lent me;
    When the best hint was given him, he not took't,
    Or did it from his teeth.
  OCTAVIA. O my good lord,
    Believe not all; or if you must believe,
    Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,
    If this division chance, ne'er stood between,
    Praying for both parts.
    The good gods will mock me presently
    When I shall pray 'O, bless my lord and husband!'
    Undo that prayer by crying out as loud
    'O, bless my brother!' Husband win, win brother,
    Prays, and destroys the prayer; no mid-way
    'Twixt these extremes at all.
  ANTONY. Gentle Octavia,
    Let your best love draw to that point which seeks
    Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour,
    I lose myself; better I were not yours
    Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested,
    Yourself shall go between's. The meantime, lady,
    I'll raise the preparation of a war
    Shall stain your brother. Make your soonest haste;
    So your desires are yours.
  OCTAVIA. Thanks to my lord.
    The Jove of power make me, most weak, most weak,
    Your reconciler! Wars 'twixt you twain would be
    As if the world should cleave, and that slain men
    Should solder up the rift.
  ANTONY. When it appears to you where this begins,
    Turn your displeasure that way, for our faults
    Can never be so equal that your love
    Can equally move with them. Provide your going;
    Choose your own company, and command what cost
    Your heart has mind to.                               Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_5



","Back in Athens at Antony's house, Antony complains to Octavia of Caesar's behavior since their departure. Caesar has broken their pact and waged war against Pompey, not to mention he has railed against Antony in public. Octavia laments that she's monkey in the middle of this mess, and she pleads with him not to believe the reports against her brother. She wouldn't know whom to support in a quarrel between her brother and her husband. Antony tells her not to fear; he'll win back his honor by raising a war against Caesar. He sends his wife back to Rome to be with her brother while he prepares for war with Caesar."
152,"SCENE V.
                   Athens. ANTONY'S house

             Enter ENOBARBUS and EROS, meeting

  ENOBARBUS. How now, friend Eros!
  EROS. There's strange news come, sir.
  ENOBARBUS. What, man?
  EROS. Caesar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey.
  ENOBARBUS. This is old. What is the success?
  EROS. Caesar, having made use of him in the wars 'gainst
Pompey,
    presently denied him rivality, would not let him partake in
the
    glory of the action; and not resting here, accuses him of
letters
    he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes
him.
    So the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine.
  ENOBARBUS. Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps- no more;
    And throw between them all the food thou hast,
    They'll grind the one the other. Where's Antony?
  EROS. He's walking in the garden- thus, and spurns
    The rush that lies before him; cries 'Fool Lepidus!'
    And threats the throat of that his officer
    That murd'red Pompey.
  ENOBARBUS. Our great navy's rigg'd.
  EROS. For Italy and Caesar. More, Domitius:
    My lord desires you presently; my news
    I might have told hereafter.
  ENOBARBUS. 'Twill be naught;
    But let it be. Bring me to Antony.
  EROS. Come, sir.                                        Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_6



","The plot thickens in Athens, as Enobarbus and Eros let us in on how deep the treachery runs. Caesar used Lepidus's forces to defeat Pompey, but denied him his share of the spoils of the battle. Further, Caesar has accused Lepidus of siding with Pompey, and has imprisoned him and taken his share of the triumvirate's power. Caesar has also had some shady dealings in getting an officer of Lepidus's to murder Pompey, which Antony is furious about. Antony prepares his naval fleet to battle Caesar in Rome."
153,"SCENE VI.
                   Rome. CAESAR'S house

             Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, and MAECENAS

  CAESAR. Contemning Rome, he has done all this and more
    In Alexandria. Here's the manner of't:
    I' th' market-place, on a tribunal silver'd,
    Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold
    Were publicly enthron'd; at the feet sat
    Caesarion, whom they call my father's son,
    And all the unlawful issue that their lust
    Since then hath made between them. Unto her
    He gave the stablishment of Egypt; made her
    Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia,
    Absolute queen.
  MAECENAS. This in the public eye?
  CAESAR. I' th' common show-place, where they exercise.
    His sons he there proclaim'd the kings of kings:
    Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia,
    He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assign'd
    Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She
    In th' habiliments of the goddess Isis
    That day appear'd; and oft before gave audience,
    As 'tis reported, so.
  MAECENAS. Let Rome be thus
    Inform'd.
  AGRIPPA. Who, queasy with his insolence
    Already, will their good thoughts call from him.
  CAESAR. The people knows it, and have now receiv'd
    His accusations.
  AGRIPPA. Who does he accuse?
  CAESAR. Caesar; and that, having in Sicily
    Sextus Pompeius spoil'd, we had not rated him
    His part o' th' isle. Then does he say he lent me
    Some shipping, unrestor'd. Lastly, he frets
    That Lepidus of the triumvirate
    Should be depos'd; and, being, that we detain
    All his revenue.
  AGRIPPA. Sir, this should be answer'd.
  CAESAR. 'Tis done already, and messenger gone.
    I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel,
    That he his high authority abus'd,
    And did deserve his change. For what I have conquer'd
    I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia
    And other of his conquer'd kingdoms,
    Demand the like.
  MAECENAS. He'll never yield to that.
  CAESAR. Nor must not then be yielded to in this.

                Enter OCTAVIA, with her train

  OCTAVIA. Hail, Caesar, and my lord! hail, most dear Caesar!
  CAESAR. That ever I should call thee cast-away!
  OCTAVIA. You have not call'd me so, nor have you cause.
  CAESAR. Why have you stol'n upon us thus? You come not
    Like Caesar's sister. The wife of Antony
    Should have an army for an usher, and
    The neighs of horse to tell of her approach
    Long ere she did appear. The trees by th' way
    Should have borne men, and expectation fainted,
    Longing for what it had not. Nay, the dust
    Should have ascended to the roof of heaven,
    Rais'd by your populous troops. But you are come
    A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented
    The ostentation of our love, which left unshown
    Is often left unlov'd. We should have met you
    By sea and land, supplying every stage
    With an augmented greeting.
  OCTAVIA. Good my lord,
    To come thus was I not constrain'd, but did it
    On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony,
    Hearing that you prepar'd for war, acquainted
    My grieved ear withal; whereon I begg'd
    His pardon for return.
  CAESAR. Which soon he granted,
    Being an obstruct 'tween his lust and him.
  OCTAVIA. Do not say so, my lord.
  CAESAR. I have eyes upon him,
    And his affairs come to me on the wind.
    Where is he now?
  OCTAVIA. My lord, in Athens.
  CAESAR. No, my most wronged sister: Cleopatra
    Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire
    Up to a whore, who now are levying
    The kings o' th' earth for war. He hath assembled
    Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus
    Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos, king
    Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas;
    King Manchus of Arabia; King of Pont;
    Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king
    Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas,
    The kings of Mede and Lycaonia, with
    More larger list of sceptres.
  OCTAVIA. Ay me most wretched,
    That have my heart parted betwixt two friends,
    That does afflict each other!
  CAESAR. Welcome hither.
    Your letters did withhold our breaking forth,
    Till we perceiv'd both how you were wrong led
    And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart;
    Be you not troubled with the time, which drives
    O'er your content these strong necessities,
    But let determin'd things to destiny
    Hold unbewail'd their way. Welcome to Rome;
    Nothing more dear to me. You are abus'd
    Beyond the mark of thought, and the high gods,
    To do you justice, make their ministers
    Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort,
    And ever welcome to us.
  AGRIPPA. Welcome, lady.
  MAECENAS. Welcome, dear madam.
    Each heart in Rome does love and pity you;
    Only th' adulterous Antony, most large
    In his abominations, turns you off,
    And gives his potent regiment to a trull
    That noises it against us.
  OCTAVIA. Is it so, sir?
  CAESAR. Most certain. Sister, welcome. Pray you
    Be ever known to patience. My dear'st sister!         Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_7



","In Rome, Caesar fills us in on Antony's wickedness. He reports that when in Alexandria, Antony chilled out on gold thrones in the marketplace, in full public view, with Cleopatra, Julius Caesar's son by Cleopatra, and her children by Antony. There he declared her Queen of Egypt and added Syria, Cyprus, and a dash of Lydia to the bounty for good measure. Further, he added areas for the children to rule. All the while, Cleopatra was dressed up as the goddess Isis. Caesar believes this information will turn the people against Antony. He thinks he can win the support of these people even though Antony's been making some accusations against him, in particular claiming that he was wrongly left out of the spoils gained from defeating Pompey, and that Lepidus shouldn't have been unseated. Caesar says he's already sent a reply to Antony, insisting that Lepidus had grown too cruel and needed to be overturned and that he'd share his spoils of war with Antony if Antony would do the same. Caesar feels comfortable doing this, as he assumes Antony would never share his bounty. It's a crooked deal both ways. Octavia enters. Caesar is upset that she arrived with so little fanfare. Octavia says she came of her own free will, after hearing her brother would make war against her husband. Caesar cuts her short. It's clear to him that Antony got Octavia out of the way so he could go back to Cleopatra, and further, that the pair is collecting the kings of the east to wage war against Caesar and Rome. Caesar claims that he was holding back on making war on Antony for Octavia's sake, but now that she's here, they can be certain Antony has betrayed them both. Octavia seems uncertain."
154,"SCENE VII.
                  ANTONY'S camp near Actium

                Enter CLEOPATRA and ENOBARBUS

  CLEOPATRA. I will be even with thee, doubt it not.
  ENOBARBUS. But why, why,
  CLEOPATRA. Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars,
    And say'st it is not fit.
  ENOBARBUS. Well, is it, is it?
  CLEOPATRA. Is't not denounc'd against us? Why should not we
    Be there in person?
  ENOBARBUS. [Aside] Well, I could reply:
    If we should serve with horse and mares together
    The horse were merely lost; the mares would bear
    A soldier and his horse.
  CLEOPATRA. What is't you say?
  ENOBARBUS. Your presence needs must puzzle Antony;
    Take from his heart, take from his brain, from's time,
    What should not then be spar'd. He is already
    Traduc'd for levity; and 'tis said in Rome
    That Photinus an eunuch and your maids
    Manage this war.
  CLEOPATRA. Sink Rome, and their tongues rot
    That speak against us! A charge we bear i' th' war,
    And, as the president of my kingdom, will
    Appear there for a man. Speak not against it;
    I will not stay behind.

                   Enter ANTONY and CANIDIUS

  ENOBARBUS. Nay, I have done.
    Here comes the Emperor.
  ANTONY. Is it not strange, Canidius,
    That from Tarentum and Brundusium
    He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea,
    And take in Toryne?- You have heard on't, sweet?
  CLEOPATRA. Celerity is never more admir'd
    Than by the negligent.
  ANTONY. A good rebuke,
    Which might have well becom'd the best of men
    To taunt at slackness. Canidius, we
    Will fight with him by sea.
  CLEOPATRA. By sea! What else?
  CANIDIUS. Why will my lord do so?
  ANTONY. For that he dares us to't.
  ENOBARBUS. So hath my lord dar'd him to single fight.
  CANIDIUS. Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia,
    Where Caesar fought with Pompey. But these offers,
    Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off;
    And so should you.
  ENOBARBUS. Your ships are not well mann'd;
    Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people
    Ingross'd by swift impress. In Caesar's fleet
    Are those that often have 'gainst Pompey fought;
    Their ships are yare; yours heavy. No disgrace
    Shall fall you for refusing him at sea,
    Being prepar'd for land.
  ANTONY. By sea, by sea.
  ENOBARBUS. Most worthy sir, you therein throw away
    The absolute soldiership you have by land;
    Distract your army, which doth most consist
    Of war-mark'd footmen; leave unexecuted
    Your own renowned knowledge; quite forgo
    The way which promises assurance; and
    Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard
    From firm security.
  ANTONY. I'll fight at sea.
  CLEOPATRA. I have sixty sails, Caesar none better.
  ANTONY. Our overplus of shipping will we burn,
    And, with the rest full-mann'd, from th' head of Actium
    Beat th' approaching Caesar. But if we fail,
    We then can do't at land.

                       Enter a MESSENGER

    Thy business?
  MESSENGER. The news is true, my lord: he is descried;
    Caesar has taken Toryne.
  ANTONY. Can he be there in person? 'Tis impossible-
    Strange that his power should be. Canidius,
    Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land,
    And our twelve thousand horse. We'll to our ship.
    Away, my Thetis!

                       Enter a SOLDIER

    How now, worthy soldier?
  SOLDIER. O noble Emperor, do not fight by sea;
    Trust not to rotten planks. Do you misdoubt
    This sword and these my wounds? Let th' Egyptians
    And the Phoenicians go a-ducking; we
    Have us'd to conquer standing on the earth
    And fighting foot to foot.
  ANTONY. Well, well- away.
                         Exeunt ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, and ENOBARBUS
  SOLDIER. By Hercules, I think I am i' th' right.
  CANIDIUS. Soldier, thou art; but his whole action grows
    Not in the power on't. So our leader's led,
    And we are women's men.
  SOLDIER. You keep by land
    The legions and the horse whole, do you not?
  CANIDIUS. Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius,
    Publicola, and Caelius are for sea;
    But we keep whole by land. This speed of Caesar's
    Carries beyond belief.
  SOLDIER. While he was yet in Rome,
    His power went out in such distractions as
    Beguil'd all spies.
  CANIDIUS. Who's his lieutenant, hear you?
  SOLDIER. They say one Taurus.
  CANIDIUS. Well I know the man.

                        Enter a MESSENGER

  MESSENGER. The Emperor calls Canidius.
  CANIDIUS. With news the time's with labour and throes forth
    Each minute some.                                     Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_8



","Cleopatra readies to go to battle alongside Antony, though Enobarbus thinks it's not a place fit for women. Further, she'll be a distraction to Antony, when all his attention needs to be on the war. She won't hear any of it, despite the fact that the Romans are taunting that a woman and her maids are running the war. Antony interrupts this little discussion of gender roles and announces to Canidius, one of his soldiers, that they'll fight by sea. Enobarbus and Canidius plead with him; as his fleet and sea power are much weaker than Caesar's, they're sure to be doomed. Still, Caesar has challenged Antony at sea, so in spite of his good sense, he won't back down. Cleopatra pledges sixty ships, and Antony contends that if they lose at sea, they can still fight by land. A messenger enters with the news that Caesar is already conquering, so there's no time to waste. The main players exit with Antony preparing for war on the water. Canidius and a soldier stay back, lamenting Antony's decision to fight in the arena where he's weakest --he's being led not by tactics, but by a woman. Caesar has traveled quickly, and his power is only growing. Still, they'll take care of land preparations while Antony puts the brunt of their force into the sea."
155,"SCENE VIII.
                      A plain near Actium

             Enter CAESAR, with his army, marching

  CAESAR. Taurus!
  TAURUS. My lord?
  CAESAR. Strike not by land; keep whole; provoke not battle
    Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed
    The prescript of this scroll. Our fortune lies
    Upon this jump.                                       Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_9



","Now at Actium, Caesar gives instruction to his lieutenant, Taurus. They're not to engage Antony's side on land until the sea battle is over. He's convinced all their fortunes rest on this one decision."
156,"SCENE IX.
                  Another part of the plain

                  Enter ANTONY and ENOBARBUS

  ANTONY. Set we our squadrons on yon side o' th' hill,
    In eye of Caesar's battle; from which place
    We may the number of the ships behold,
    And so proceed accordingly.                           Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_10



","Antony speaks to Enobarbus--the plan is to set up on one side of the hill, so they can observe how strong Caesar's fleet is, and then plan accordingly."
157,"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



","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."
158,"SCENE XI.
              Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

               Enter ANTONY With attendants

  ANTONY. Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon't;
    It is asham'd to bear me. Friends, come hither.
    I am so lated in the world that I
    Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship
    Laden with gold; take that; divide it. Fly,
    And make your peace with Caesar.
  ALL. Fly? Not we!
  ANTONY. I have fled myself, and have instructed cowards
    To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone;
    I have myself resolv'd upon a course
    Which has no need of you; be gone.
    My treasure's in the harbour, take it. O,
    I follow'd that I blush to look upon.
    My very hairs do mutiny; for the white
    Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them
    For fear and doting. Friends, be gone; you shall
    Have letters from me to some friends that will
    Sweep your way for you. Pray you look not sad,
    Nor make replies of loathness; take the hint
    Which my despair proclaims. Let that be left
    Which leaves itself. To the sea-side straight way.
    I will possess you of that ship and treasure.
    Leave me, I pray, a little; pray you now;
    Nay, do so, for indeed I have lost command;
    Therefore I pray you. I'll see you by and by.    [Sits down]

            Enter CLEOPATRA, led by CHARMIAN and IRAS,
                         EROS following

  EROS. Nay, gentle madam, to him! Comfort him.
  IRAS. Do, most dear Queen.
  CHARMIAN. Do? Why, what else?
  CLEOPATRA. Let me sit down. O Juno!
  ANTONY. No, no, no, no, no.
  EROS. See you here, sir?
  ANTONY. O, fie, fie, fie!
  CHARMIAN. Madam!
  IRAS. Madam, O good Empress!
  EROS. Sir, sir!
  ANTONY. Yes, my lord, yes. He at Philippi kept
    His sword e'en like a dancer, while I struck
    The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and 'twas I
    That the mad Brutus ended; he alone
    Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had
    In the brave squares of war. Yet now- no matter.
  CLEOPATRA. Ah, stand by!
  EROS. The Queen, my lord, the Queen!
  IRAS. Go to him, madam, speak to him.
    He is unqualitied with very shame.
  CLEOPATRA. Well then, sustain me. O!
 EROS. Most noble sir, arise; the Queen approaches.
    Her head's declin'd, and death will seize her but
    Your comfort makes the rescue.
  ANTONY. I have offended reputation-
    A most unnoble swerving.
  EROS. Sir, the Queen.
  ANTONY. O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See
    How I convey my shame out of thine eyes
    By looking back what I have left behind
    'Stroy'd in dishonour.
  CLEOPATRA. O my lord, my lord,
    Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought
    You would have followed.
  ANTONY. Egypt, thou knew'st too well
    My heart was to thy rudder tied by th' strings,
    And thou shouldst tow me after. O'er my spirit
    Thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that
    Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
    Command me.
  CLEOPATRA. O, my pardon!
  ANTONY. Now I must
    To the young man send humble treaties, dodge
    And palter in the shifts of lowness, who
    With half the bulk o' th' world play'd as I pleas'd,
    Making and marring fortunes. You did know
    How much you were my conqueror, and that
    My sword, made weak by my affection, would
    Obey it on all cause.
  CLEOPATRA. Pardon, pardon!
  ANTONY. Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates
    All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss;
    Even this repays me.
    We sent our schoolmaster; is 'a come back?
    Love, I am full of lead. Some wine,
    Within there, and our viands! Fortune knows
    We scorn her most when most she offers blows.         Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_12



","Antony, back at Cleopatra's palace in Alexandria, cries out in shame. He laments that he's lost to the world forever, and insists that his friends go to a ship he has left full of gold, divide up the spoils, and follow his example by fleeing. He says his lesser parts have defeated his nobler intuitions, and he has lost command . Overall, he's kind of a wreck. Cleopatra enters. Antony is busy recounting what a noble soldier he used to be, like that time he oversaw the death of Brutus and Cassius. These victories are mitigated by his present shame. Cleopatra goes to comfort him, with her head hung and looking the very picture of shame. He asks her how she could lead him to this, and she is full of apologies--she ran away because she was frightened, and never thought he would follow her. He responds in despair. His heart was tied to her rudder; he had to follow because his love for her rules his spirit. She's really sorry, it seems, but Antony now has to worry about seeking pardon from Caesar, which is sad since not too long ago he ruled half the world. Still, Cleopatra has power over him; he asks her for a kiss, as this will repay him for all the wrongs. He calls for wine and is determined to make merry. Antony chooses to deliberately ignore all the signs that the entire endeavor against Caesar is cursed."
159,"SCENE XII.
                   CAESAR'S camp in Egypt

   Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, THYREUS, with others

  CAESAR. Let him appear that's come from Antony.
    Know you him?
  DOLABELLA. Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster:
    An argument that he is pluck'd, when hither
    He sends so poor a pinion of his wing,
    Which had superfluous kings for messengers
    Not many moons gone by.

            Enter EUPHRONIUS, Ambassador from ANTONY

  CAESAR. Approach, and speak.
  EUPHRONIUS. Such as I am, I come from Antony.
    I was of late as petty to his ends
    As is the morn-dew on the myrtle leaf
    To his grand sea.
  CAESAR. Be't so. Declare thine office.
  EUPHRONIUS. Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and
    Requires to live in Egypt; which not granted,
    He lessens his requests and to thee sues
    To let him breathe between the heavens and earth,
    A private man in Athens. This for him.
    Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness,
    Submits her to thy might, and of thee craves
    The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs,
    Now hazarded to thy grace.
  CAESAR. For Antony,
    I have no ears to his request. The Queen
    Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she
    From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend,
    Or take his life there. This if she perform,
    She shall not sue unheard. So to them both.
  EUPHRONIUS. Fortune pursue thee!
  CAESAR. Bring him through the bands.           Exit EUPHRONIUS
    [To THYREUS] To try thy eloquence, now 'tis time. Dispatch;
    From Antony win Cleopatra. Promise,
    And in our name, what she requires; add more,
    From thine invention, offers. Women are not
    In their best fortunes strong; but want will perjure
    The ne'er-touch'd vestal. Try thy cunning, Thyreus;
    Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we
    Will answer as a law.
  THYREUS. Caesar, I go.
  CAESAR. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw,
    And what thou think'st his very action speaks
    In every power that moves.
  THYREUS. Caesar, I shall.                               Exeunt

ACT_3|SC_13



","Antony's messenger, a schoolmaster arrives at Caesar's camp in Egypt. Antony has sent word with the messenger that he admits Caesar is now his lord. He requests that Caesar let him stay in Egypt, or else let him stay a free and lowly man in Athens. Cleopatra has also admitted to Caesar's greatness, and her request is that her sons be allowed to keep Egypt for their rule. Caesar tells the messenger to refuse Antony's request. He says he'll grant Cleopatra's request, though, if she exiles her lover from Egypt or alternatively has him killed there. The schoolmaster leaves sorrowfully with the news . Caesar calls over Thidias, one of his men. He asks Thidias to try to lure Cleopatra to their side with his eloquence. Cleopatra, like all women, Caesar claims, is strong when she is fortunate. But with her fortunes down, he says, they might be able to get her to betray Antony."
160,"ACT IV. SCENE I.
              CAESAR'S camp before Alexandria

      Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, and MAECENAS, with his army;
                 CAESAR reading a letter

  CAESAR. He calls me boy, and chides as he had power
    To beat me out of Egypt. My messenger
    He hath whipt with rods; dares me to personal combat,
    Caesar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know
    I have many other ways to die, meantime
    Laugh at his challenge.
  MAECENAS. Caesar must think
    When one so great begins to rage, he's hunted
    Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now
    Make boot of his distraction. Never anger
    Made good guard for itself.
  CAESAR. Let our best heads
    Know that to-morrow the last of many battles
    We mean to fight. Within our files there are
    Of those that serv'd Mark Antony but late
    Enough to fetch him in. See it done;
    And feast the army; we have store to do't,
    And they have earn'd the waste. Poor Antony!          Exeunt

ACT_4|SC_2



","Back at Caesar's camp outside of Alexandria, Thidias has returned to deliver Antony's message. Caesar scoffs at Antony's challenge, but it's clear to Maecenas that Antony is distracted by his own fury. Although he's valiant now, Antony is likely to be defeated. Caesar's plan: the next day, he'll take his army and fight the battle to end this war for good."
161,"SCENE II.
               Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace

      Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, ENOBARBUS, CHARMIAN, IRAS,
                     ALEXAS, with others

  ANTONY. He will not fight with me, Domitius?
  ENOBARBUS. No.
  ANTONY. Why should he not?
  ENOBARBUS. He thinks, being twenty times of better fortune,
    He is twenty men to one.
  ANTONY. To-morrow, soldier,
    By sea and land I'll fight. Or I will live,
    Or bathe my dying honour in the blood
    Shall make it live again. Woo't thou fight well?
  ENOBARBUS. I'll strike, and cry 'Take all.'
  ANTONY. Well said; come on.
    Call forth my household servants; let's to-night
    Be bounteous at our meal.

                Enter three or four servitors

    Give me thy hand,
    Thou has been rightly honest. So hast thou;
    Thou, and thou, and thou. You have serv'd me well,
    And kings have been your fellows.
  CLEOPATRA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] What means this?
  ENOBARBUS. [Aside to CLEOPATRA] 'Tis one of those odd tricks
which
      sorrow shoots
    Out of the mind.
  ANTONY. And thou art honest too.
    I wish I could be made so many men,
    And all of you clapp'd up together in
    An Antony, that I might do you service
    So good as you have done.
  SERVANT. The gods forbid!
  ANTONY. Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night.
    Scant not my cups, and make as much of me
    As when mine empire was your fellow too,
    And suffer'd my command.
  CLEOPATRA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] What does he mean?
    ENOBARBUS. [Aside to CLEOPATRA] To make his followers weep.
  ANTONY. Tend me to-night;
    May be it is the period of your duty.
    Haply you shall not see me more; or if,
    A mangled shadow. Perchance to-morrow
    You'll serve another master. I look on you
    As one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends,
    I turn you not away; but, like a master
    Married to your good service, stay till death.
    Tend me to-night two hours, I ask no more,
    And the gods yield you for't!
  ENOBARBUS. What mean you, sir,
    To give them this discomfort? Look, they weep;
    And I, an ass, am onion-ey'd. For shame!
    Transform us not to women.
  ANTONY. Ho, ho, ho!
    Now the witch take me if I meant it thus!
    Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty friends,
    You take me in too dolorous a sense;
    For I spake to you for your comfort, did desire you
    To burn this night with torches. Know, my hearts,
    I hope well of to-morrow, and will lead you
    Where rather I'll expect victorious life
    Than death and honour. Let's to supper, come,
    And drown consideration.                              Exeunt

ACT_4|SC_3



","Antony receives news that Caesar won't fight him man-to-man. Enobarbus proposes it's because Caesar thinks his fortunes are about twenty times better than Antony's, making it an unfair fight. Antony promises to throw himself into the next day's battle whole-heartedly. Antony gathers all of his men and praises them in a way that makes it seem like he's saying goodbye to them once and for all. Enobarbus and Cleopatra speak to each other in whispers, wondering what the dickens Antony is doing. The way Antony thanks his soldiers for their good fight makes it seem like he expects death and defeat in the next day's battle. Not much of a morale booster. Eventually, even Enobarbus is in tears, as are the soldiers. Antony chides them, claiming he didn't mean to be a drama queen. He just wanted to comfort them and convince them they should make this night a great one. Interestingly, he says he expects out of tomorrow ""victorious life death and honor."" Either way, Antony is in a bad way, and like many men in a bad way, he instructs them all feast so they can drown their dark thoughts with drinking."
162,"SCENE III.
             Alexandria. Before CLEOPATRA's palace

                 Enter a company of soldiers

  FIRST SOLDIER. Brother, good night. To-morrow is the day.
  SECOND SOLDIER. It will determine one way. Fare you well.
    Heard you of nothing strange about the streets?
  FIRST SOLDIER. Nothing. What news?
  SECOND SOLDIER. Belike 'tis but a rumour. Good night to you.
  FIRST SOLDIER. Well, sir, good night.
                                      [They meet other soldiers]
  SECOND SOLDIER. Soldiers, have careful watch.
  FIRST SOLDIER. And you. Good night, good night.
                [The two companies separate and place themselves
                                   in every corner of the stage]
  SECOND SOLDIER. Here we. And if to-morrow
    Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope
    Our landmen will stand up.
  THIRD SOLDIER. 'Tis a brave army,
    And full of purpose.
                      [Music of the hautboys is under the stage]

  SECOND SOLDIER. Peace, what noise?
  THIRD SOLDIER. List, list!
  SECOND SOLDIER. Hark!
  THIRD SOLDIER. Music i' th' air.
  FOURTH SOLDIER. Under the earth.
  THIRD SOLDIER. It signs well, does it not?
  FOURTH SOLDIER. No.
  THIRD SOLDIER. Peace, I say!
    What should this mean?
  SECOND SOLDIER. 'Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony lov'd,
    Now leaves him.
  THIRD SOLDIER. Walk; let's see if other watchmen
    Do hear what we do.
  SECOND SOLDIER. How now, masters!
  SOLDIERS. [Speaking together] How now!
    How now! Do you hear this?
  FIRST SOLDIER. Ay; is't not strange?
  THIRD SOLDIER. Do you hear, masters? Do you hear?
  FIRST SOLDIER. Follow the noise so far as we have quarter;
    Let's see how it will give off.
  SOLDIERS. Content. 'Tis strange.                        Exeunt

ACT_4|SC_4



","That night, as Antony's soldiers stand watch and chat about the coming battle, strange oboe music begins to play. It seems to come from the air and the earth simultaneously. The men guess it is the sound of Hercules leaving Antony, which is not so good of a sign for the upcoming battle."
163,"SCENE V.
                  Alexandria. ANTONY'S camp

        Trumpets sound. Enter ANTONY and EROS, a SOLDIER
                       meeting them

  SOLDIER. The gods make this a happy day to Antony!
  ANTONY. Would thou and those thy scars had once prevail'd
    To make me fight at land!
  SOLDIER. Hadst thou done so,
    The kings that have revolted, and the soldier
    That has this morning left thee, would have still
    Followed thy heels.
  ANTONY. Who's gone this morning?
  SOLDIER. Who?
    One ever near thee. Call for Enobarbus,
    He shall not hear thee; or from Caesar's camp
    Say 'I am none of thine.'
  ANTONY. What say'st thou?
  SOLDIER. Sir,
    He is with Caesar.
  EROS. Sir, his chests and treasure
    He has not with him.
  ANTONY. Is he gone?
  SOLDIER. Most certain.
  ANTONY. Go, Eros, send his treasure after; do it;
    Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him-
    I will subscribe- gentle adieus and greetings;
    Say that I wish he never find more cause
    To change a master. O, my fortunes have
    Corrupted honest men! Dispatch. Enobarbus!            Exeunt

ACT_4|SC_6



","At Antony's camp, a wounded soldier conferences with Antony and Eros. Antony admits he wishes he had followed the advice to fight first on land, and not at sea. The soldier, saucy, suggests that maybe if they'd fought on land in the first place, the kings and the man that left this morning might still be on their side. Antony asks who it was that left, only to hear the sad news that his dear friend Enobarbus has joined Caesar's camp. Ouch. Eros points out Enobarbus left his treasure behind. Antony, a bit shocked, orders that Enobarbus's clothes and treasure be sent after him, with a kind note from Antony, wishing that Enobarbus should never again feel forced to change masters. Antony is disappointed in himself, saying his bad fortune has led honest men to become traitors."
164,"SCENE VII.
             Field of battle between the camps

         Alarum. Drums and trumpets. Enter AGRIPPA
                        and others

  AGRIPPA. Retire. We have engag'd ourselves too far.
    Caesar himself has work, and our oppression
    Exceeds what we expected.                             Exeunt

          Alarums. Enter ANTONY, and SCARUS wounded

  SCARUS. O my brave Emperor, this is fought indeed!
    Had we done so at first, we had droven them home
    With clouts about their heads.
  ANTONY. Thou bleed'st apace.
  SCARUS. I had a wound here that was like a T,
    But now 'tis made an H.
  ANTONY. They do retire.
  SCARUS. We'll beat'em into bench-holes. I have yet
    Room for six scotches more.

                        Enter EROS

  EROS. They are beaten, sir, and our advantage serves
    For a fair victory.
  SCARUS. Let us score their backs
    And snatch 'em up, as we take hares, behind.
    'Tis sport to maul a runner.
  ANTONY. I will reward thee
    Once for thy sprightly comfort, and tenfold
    For thy good valour. Come thee on.
    SCARUS. I'll halt after.                              Exeunt

ACT_4|SC_8



","On the battlefield between the camps, Agrippa calls his men to retreat, as they've overestimated their strength. Antony confers with a wounded soldier, Scarus. Caesar's side is clearly beat, and Antony, calm, promises to reward his men for their high spirits, even more for their valor, and even more for being the only people to not ditch him for Caesar."
165,"SCENE VIII.
               Under the walls of Alexandria

        Alarum. Enter ANTONY, again in a march; SCARUS
                        with others

  ANTONY. We have beat him to his camp. Run one before
    And let the Queen know of our gests. To-morrow,
    Before the sun shall see's, we'll spill the blood
    That has to-day escap'd. I thank you all;
    For doughty-handed are you, and have fought
    Not as you serv'd the cause, but as't had been
    Each man's like mine; you have shown all Hectors.
    Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends,
    Tell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears
    Wash the congealment from your wounds and kiss
    The honour'd gashes whole.

                 Enter CLEOPATRA, attended

    [To SCARUS] Give me thy hand-
    To this great fairy I'll commend thy acts,
    Make her thanks bless thee. O thou day o' th' world,
    Chain mine arm'd neck. Leap thou, attire and all,
    Through proof of harness to my heart, and there
    Ride on the pants triumphing.
  CLEOPATRA. Lord of lords!
    O infinite virtue, com'st thou smiling from
    The world's great snare uncaught?
  ANTONY. Mine nightingale,
    We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! though grey
    Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha' we
    A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can
    Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man;
    Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand-
    Kiss it, my warrior- he hath fought to-day
    As if a god in hate of mankind had
    Destroyed in such a shape.
  CLEOPATRA. I'll give thee, friend,
    An armour all of gold; it was a king's.
  ANTONY. He has deserv'd it, were it carbuncled
    Like holy Phoebus' car. Give me thy hand.
    Through Alexandria make a jolly march;
    Bear our hack'd targets like the men that owe them.
    Had our great palace the capacity
    To camp this host, we all would sup together,
    And drink carouses to the next day's fate,
    Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters,
    With brazen din blast you the city's ear;
    Make mingle with our rattling tabourines,
    That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together
    Applauding our approach.                              Exeunt

ACT_4|SC_9



","Antony returns in full force to Alexandria. He praises everyone, and they plan to battle again tomorrow. Cleopatra then enters, and he greets her gaily. He happily presents Scarus and all his wounds to Cleopatra, who praises them all and promises him a suit of golden armor that once belonged to a king. Antony again proclaims his love for ""this fairy,"" claiming she is the only thing that can pierce the armor over his heart. They dedicate the night to celebrating their victory in decadent Egyptian fashion."
166,"SCENE IX.
                      CAESAR'S camp

      Enter a CENTURION and his company; ENOBARBUS follows

  CENTURION. If we be not reliev'd within this hour,
    We must return to th' court of guard. The night
    Is shiny, and they say we shall embattle
    By th' second hour i' th' morn.
  FIRST WATCH. This last day was
    A shrewd one to's.
  ENOBARBUS. O, bear me witness, night-
  SECOND WATCH. What man is this?
  FIRST WATCH. Stand close and list him.
  ENOBARBUS. Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,
    When men revolted shall upon record
    Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did
    Before thy face repent!
  CENTURION. Enobarbus?
  SECOND WATCH. Peace!
    Hark further.
  ENOBARBUS. O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,
    The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,
    That life, a very rebel to my will,
    May hang no longer on me. Throw my heart
    Against the flint and hardness of my fault,
    Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder,
    And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony,
    Nobler than my revolt is infamous,
    Forgive me in thine own particular,
    But let the world rank me in register
    A master-leaver and a fugitive!
    O Antony! O Antony!                                   [Dies]
  FIRST WATCH. Let's speak to him.
  CENTURION. Let's hear him, for the things he speaks
    May concern Caesar.
  SECOND WATCH. Let's do so. But he sleeps.
  CENTURION. Swoons rather; for so bad a prayer as his
    Was never yet for sleep.
  FIRST WATCH. Go we to him.
  SECOND WATCH. Awake, sir, awake; speak to us.
  FIRST WATCH. Hear you, sir?
  CENTURION. The hand of death hath raught him.
    [Drums afar off ] Hark! the drums
    Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him
    To th' court of guard; he is of note. Our hour
    Is fully out.
  SECOND WATCH. Come on, then;
    He may recover yet.                     Exeunt with the body

ACT_4|SC_10



","Back at Caesar's camp, a sentry and his company are on watch when they overhear Enobarbus railing privately against himself. He hopes to die because he's deserted Antony. Enobarbus begs Antony to forgive him, though he wants the world to remember him as a traitor and a fugitive. Then Enobarbus cries out and is silent, prompting the sentries to go look at him. They find he has fainted. No, wait, he's dead. They decide to bear his body to the court of guard, as he's an important man, and they hope he might arise still, though it's clear to the audience that he's died of his own grief."
167,"SCENE X.
                    Between the two camps

            Enter ANTONY and SCARUS, with their army

  ANTONY. Their preparation is to-day by sea;
    We please them not by land.
  SCARUS. For both, my lord.
  ANTONY. I would they'd fight i' th' fire or i' th' air;
    We'd fight there too. But this it is, our foot
    Upon the hills adjoining to the city
    Shall stay with us- Order for sea is given;
    They have put forth the haven-
    Where their appointment we may best discover
    And look on their endeavour.                          Exeunt

ACT_4|SC_11



","Antony discusses with Scarus that Caesar has prepared to meet them at sea. He would be willing to fight them in fire or the air, if they wanted, because he's so confident. They'll go to the hills to survey the fleet at water and be ready for them."
168,"SCENE XI.
                    Between the camps

                Enter CAESAR and his army

  CAESAR. But being charg'd, we will be still by land,
    Which, as I take't, we shall; for his best force
    Is forth to man his galleys. To the vales,
    And hold our best advantage.                          Exeunt

ACT_4|SC_12



","Caesar prepares his army to be inactive by land. He'll meet Antony at sea, where he hopes they can hold some advantageous position."
169,"SCENE XII.
                  A hill near Alexandria

                  Enter ANTONY and SCARUS

  ANTONY. Yet they are not join'd. Where yond pine does stand
    I shall discover all. I'll bring thee word
    Straight how 'tis like to go.                           Exit
  SCARUS. Swallows have built
    In Cleopatra's sails their nests. The augurers
    Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly,
    And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony
    Is valiant and dejected; and by starts
    His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear
    Of what he has and has not.
                            [Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight]

                      Re-enter ANTONY

  ANTONY. All is lost!
    This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.
    My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder
    They cast their caps up and carouse together
    Like friends long lost. Triple-turn'd whore! 'tis thou
    Hast sold me to this novice; and my heart
    Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;
    For when I am reveng'd upon my charm,
    I have done all. Bid them all fly; begone.       Exit SCARUS
    O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more!
    Fortune and Antony part here; even here
    Do we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts
    That spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave
    Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets
    On blossoming Caesar; and this pine is bark'd
    That overtopp'd them all. Betray'd I am.
    O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm-
    Whose eye beck'd forth my wars and call'd them home,
    Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end-
    Like a right gypsy hath at fast and loose
    Beguil'd me to the very heart of loss.
    What, Eros, Eros!

                      Enter CLEOPATRA

    Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!
  CLEOPATRA. Why is my lord enrag'd against his love?
  ANTONY. Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving
    And blemish Caesar's triumph. Let him take thee
    And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians;
    Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot
    Of all thy sex; most monster-like, be shown
    For poor'st diminutives, for doits, and let
    Patient Octavia plough thy visage up
    With her prepared nails.                      Exit CLEOPATRA
    'Tis well th'art gone,
    If it be well to live; but better 'twere
    Thou fell'st into my fury, for one death
    Might have prevented many. Eros, ho!
    The shirt of Nessus is upon me; teach me,
    Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage;
    Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o' th' moon,
    And with those hands that grasp'd the heaviest club
    Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die.
    To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall
    Under this plot. She dies for't. Eros, ho!              Exit

ACT_4|SC_13



","Antony watches the battle at sea with Scarus and frets that he can't see Caesar's troops yet. He leaves Scarus to go look from a different vantage point. Scarus notes in an aside that the augurs were hesitant to state their predictions about this sea battle, which can't be good. Antony returns to Scarus in a fury--Cleopatra's fleet has deserted them again and Antony's fleet has yielded to Caesar's, greeting them like friends. He doesn't care to take revenge on his troops, only on Cleopatra. Antony is sure she's the one that led him to this course. Antony demands that all the remaining soldiers leave, as he doesn't care about them anymore. He privately laments that Fortune has deserted him and now favors Caesar instead. He damns Cleopatra for luring him to Egypt and identifies her as the cause of his loss. Cleopatra enters and Antony rages at her, saying she should go be part of Caesar's victory march for all the masses to see her. He even hopes Octavia might scratch up her face with her fingernails. Cleopatra flees Antony's fury. He's glad that woman's gone. He wishes he had killed her earlier, which would have saved many lives. He resolves that she'll die for selling him out to Caesar, whom he calls ""the young Roman boy."""
170,"SCENE XIII.
               Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace

      Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN

  CLEOPATRA. Help me, my women. O, he is more mad
    Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly
    Was never so emboss'd.
  CHARMIAN. To th'monument!
    There lock yourself, and send him word you are dead.
    The soul and body rive not more in parting
    Than greatness going off.
  CLEOPATRA. To th' monument!
    Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself;
    Say that the last I spoke was 'Antony'
    And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, Mardian,
    And bring me how he takes my death. To th' monument!
                                                          Exeunt

ACT_4|SC_14



","Cleopatra flees to her women, afraid of Antony's rage. Charmian suggests she lock herself up in her monument and send word to Antony that she's dead. Cleopatra thinks this is a good idea, and sends Mardian to tell Antony she's killed herself, and that her last word was ""Antony."" She instructs Mardian to return to her and tell her how Antony takes the false news."
171,"SCENE XIV.
                     CLEOPATRA'S palace

                   Enter ANTONY and EROS

  ANTONY. Eros, thou yet behold'st me?
  EROS. Ay, noble lord.
  ANTONY. Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish;
    A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,
    A tower'd citadel, a pendent rock,
    A forked mountain, or blue promontory
    With trees upon't that nod unto the world
    And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs;
    They are black vesper's pageants.
  EROS. Ay, my lord.
  ANTONY. That which is now a horse, even with a thought
    The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,
    As water is in water.
  EROS. It does, my lord.
  ANTONY. My good knave Eros, now thy captain is
    Even such a body. Here I am Antony;
    Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave.
    I made these wars for Egypt; and the Queen-
    Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine,
    Which, whilst it was mine, had annex'd unto't
    A million moe, now lost- she, Eros, has
    Pack'd cards with Caesar, and false-play'd my glory
    Unto an enemy's triumph.
    Nay, weep not, gentle Eros; there is left us
    Ourselves to end ourselves.

                         Enter MARDIAN

    O, thy vile lady!
    She has robb'd me of my sword.
  MARDIAN. No, Antony;
    My mistress lov'd thee, and her fortunes mingled
    With thine entirely.
  ANTONY. Hence, saucy eunuch; peace!
    She hath betray'd me, and shall die the death.
  MARDIAN. Death of one person can be paid but once,
    And that she has discharg'd. What thou wouldst do
    Is done unto thy hand. The last she spake
    Was 'Antony! most noble Antony!'
    Then in the midst a tearing groan did break
    The name of Antony; it was divided
    Between her heart and lips. She rend'red life,
    Thy name so buried in her.
  ANTONY. Dead then?
  MARDIAN. Dead.
  ANTONY. Unarm, Eros; the long day's task is done,
    And we must sleep. That thou depart'st hence safe
    Does pay thy labour richly. Go.                 Exit MARDIAN
    Off, pluck off!
    The sevenfold shield of Ajax cannot keep
    The battery from my heart. O, cleave, my sides!
    Heart, once be stronger than thy continent,
    Crack thy frail case. Apace, Eros, apace.-
    No more a soldier. Bruised pieces, go;
    You have been nobly borne.- From me awhile.        Exit EROS
    I will o'ertake thee, Cleopatra, and
    Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now
    All length is torture. Since the torch is out,
    Lie down, and stray no farther. Now all labour
    Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles
    Itself with strength. Seal then, and all is done.
    Eros!- I come, my queen.- Eros!- Stay for me;
    Where souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand,
    And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze.
    Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops,
    And all the haunt be ours.- Come, Eros, Eros!

                       Re-enter EROS

  EROS. What would my lord?
  ANTONY. Since Cleopatra died,
    I have liv'd in such dishonour that the gods
    Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword
    Quarter'd the world, and o'er green Neptune's back
    With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack
    The courage of a woman; less noble mind
    Than she which by her death our Caesar tells
    'I am conqueror of myself.' Thou art sworn, Eros,
    That, when the exigent should come- which now
    Is come indeed- when I should see behind me
    Th' inevitable prosecution of
    Disgrace and horror, that, on my command,
    Thou then wouldst kill me. Do't; the time is come.
    Thou strik'st not me; 'tis Caesar thou defeat'st.
    Put colour in thy cheek.
  EROS. The gods withhold me!
    Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts,
    Though enemy, lost aim and could not?
  ANTONY. Eros,
    Wouldst thou be window'd in great Rome and see
    Thy master thus with pleach'd arms, bending down
    His corrigible neck, his face subdu'd
    To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel'd seat
    Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded
    His baseness that ensued?
  EROS. I would not see't.
  ANTONY. Come, then; for with a wound I must be cur'd.
    Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn
    Most useful for thy country.
  EROS. O, sir, pardon me!
  ANTONY. When I did make thee free, swor'st thou not then
    To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once,
    Or thy precedent services are all
    But accidents unpurpos'd. Draw, and come.
  EROS. Turn from me then that noble countenance,
    Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.
  ANTONY. Lo thee!                            [Turning from him]
  EROS. My sword is drawn.
  ANTONY. Then let it do at once
    The thing why thou hast drawn it.
  EROS. My dear master,
    My captain and my emperor, let me say,
    Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.
  ANTONY. 'Tis said, man; and farewell.
  EROS. Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now?
  ANTONY. Now, Eros.
  EROS. Why, there then! Thus do I escape the sorrow
    Of Antony's death.                            [Kills himself
  ANTONY. Thrice nobler than myself!
    Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what
    I should, and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros
    Have, by their brave instruction, got upon me
    A nobleness in record. But I will be
    A bridegroom in my death, and run into't
    As to a lover's bed. Come, then; and, Eros,
    Thy master dies thy scholar. To do thus
                                          [Falling on his sword]
    I learn'd of thee. How? not dead? not dead?-
    The guard, ho! O, dispatch me!

                  Enter DERCETAS and a guard

  FIRST GUARD. What's the noise?
  ANTONY. I have done my work ill, friends. O, make an end
    Of what I have begun.
  SECOND GUARD. The star is fall'n.
  FIRST GUARD. And time is at his period.
  ALL. Alas, and woe!
  ANTONY. Let him that loves me, strike me dead.
  FIRST GUARD. Not I.
  SECOND GUARD. Nor I.
  THIRD GUARD. Nor any one.                         Exeunt guard
  DERCETAS. Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly.
    This sword but shown to Caesar, with this tidings,
    Shall enter me with him.

                       Enter DIOMEDES

  DIOMEDES. Where's Antony?
  DERCETAS. There, Diomed, there.
  DIOMEDES. Lives he?
    Wilt thou not answer, man?                     Exit DERCETAS
  ANTONY. Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword and give me
    Sufficing strokes for death.
  DIOMEDES. Most absolute lord,
    My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.
  ANTONY. When did she send thee?
  DIOMEDES. Now, my lord.
  ANTONY. Where is she?
  DIOMEDES. Lock'd in her monument. She had a prophesying fear
    Of what hath come to pass; for when she saw-
    Which never shall be found- you did suspect
    She had dispos'd with Caesar, and that your rage
    Would not be purg'd, she sent you word she was dead;
    But fearing since how it might work, hath sent
    Me to proclaim the truth; and I am come,
    I dread, too late.
  ANTONY. Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, I prithee.
  DIOMEDES. What, ho! the Emperor's guard! The guard, what ho!
    Come, your lord calls!

             Enter four or five of the guard of ANTONY

  ANTONY. Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides;
    'Tis the last service that I shall command you.
  FIRST GUARD. Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live to wear
    All your true followers out.
  ALL. Most heavy day!
  ANTONY. Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate
    To grace it with your sorrows. Bid that welcome
    Which comes to punish us, and we punish it,
    Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up.
    I have led you oft; carry me now, good friends,
    And have my thanks for all.           Exeunt, hearing ANTONY
ACT_4|SC_15



","Eros comes upon Antony, who's philosophizing on nature--exactly what you might expect from a suicidal guy who's just lost a great battle and is convinced that the woman he sacrificed everything for has betrayed him to his enemy. Eros weeps, and Antony comforts him with the thought that at least his master can kill himself. This is maybe not so comforting. Mardian then enters. Antony rages at him, too, telling him he'll kill Cleopatra for her betrayal. Mardian announces Cleopatra has already taken care of it, that she died with his name on her lips. Antony doesn't exactly fall on the ground, but announces that Eros should go to bed, as all their work for the day is now done. He tells Mardian to be grateful that he's allowed to go safely, as in: ""I could have you killed, but I'm not going to."" Even though Antony was just raging against her, we see that the news of Cleopatra's death is tearing him apart on the inside. He begs his heart to be stronger than his body, or, if not, at least burst open his body as it fills with grief. Antony says he will catch up with Cleopatra and weep for her forgiveness. Then calls for Eros to return. Antony tells Eros that Cleopatra has made herself noble by taking her own life. She is, at the end, the sole conqueror of herself. Thus he tells Eros to kill him. Eros refuses, but Antony reminds him that when he freed Eros , Eros promised to do anything Antony wished. Eros readies to kill Antony, but demands that Antony turn away his face before Eros strikes the blow. Antony agrees, and tells Eros to do it now. With his face turned away, Antony misses that Eros has actually plunged his sword into himself, choosing to take his own life rather than his friend's. Antony is so moved by the nobility of suicide that Eros and Cleopatra showed that he resolves to kill himself. Antony stabs himself, but finding he has not died immediately, he calls on the guards to finish him off. The guards refuse which means Antony's going to die slowly and painfully. Then...Diomedes enters with the news that Cleopatra's actually not dead. Cleopatra was just playing a little trick because she was hurt that Antony believed she betrayed him to Caesar, which she definitely didn't do. Antony doesn't flip out, but instead asks that his guards lead him to Cleopatra's side."
172,"SCENE XV.
                   Alexandria. A monument

      Enter CLEOPATRA and her maids aloft, with CHARMIAN
                         and IRAS

  CLEOPATRA. O Charmian, I will never go from hence!
  CHARMIAN. Be comforted, dear madam.
  CLEOPATRA. No, I will not.
    All strange and terrible events are welcome,
    But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,
    Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great
    As that which makes it.

                   Enter DIOMEDES, below

    How now! Is he dead?
  DIOMEDES. His death's upon him, but not dead.
    Look out o' th' other side your monument;
    His guard have brought him thither.

            Enter, below, ANTONY, borne by the guard

  CLEOPATRA. O sun,
    Burn the great sphere thou mov'st in! Darkling stand
    The varying shore o' th' world. O Antony,
    Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian; help, Iras, help;
    Help, friends below! Let's draw him hither.
  ANTONY. Peace!
    Not Caesar's valour hath o'erthrown Antony,
    But Antony's hath triumph'd on itself.
  CLEOPATRA. So it should be, that none but Antony
    Should conquer Antony; but woe 'tis so!
  ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying; only
    I here importune death awhile, until
    Of many thousand kisses the poor last
    I lay upon thy lips.
  CLEOPATRA. I dare not, dear.
    Dear my lord, pardon! I dare not,
    Lest I be taken. Not th' imperious show
    Of the full-fortun'd Caesar ever shall
    Be brooch'd with me. If knife, drugs, serpents, have
    Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe.
    Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes
    And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour
    Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony-
    Help me, my women- we must draw thee up;
    Assist, good friends.
  ANTONY. O, quick, or I am gone.
  CLEOPATRA. Here's sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord!
    Our strength is all gone into heaviness;
    That makes the weight. Had I great Juno's power,
    The strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up,
    And set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little.
    Wishers were ever fools. O come, come,
                          [They heave ANTONY aloft to CLEOPATRA]
    And welcome, welcome! Die where thou hast liv'd.
    Quicken with kissing. Had my lips that power,
    Thus would I wear them out.
  ALL. A heavy sight!
  ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying.
    Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.
  CLEOPATRA. No, let me speak; and let me rail so high
    That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel,
    Provok'd by my offence.
  ANTONY. One word, sweet queen:
    Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O!
  CLEOPATRA. They do not go together.
  ANTONY. Gentle, hear me:
    None about Caesar trust but Proculeius.
  CLEOPATRA. My resolution and my hands I'll trust;
    None about Caesar
  ANTONY. The miserable change now at my end
    Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts
    In feeding them with those my former fortunes
    Wherein I liv'd the greatest prince o' th' world,
    The noblest; and do now not basely die,
    Not cowardly put off my helmet to
    My countryman- a Roman by a Roman
    Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going
    I can no more.
  CLEOPATRA. Noblest of men, woo't die?
    Hast thou no care of me? Shall I abide
    In this dull world, which in thy absence is
    No better than a sty? O, see, my women,        [Antony dies]
    The crown o' th' earth doth melt. My lord!
    O, wither'd is the garland of the war,
    The soldier's pole is fall'n! Young boys and girls
    Are level now with men. The odds is gone,
    And there is nothing left remarkable
    Beneath the visiting moon.                          [Swoons]
  CHARMIAN. O, quietness, lady!
  IRAS. She's dead too, our sovereign.
  CHARMIAN. Lady!
  IRAS. Madam!
  CHARMIAN. O madam, madam, madam!
  IRAS. Royal Egypt, Empress!
  CHARMIAN. Peace, peace, Iras!
  CLEOPATRA. No more but e'en a woman, and commanded
    By such poor passion as the maid that milks
    And does the meanest chares. It were for me
    To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;
    To tell them that this world did equal theirs
    Till they had stol'n our jewel. All's but nought;
    Patience is sottish, and impatience does
    Become a dog that's mad. Then is it sin
    To rush into the secret house of death
    Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?
    What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian!
    My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look,
    Our lamp is spent, it's out! Good sirs, take heart.
    We'll bury him; and then, what's brave, what's noble,
    Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,
    And make death proud to take us. Come, away;
    This case of that huge spirit now is cold.
    Ah, women, women! Come; we have no friend
    But resolution and the briefest end.
                   Exeunt; those above hearing off ANTONY'S body

ACT_5|SC_1



","Cleopatra waits at the monument and declares she'll never leave, although she's super anxious about Antony. Right about then Diomedes declares that Antony is not quite dead, but mostly dying. The lovers call to each other. Antony announces that it can never be said that Caesar's valor overthrew Antony; rather, Antony's valor made him overthrow himself. Cleopatra agrees that there's nobility in the fact that no man conquered Antony except Antony himself. Antony calls out to her to come down and give him a final kiss, but she dares not leave the monument for fear that Caesar will catch her and place her in his victory parade. Instead, she begs those around her to help pull her lover's dying body to her. She notes he's heavy, his strength having turned into dull weight, and she wishes her kisses might bring him back to life. Everyone watching is rather moved. Antony begs Cleopatra, with his dying breaths, to seek her honor and safety with Caesar and the one trustworthy man around Caesar--Proculeius. She replies she can't have both her honor and her safety, and that she will resolve this matter with her own hands, rather than seeking pardon from Caesar. As he's dying, Antony bids Cleopatra to remember him when he was the prince of the world. Antony says he dies a noble death, at the hand of no other man, but dies ""a Roman by a Roman, valiantly vanquished."" In the moment of his death, Cleopatra wails, and asks if he does not care for her. By dying and leaving her alone, she's left in a world worthless without him. She faints, and the maids worry she's died, too, since they know that lots of times in Shakespeare fainting is just a facade for dying. When Cleopatra comes to, she declares that it is no sin to rush to death before death rushes to her. Thus she's resolved to kill herself. She declares they'll bury Antony in the noble Roman fashion, giving him a funeral he deserves. She is now all business, as her course is laid out clearly before her."
173,"ACT V. SCENE I.
                  Alexandria. CAESAR'S camp

      Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, MAECENAS, GALLUS,
          PROCULEIUS, and others, his Council of War

  CAESAR. Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield;
    Being so frustrate, tell him he mocks
    The pauses that he makes.
  DOLABELLA. Caesar, I shall.                               Exit

             Enter DERCETAS With the sword of ANTONY

  CAESAR. Wherefore is that? And what art thou that dar'st
    Appear thus to us?
  DERCETAS. I am call'd Dercetas;
    Mark Antony I serv'd, who best was worthy
    Best to be serv'd. Whilst he stood up and spoke,
    He was my master, and I wore my life
    To spend upon his haters. If thou please
    To take me to thee, as I was to him
    I'll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not,
    I yield thee up my life.
  CAESAR. What is't thou say'st?
  DERCETAS. I say, O Caesar, Antony is dead.
  CAESAR. The breaking of so great a thing should make
    A greater crack. The round world
    Should have shook lions into civil streets,
    And citizens to their dens. The death of Antony
    Is not a single doom; in the name lay
    A moiety of the world.
  DERCETAS. He is dead, Caesar,
    Not by a public minister of justice,
    Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand
    Which writ his honour in the acts it did
    Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it,
    Splitted the heart. This is his sword;
    I robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd
    With his most noble blood.
  CAESAR. Look you sad, friends?
    The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings
    To wash the eyes of kings.
  AGRIPPA. And strange it is
    That nature must compel us to lament
    Our most persisted deeds.
  MAECENAS. His taints and honours
    Wag'd equal with him.
  AGRIPPA. A rarer spirit never
    Did steer humanity. But you gods will give us
    Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touch'd.
  MAECENAS. When such a spacious mirror's set before him,
    He needs must see himself.
  CAESAR. O Antony,
    I have follow'd thee to this! But we do lance
    Diseases in our bodies. I must perforce
    Have shown to thee such a declining day
    Or look on thine; we could not stall together
    In the whole world. But yet let me lament,
    With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,
    That thou, my brother, my competitor
    In top of all design, my mate in empire,
    Friend and companion in the front of war,
    The arm of mine own body, and the heart
    Where mine his thoughts did kindle- that our stars,
    Unreconciliable, should divide
    Our equalness to this. Hear me, good friends-

                    Enter an EGYPTIAN

    But I will tell you at some meeter season.
    The business of this man looks out of him;
    We'll hear him what he says. Whence are you?
  EGYPTIAN. A poor Egyptian, yet the Queen, my mistress,
    Confin'd in all she has, her monument,
    Of thy intents desires instruction,
    That she preparedly may frame herself
    To th' way she's forc'd to.
  CAESAR. Bid her have good heart.
    She soon shall know of us, by some of ours,
    How honourable and how kindly we
    Determine for her; for Caesar cannot learn
    To be ungentle.
  EGYPTIAN. So the gods preserve thee!                      Exit
  CAESAR. Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say
    We purpose her no shame. Give her what comforts
    The quality of her passion shall require,
    Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke
    She do defeat us; for her life in Rome
    Would be eternal in our triumph. Go,
    And with your speediest bring us what she says,
    And how you find her.
  PROCULEIUS. Caesar, I shall.                              Exit
  CAESAR. Gallus, go you along.                      Exit GALLUS
    Where's Dolabella, to second Proculeius?
  ALL. Dolabella!
  CAESAR. Let him alone, for I remember now
    How he's employ'd; he shall in time be ready.
    Go with me to my tent, where you shall see
    How hardly I was drawn into this war,
    How calm and gentle I proceeded still
    In all my writings. Go with me, and see
    What I can show in this.                              Exeunt

ACT_5|SC_2



","Back at Caesar's camp, Caesar sends Dolabella off to tell Antony to yield. Just then, Decretas, one of Antony's men, enters with Antony's sword. He announces he served Mark Antony while the good man lived and will serve Caesar now, if Caesar will have him. Caesar asks for clarification, and gets out of the woebegone Decretas that Antony is dead. Caesar is shocked and says the world should mourn, as Antony's death is not a single one, but cause for grief on the part of half of the world . Decretas explains Antony took his own life, adding honor to the final act of suicide, just as those same hands had added honor to so many acts before this one. Caesar weeps, and excuses himself, saying it is only befitting to weep over the death of kings, even if it's a king you were trying to kill. Maecenas insightfully contends that Antony was a mirror to Caesar, that Caesar saw part of himself in Antony. Just as Caesar launches into a speech over what a disaster it is that the two brothers in fate have come to this end, he's interrupted by a messenger from Cleopatra. The Queen wants to know what Caesar will do with her, so she can prepare herself. Caesar claims to the messenger that he'll be gentle with her, and cause her no shame. As soon as the messenger leaves, Caesar calls Proculeius to him. Caesar instructs him to go to Cleopatra and give her what she wants to keep her comfortable. Proculeius's real job, though, is to make sure Cleopatra doesn't kill herself, as Caesar's plan is to put her in his triumphant march through Rome, as a symbol of how great his victory is. Caesar worries the Queen will kill herself and thus rob him of the glee he'd get from parading her through the streets as his prize. Caesar asks his men to follow him to his tent, where he'll show them writings that prove he was reluctant to go into this war, and further, that when in the war, he proceeded calmly and gently."
174,"SCENE II.

--At CHARLES's House

     Enter TRIP, MOSES, and SIR OLIVER

TRIP. Here Master Moses--if you'll stay a moment--I'll try whether
Mr.----what's the Gentleman's Name?

SIR OLIVER. Mr.----Moses--what IS my name----

MOSES. Mr. Premium----

TRIP. Premium--very well.

     [Exit TRIP--taking snuff.]

SIR OLIVER. To judge by the Servants--one wouldn't believe the master
was ruin'd--but what--sure this was my Brother's House----

MOSES. Yes Sir Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. Joseph with the Furniture,
Pictures, &c.--just as the old Gentleman left it--Sir Peter thought it a
great piece of extravagance in him.

SIR OLIVER. In my mind the other's economy in selling it to him was more
reprehensible by half.----

     Enter TRIP

TRIP. My Master[,] Gentlemen[,] says you must wait, he has company, and
can't speak with you yet.

SIR OLIVER. If he knew who it was wanted to see him, perhaps he wouldn't
have sent such a Message.

TRIP. Yes--yes--Sir--He knows you are here--I didn't forget little
Premium--no--no----

SIR OLIVER. Very well--and pray Sir what may be your Name?

TRIP. Trip Sir--my Name is Trip, at your Service.

SIR OLIVER. Well then Mr. Trip--I presume your master is seldom without
company----

TRIP. Very seldom Sir--the world says ill-natured things of him but 'tis
all malice--no man was ever better beloved--Sir he seldom sits down to
dinner without a dozen particular Friends----

SIR OLIVER. He's very happy indeed--you have a pleasant sort of Place
here I guess?

TRIP. Why yes--here are three or four of us pass our time agreeably
enough--but then our wages are sometimes a little in arrear--and not
very great either--but fifty Pounds a year and find our own Bags and
Bouquets----

SIR OLIVER. Bags and Bouquets!--Halters and Bastinadoes! [Aside.]

TRIP. But a propos Moses--have you been able to get me that little Bill
discounted?

SIR OLIVER. Wants to raise money too!--mercy on me! has his distresses,
I warrant[,] like a Lord--and affects Creditors and Duns! [Aside.]

MOSES. 'Twas not be done, indeed----

TRIP. Good lack--you surprise me--My Friend Brush has indorsed it and
I thought when he put his name at the Back of a Bill 'twas as good as
cash.

MOSES. No 'twouldn't do.

TRIP. A small sum--but twenty Pound--harkee, Moses do you think you
could get it me by way of annuity?

SIR OLIVER. An annuity! ha! ha! a Footman raise money by annuity--Well
done Luxury egad! [Aside.]

MOSES. Who would you get to join with you?

TRIP. You know my Lord Applice--you have seen him however----

MOSES. Yes----

TRIP. You must have observed what an appearance he makes--nobody dresses
better, nobody throws off faster--very well this Gentleman will stand my
security.

MOSES. Well--but you must insure your Place.

TRIP. O with all my Heart--I'll insure my Place, and my Life too, if you
please.

SIR OLIVER. It's more than I would your neck----

MOSES. But is there nothing you could deposit?

TRIP. Why nothing capital of my master's wardrobe has drop'd lately--but
I could give you a mortgage on some of his winter Cloaths with equity
of redemption before November or--you shall have the reversion--of the
French velvet, or a post obit on the Blue and Silver--these I
should think Moses--with a few Pair of Point Ruffles as a collateral
security--hey, my little Fellow?

MOSES. Well well--we'll talk presently--we detain the Gentlemen----

SIR OLIVER. O pray don't let me interrupt Mr. Trip's Negotiation.

TRIP. Harkee--I heard the Bell--I believe, Gentlemen I can now introduce
you--don't forget the annuity little Moses.

SIR OLIVER. If the man be a shadow of his Master this is the Temple of
Dissipation indeed!

     [Exeunt.]





","Scene II opens with Sir Oliver, Mr. Moses, and one of Charles's servants at Charles's house. The servant wants to do business with Mr. Moses himself, which Sir Oliver thinks is strange. Trip tells them a bit about how lavishly Charles has been living. Trip leads them to where Charles and his friends are relaxing"
175,"IV. Calm in Storm


Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.

To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
man was Defarge.

That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.

The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.

As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
such dread experiences would revive the old danger.

But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
""It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
of Heaven I will do it!"" Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.

Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.

This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. ""All
curious to see,"" thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, ""but all
natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
couldn't be in better hands.""

But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!

There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.

And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
these things became the established order and nature of appointed
things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
sharp female called La Guillotine.

It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
believed in where the Cross was denied.

It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
day.

Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
a Spirit moving among mortals.





","Four days elapse and finally Dr. Manette returns from the prison. He has tried to influence the court tribunal to release his son-in-law, but all he has achieved is his safety for the time being. He describes the situation as very volatile saying that the mob is acting erratically. Prisoners are condemned or freed at a whim. Both decisions bring elation from the mob. The Doctors reputation spreads as time passes, but after fifteen months there has been no change in the situation."
176,"Scene 2.

Enter Benedicke and Margaret.

  Ben. Praie thee sweete Mistris Margaret, deserue
well at my hands, by helping mee to the speech of Beatrice

   Mar. Will you then write me a Sonnet in praise of
my beautie?
  Bene. In so high a stile Margaret, that no man liuing
shall come ouer it, for in most comely truth thou deseruest
it

   Mar. To haue no man come ouer me, why, shall I alwaies
keepe below staires?
  Bene. Thy wit is as quicke as the grey-hounds mouth,
it catches

   Mar. And yours, as blunt as the Fencers foiles, which
hit, but hurt not

   Bene. A most manly wit Margaret, it will not hurt a
woman: and so I pray thee call Beatrice, I giue thee the
bucklers

   Mar. Giue vs the swords, wee haue bucklers of our
owne

   Bene. If you vse them Margaret, you must put in the
pikes with a vice, and they are dangerous weapons for
Maides

   Mar. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I thinke
hath legges.

Exit Margarite.

  Ben. And therefore will come. The God of loue that
sits aboue, and knowes me, and knowes me, how pittifull
I deserue. I meane in singing, but in louing, Leander
the good swimmer, Troilous the first imploier of
pandars, and a whole booke full of these quondam carpet-mongers,
whose name yet runne smoothly in the euen
rode of a blanke verse, why they were neuer so truely
turned ouer and ouer as my poore selfe in loue: marrie
I cannot shew it rime, I haue tried, I can finde out no
rime to Ladie but babie, an innocent rime: for scorne,
horne, a hard rime: for schoole foole, a babling rime:
verie ominous endings, no, I was not borne vnder a riming
Plannet, for I cannot wooe in festiuall tearmes:
Enter Beatrice.

sweete Beatrice would'st thou come when I cal'd
thee?
  Beat. Yea Signior, and depart when you bid me

   Bene. O stay but till then

   Beat. Then, is spoken: fare you well now, and yet ere
I goe, let me goe with that I came, which is, with knowing
what hath past betweene you and Claudio

   Bene. Onely foule words, and thereupon I will kisse
thee

   Beat. Foule words is but foule wind, and foule wind
is but foule breath, and foule breath is noisome, therefore
I will depart vnkist

   Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right
sence, so forcible is thy wit, but I must tell thee plainely,
Claudio vndergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly
heare from him, or I will subscribe him a coward, and
I pray thee now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst
thou first fall in loue with me?
  Beat. For them all together, which maintain'd so
politique a state of euill, that they will not admit any
good part to intermingle with them: but for which of
my good parts did you first suffer loue for me?
  Bene. Suffer loue! a good epithite, I do suffer loue indeede,
for I loue thee against my will,
  Beat. In spight of your heart I think, alas poore heart,
if you spight it for my sake, I will spight it for yours, for
I will neuer loue that which my friend hates

   Bened. Thou and I are too wise to wooe peaceablie

   Bea. It appeares not in this confession, there's not one
wise man among twentie that will praise himselfe

   Bene. An old, an old instance Beatrice, that liu'd in
the time of good neighbours, if a man doe not erect in
this age his owne tombe ere he dies, hee shall liue no
longer in monuments, then the Bels ring, & the Widdow
weepes

   Beat. And how long is that thinke you?
  Ben. Question, why an hower in clamour and a quarter
in rhewme, therfore is it most expedient for the wise,
if Don worme (his conscience) finde no impediment to
the contrarie, to be the trumpet of his owne vertues, as
I am to my selfe so much for praising my selfe, who I my
selfe will beare witnesse is praise worthie, and now tell
me, how doth your cosin?
  Beat. Verie ill

   Bene. And how doe you?
  Beat. Verie ill too.
Enter Vrsula.

  Bene. Serue God, loue me, and mend, there will I leaue
you too, for here comes one in haste

   Vrs. Madam, you must come to your Vncle, yonders
old coile at home, it is prooued my Ladie Hero
hath bin falselie accusde, the Prince and Claudio
mightilie abusde, and Don Iohn is the author of all, who
is fled and gone: will you come presentlie?
  Beat. Will you go heare this newes Signior?
  Bene. I will liue in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried
in thy eies: and moreouer, I will goe with thee to
thy Vncles.

Exeunt.


","At the Palace of Westminster in London, Warwick meets the Lord Chief Justice and informs him that the King has died. The Chief Justice fears what may happen in the reign of Henry V. He is also concerned about his own position, since he once imprisoned Prince Henry for striking him . . Prince John, Clarence, and Gloucester, the three other sons of Henry IV, enter. Warwick and the Chief Justice continue discussing their fears that the new Henry V is not fit to rule. Prince John and Clarence speak to the Chief Justice, reminding him of the difficult situation he is in. They tell him that he is going to have to treat Falstaff well, since Falstaff is known as a companion of the new King. . Henry V enters. He promises his brothers that he will be their father  as well as their brother. He asks for their love, and says he will bear their cares. The brothers respond affirmatively, but the King thinks he sees in their facial expressions that they have no love for him. . He turns to the Chief Justice, who says that the King has no cause to hate him. The King appears to dispute this, reminding the Chief Justice of how the Justice imprisoned him, and suggesting that this is not something that can easily be forgotten. The Chief Justice defends himself by saying that he acted in the name of the King, to uphold law and justice. Henry V accepts this argument, praises the Chief Justice, and allows him to continue in his position. He asks him to uphold the law with the same impartial spirit that he used when he committed, him, the then-Prince, to prison. He promises to consult him and follow his advice. . Henry V then turns to his brothers and promises that he will not be the kind of king the world is expecting. He will put his youthful vanity aside and become worthy of the office he holds, selecting his counselors wisely. ."
177,"
He had only received the chemist's letter thirty-six hours after the
event; and, from consideration for his feelings, Homais had so worded it
that it was impossible to make out what it was all about.

First, the old fellow had fallen as if struck by apoplexy. Next, he
understood that she was not dead, but she might be. At last, he had put
on his blouse, taken his hat, fastened his spurs to his boots, and set
out at full speed; and the whole of the way old Rouault, panting, was
torn by anguish. Once even he was obliged to dismount. He was dizzy; he
heard voices round about him; he felt himself going mad.

Day broke. He saw three black hens asleep in a tree. He shuddered,
horrified at this omen. Then he promised the Holy Virgin three chasubles
for the church, and that he would go barefooted from the cemetery at
Bertaux to the chapel of Vassonville.

He entered Maromme shouting for the people of the inn, burst open the
door with a thrust of his shoulder, made for a sack of oats, emptied a
bottle of sweet cider into the manger, and again mounted his nag, whose
feet struck fire as it dashed along.

He said to himself that no doubt they would save her; the doctors would
discover some remedy surely. He remembered all the miraculous cures
he had been told about. Then she appeared to him dead. She was there;
before his eyes, lying on her back in the middle of the road. He reined
up, and the hallucination disappeared.

At Quincampoix, to give himself heart, he drank three cups of coffee
one after the other. He fancied they had made a mistake in the name in
writing. He looked for the letter in his pocket, felt it there, but did
not dare to open it.

At last he began to think it was all a joke; someone's spite, the jest
of some wag; and besides, if she were dead, one would have known it. But
no! There was nothing extraordinary about the country; the sky was blue,
the trees swayed; a flock of sheep passed. He saw the village; he was
seen coming bending forward upon his horse, belabouring it with great
blows, the girths dripping with blood.

When he had recovered consciousness, he fell, weeping, into Bovary's
arms: ""My girl! Emma! my child! tell me--""

The other replied, sobbing, ""I don't know! I don't know! It's a curse!""

The druggist separated them. ""These horrible details are useless. I will
tell this gentleman all about it. Here are the people coming. Dignity!
Come now! Philosophy!""

The poor fellow tried to show himself brave, and repeated several times.
""Yes! courage!""

""Oh,"" cried the old man, ""so I will have, by God! I'll go along o' her
to the end!""

The bell began tolling. All was ready; they had to start. And seated in
a stall of the choir, side by side, they saw pass and repass in front of
them continually the three chanting choristers.

The serpent-player was blowing with all his might. Monsieur Bournisien,
in full vestments, was singing in a shrill voice. He bowed before the
tabernacle, raising his hands, stretched out his arms. Lestiboudois
went about the church with his whalebone stick. The bier stood near the
lectern, between four rows of candles. Charles felt inclined to get up
and put them out.

Yet he tried to stir himself to a feeling of devotion, to throw himself
into the hope of a future life in which he should see her again. He
imagined to himself she had gone on a long journey, far away, for a long
time. But when he thought of her lying there, and that all was over,
that they would lay her in the earth, he was seized with a fierce,
gloomy, despairful rage. At times he thought he felt nothing more, and
he enjoyed this lull in his pain, whilst at the same time he reproached
himself for being a wretch.

The sharp noise of an iron-ferruled stick was heard on the stones,
striking them at irregular intervals. It came from the end of the
church, and stopped short at the lower aisles. A man in a coarse brown
jacket knelt down painfully. It was Hippolyte, the stable-boy at the
""Lion d'Or."" He had put on his new leg.

One of the choristers went round the nave making a collection, and the
coppers chinked one after the other on the silver plate.

""Oh, make haste! I am in pain!"" cried Bovary, angrily throwing him a
five-franc piece. The churchman thanked him with a deep bow.

They sang, they knelt, they stood up; it was endless! He remembered that
once, in the early times, they had been to mass together, and they had
sat down on the other side, on the right, by the wall. The bell began
again. There was a great moving of chairs; the bearers slipped their
three staves under the coffin, and everyone left the church.

Then Justin appeared at the door of the shop. He suddenly went in again,
pale, staggering.

People were at the windows to see the procession pass. Charles at the
head walked erect. He affected a brave air, and saluted with a nod those
who, coming out from the lanes or from their doors, stood amidst the
crowd.

The six men, three on either side, walked slowly, panting a little.
The priests, the choristers, and the two choirboys recited the De
profundis*, and their voices echoed over the fields, rising and falling
with their undulations. Sometimes they disappeared in the windings of
the path; but the great silver cross rose always before the trees.

     *Psalm CXXX.


The women followed in black cloaks with turned-down hoods; each of them
carried in her hands a large lighted candle, and Charles felt himself
growing weaker at this continual repetition of prayers and torches,
beneath this oppressive odour of wax and of cassocks. A fresh breeze was
blowing; the rye and colza were sprouting, little dewdrops trembled at
the roadsides and on the hawthorn hedges. All sorts of joyous sounds
filled the air; the jolting of a cart rolling afar off in the ruts, the
crowing of a cock, repeated again and again, or the gambling of a foal
running away under the apple-trees: The pure sky was fretted with rosy
clouds; a bluish haze rested upon the cots covered with iris. Charles as
he passed recognised each courtyard. He remembered mornings like this,
when, after visiting some patient, he came out from one and returned to
her.

The black cloth bestrewn with white beads blew up from time to time,
laying bare the coffin. The tired bearers walked more slowly, and it
advanced with constant jerks, like a boat that pitches with every wave.

They reached the cemetery. The men went right down to a place in the
grass where a grave was dug. They ranged themselves all round; and while
the priest spoke, the red soil thrown up at the sides kept noiselessly
slipping down at the corners.

Then when the four ropes were arranged the coffin was placed upon them.
He watched it descend; it seemed descending for ever. At last a thud was
heard; the ropes creaked as they were drawn up. Then Bournisien took
the spade handed to him by Lestiboudois; with his left hand all the
time sprinkling water, with the right he vigorously threw in a large
spadeful; and the wood of the coffin, struck by the pebbles, gave forth
that dread sound that seems to us the reverberation of eternity.

The ecclesiastic passed the holy water sprinkler to his neighbour. This
was Homais. He swung it gravely, then handed it to Charles, who sank to
his knees in the earth and threw in handfuls of it, crying, ""Adieu!"" He
sent her kisses; he dragged himself towards the grave, to engulf himself
with her. They led him away, and he soon grew calmer, feeling perhaps,
like the others, a vague satisfaction that it was all over.

Old Rouault on his way back began quietly smoking a pipe, which Homais
in his innermost conscience thought not quite the thing. He also noticed
that Monsieur Binet had not been present, and that Tuvache had ""made
off"" after mass, and that Theodore, the notary's servant wore a blue
coat, ""as if one could not have got a black coat, since that is the
custom, by Jove!"" And to share his observations with others he went from
group to group. They were deploring Emma's death, especially Lheureux,
who had not failed to come to the funeral.

""Poor little woman! What a trouble for her husband!""

The druggist continued, ""Do you know that but for me he would have
committed some fatal attempt upon himself?""

""Such a good woman! To think that I saw her only last Saturday in my
shop.""

""I haven't had leisure,"" said Homais, ""to prepare a few words that I
would have cast upon her tomb.""

Charles on getting home undressed, and old Rouault put on his blue
blouse. It was a new one, and as he had often during the journey wiped
his eyes on the sleeves, the dye had stained his face, and the traces of
tears made lines in the layer of dust that covered it.

Madame Bovary senior was with them. All three were silent. At last the
old fellow sighed--

""Do you remember, my friend, that I went to Tostes once when you had
just lost your first deceased? I consoled you at that time. I thought of
something to say then, but now--"" Then, with a loud groan that shook his
whole chest, ""Ah! this is the end for me, do you see! I saw my wife go,
then my son, and now to-day it's my daughter.""

He wanted to go back at once to Bertaux, saying that he could not sleep
in this house. He even refused to see his granddaughter.

""No, no! It would grieve me too much. Only you'll kiss her many times
for me. Good-bye! you're a good fellow! And then I shall never forget
that,"" he said, slapping his thigh. ""Never fear, you shall always have
your turkey.""

But when he reached the top of the hill he turned back, as he had turned
once before on the road of Saint-Victor when he had parted from her. The
windows of the village were all on fire beneath the slanting rays of the
sun sinking behind the field. He put his hand over his eyes, and saw
in the horizon an enclosure of walls, where trees here and there formed
black clusters between white stones; then he went on his way at a gentle
trot, for his nag had gone lame.

Despite their fatigue, Charles and his mother stayed very long that
evening talking together. They spoke of the days of the past and of the
future. She would come to live at Yonville; she would keep house for
him; they would never part again. She was ingenious and caressing,
rejoicing in her heart at gaining once more an affection that had
wandered from her for so many years. Midnight struck. The village as
usual was silent, and Charles, awake, thought always of her.

Rodolphe, who, to distract himself, had been rambling about the wood all
day, was sleeping quietly in his chateau, and Leon, down yonder, always
slept.

There was another who at that hour was not asleep.

On the grave between the pine-trees a child was on his knees weeping,
and his heart, rent by sobs, was beating in the shadow beneath the load
of an immense regret, sweeter than the moon and fathomless as the night.
The gate suddenly grated. It was Lestiboudois; he came to fetch his
spade, that he had forgotten. He recognised Justin climbing over the
wall, and at last knew who was the culprit who stole his potatoes.


","Charles dissolves into tears. Homais returns to the pharmacy, puts off the blind man and tells the gathered crowd that Madame Bovary died of accidental poisoning. Initially resistant, Charles finally agrees to order the funeral arrangements. Against the advice of Homais and his mother, he insists that Emma be buried expensively in three coffins and with a velvet cover. That night Monsieur Homais and Monsieur Bournisien sit with the corpse and engage in a spirited argument concerning the efficacy of religion. Charles, who cannot stay away from his dead wife, interrupts them. The next night the townfolk call on Monsieur Bovary to offer condolences and Madame Lefranois and the elder Madame Bovary prepare the body for burial. That night Homais and the priest continue their vigil and their argument but eventually both men fall peacefully asleep. Charles comes to look upon his wife and screams when he lifts the veil. The priest and the pharmacist decide to partake of the brandy, cheese and bread left for them by Flicit and soon they are friendly. The coffin makers arrive and once Emma is secure inside the three coffins the doors of the house are opened to the town. Monsieur Rouault arrives and faints at the sight of the black cloth"
178,"So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had still
Alan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a
heavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On both
these heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning, walking to and
fro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothing
in view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors' and were
now mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take a
glad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride.

About my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must help
him out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was
of a different mind.

""Mr. Thomson,"" says he, ""is one thing, Mr. Thomson's kinsman quite
another. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble
(whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.)* has some concern and
is even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. is
doubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, timeo qui nocuere deos.
If you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember there is
one way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in the dock.
There, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson's kinsman. You
will object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And to be tried
for your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel and with
a Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition to the
gallows.""

     * The Duke of Argyle.

Now I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good reply
to them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. ""In that case, sir,""
said I, ""I would just have to be hanged--would I not?""

""My dear boy,"" cries he, ""go in God's name, and do what you think is
right. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advising
you to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology.
Go and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There
are worse things in the world than to be hanged.""

""Not many, sir,"" said I, smiling.

""Why, yes, sir,"" he cried, ""very many. And it would be ten times better
for your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decently
upon a gibbet.""

Thereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind,
so that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me two
letters, making his comments on them as he wrote.

""This,"" says he, ""is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing a
credit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; and
you, with this credit, can supply the means. I trust you will be a good
husband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson,
I would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way
than that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer
testimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, and
will turn on the D. of A. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate well
recommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, the
learned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look better
that you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird of
Pilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with Lord
Advocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with any
particulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer to
Mr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when you
deal with the Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may the
Lord guide you, Mr. David!""

Thereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry,
while Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went
by the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, we
kept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare and
great and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top
windows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and back
and forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had little
welcome when I came, and less kindness while I stayed; but at least I
was watched as I went away.

Alan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart either
to walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we were
near the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone days
sate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and it
was resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, now
there, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might be
able to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger.
In the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart,
and a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part to
find a ship and to arrange for Alan's safe embarkation. No sooner was
this business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though I
would seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he with
me on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that we
were nearer tears than laughter.

We came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got
near to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on
Corstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we
both stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to
where our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had been
agreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour at
which Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by any
that came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two of
Rankeillor's) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then we
stood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence.

""Well, good-bye,"" said Alan, and held out his left hand.

""Good-bye,"" said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off down
hill.

Neither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was in
my view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But as
I went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I could
have found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep like
any baby.

It was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the
Grassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the
buildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched
entries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants
in their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the
fine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention,
struck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd
carry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was
Alan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would think
I would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties)
there was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something
wrong.

The hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors of
the British Linen Company's bank.





","Mr. Ebenezer makes his appearance first at the window and then at the door. He listens to Alan's claim that he has news of David. Armed with a gun, he threatens Alan of the consequences if he is proved a liar. Ebenezer then listens to Alan's fabricated tale of how David had been saved from drowning and kept in a ruined castle. Since the expense of looking after the boy was proving costly, Alan asks Ebenezer for money for the boy's maintenance. After the old man agrees to pay, Alan extracts information from him about the kidnapping of David. Unwittingly, Ebenezer confesses his role in the kidnapping and explains that he had given Hoseason twenty pounds to do the job. Once the disclosure is made, all three men step forward from their hiding places to seize Ebenezer. When Rankeillor takes Mr. Balfour aside to settle property matters, Ebenezer agrees to give David two-thirds of the entire property of Shaws. David, Alan and Torrance celebrate the occasion with drinks."
179,"

Jude returned to Melchester, which had the questionable
recommendation of being only a dozen and a half miles from his Sue's
now permanent residence.  At first he felt that this nearness was a
distinct reason for not going southward at all; but Christminster
was too sad a place to bear, while the proximity of Shaston to
Melchester might afford him the glory of worsting the Enemy in a
close engagement, such as was deliberately sought by the priests and
virgins of the early Church, who, disdaining an ignominious flight
from temptation, became even chamber-partners with impunity.
Jude did not pause to remember that, in the laconic words of the
historian, ""insulted Nature sometimes vindicated her rights"" in such
circumstances.

He now returned with feverish desperation to his study for the
priesthood--in the recognition that the single-mindedness of his
aims, and his fidelity to the cause, had been more than questionable
of late.  His passion for Sue troubled his soul; yet his lawful
abandonment to the society of Arabella for twelve hours seemed
instinctively a worse thing--even though she had not told him of her
Sydney husband till afterwards.  He had, he verily believed, overcome
all tendency to fly to liquor--which, indeed, he had never done from
taste, but merely as an escape from intolerable misery of mind.  Yet
he perceived with despondency that, taken all round, he was a man of
too many passions to make a good clergyman; the utmost he could hope
for was that in a life of constant internal warfare between flesh and
spirit the former might not always be victorious.

As a hobby, auxiliary to his readings in Divinity, he developed his
slight skill in church-music and thorough-bass, till he could join in
part-singing from notation with some accuracy.  A mile or two from
Melchester there was a restored village church, to which Jude had
originally gone to fix the new columns and capitals.  By this means
he had become acquainted with the organist, and the ultimate result
was that he joined the choir as a bass voice.

He walked out to this parish twice every Sunday, and sometimes in the
week.  One evening about Easter the choir met for practice, and a new
hymn which Jude had heard of as being by a Wessex composer was to be
tried and prepared for the following week.  It turned out to be a
strangely emotional composition.  As they all sang it over and over
again its harmonies grew upon Jude, and moved him exceedingly.

When they had finished he went round to the organist to make
inquiries.  The score was in manuscript, the name of the composer
being at the head, together with the title of the hymn: ""The Foot
of the Cross.""

""Yes,"" said the organist.  ""He is a local man.  He is a professional
musician at Kennetbridge--between here and Christminster.  The
vicar knows him.  He was brought up and educated in Christminster
traditions, which accounts for the quality of the piece.  I think he
plays in the large church there, and has a surpliced choir.  He comes
to Melchester sometimes, and once tried to get the cathedral organ
when the post was vacant.  The hymn is getting about everywhere this
Easter.""

As he walked humming the air on his way home, Jude fell to musing
on its composer, and the reasons why he composed it.  What a man of
sympathies he must be!  Perplexed and harassed as he himself was
about Sue and Arabella, and troubled as was his conscience by the
complication of his position, how he would like to know that man!
""He of all men would understand my difficulties,"" said the impulsive
Jude.  If there were any person in the world to choose as a
confidant, this composer would be the one, for he must have suffered,
and throbbed, and yearned.

In brief, ill as he could afford the time and money for the journey,
Fawley resolved, like the child that he was, to go to Kennetbridge
the very next Sunday.  He duly started, early in the morning, for it
was only by a series of crooked railways that he could get to the
town.  About mid-day he reached it, and crossing the bridge into the
quaint old borough he inquired for the house of the composer.

They told him it was a red brick building some little way further on.
Also that the gentleman himself had just passed along the street not
five minutes before.

""Which way?"" asked Jude with alacrity.

""Straight along homeward from church.""

Jude hastened on, and soon had the pleasure of observing a man in a
black coat and a black slouched felt hat no considerable distance
ahead.  Stretching out his legs yet more widely, he stalked after.
""A hungry soul in pursuit of a full soul!"" he said.  ""I must speak
to that man!""

He could not, however, overtake the musician before he had entered
his own house, and then arose the question if this were an expedient
time to call.  Whether or not he decided to do so there and then, now
that he had got here, the distance home being too great for him to
wait till late in the afternoon.  This man of soul would understand
scant ceremony, and might be quite a perfect adviser in a case in
which an earthly and illegitimate passion had cunningly obtained
entrance into his heart through the opening afforded for religion.

Jude accordingly rang the bell, and was admitted.

The musician came to him in a moment, and being respectably dressed,
good-looking, and frank in manner, Jude obtained a favourable
reception.  He was nevertheless conscious that there would be a
certain awkwardness in explaining his errand.

""I have been singing in the choir of a little church near
Melchester,"" he said.  ""And we have this week practised 'The Foot
of the Cross,' which I understand, sir, that you composed?""

""I did--a year or so ago.""

""I--like it.  I think it supremely beautiful!""

""Ah well--other people have said so too.  Yes, there's money in
it, if I could only see about getting it published.  I have other
compositions to go with it, too; I wish I could bring them out; for
I haven't made a five-pound note out of any of them yet.  These
publishing people--they want the copyright of an obscure composer's
work, such as mine is, for almost less than I should have to pay a
person for making a fair manuscript copy of the score.  The one you
speak of I have lent to various friends about here and Melchester,
and so it has got to be sung a little.  But music is a poor staff to
lean on--I am giving it up entirely.  You must go into trade if you
want to make money nowadays.  The wine business is what I am thinking
of.  This is my forthcoming list--it is not issued yet--but you can
take one.""

He handed Jude an advertisement list of several pages in booklet
shape, ornamentally margined with a red line, in which were set forth
the various clarets, champagnes, ports, sherries, and other wines
with which he purposed to initiate his new venture.  It took Jude
more than by surprise that the man with the soul was thus and thus;
and he felt that he could not open up his confidences.

They talked a little longer, but constrainedly, for when the musician
found that Jude was a poor man his manner changed from what it had
been while Jude's appearance and address deceived him as to his
position and pursuits.  Jude stammered out something about his
feelings in wishing to congratulate the author on such an exalted
composition, and took an embarrassed leave.

All the way home by the slow Sunday train, sitting in the fireless
waiting-rooms on this cold spring day, he was depressed enough at
his simplicity in taking such a journey.  But no sooner did he reach
his Melchester lodging than he found awaiting him a letter which had
arrived that morning a few minutes after he had left the house.  It
was a contrite little note from Sue, in which she said, with sweet
humility, that she felt she had been horrid in telling him he
was not to come to see her, that she despised herself for having
been so conventional; and that he was to be sure to come by the
eleven-forty-five train that very Sunday, and have dinner with them
at half-past one.

Jude almost tore his hair at having missed this letter till it was
too late to act upon its contents; but he had chastened himself
considerably of late, and at last his chimerical expedition
to Kennetbridge really did seem to have been another special
intervention of Providence to keep him away from temptation.  But a
growing impatience of faith, which he had noticed in himself more
than once of late, made him pass over in ridicule the idea that God
sent people on fools' errands.  He longed to see her; he was angry
at having missed her: and he wrote instantly, telling her what had
happened, and saying he had not enough patience to wait till the
following Sunday, but would come any day in the week that she liked
to name.

Since he wrote a little over-ardently, Sue, as her manner was,
delayed her reply till Thursday before Good Friday, when she said he
might come that afternoon if he wished, this being the earliest day
on which she could welcome him, for she was now assistant-teacher in
her husband's school.  Jude therefore got leave from the cathedral
works at the trifling expense of a stoppage of pay, and went.
","Back at Melchester, Jude tries to fight against the temptation to visit Sue at Shaston and tries desperately to pursue his study for the ministry. Enlarging his interest in sacred music and eventually joining a choir in a village church nearby, he is greatly moved by a new hymn and thinks that the composer of it must be the kind of man who would understand his own perplexing state of mind. Jude seeks out the composer but discovers he is interested only in money. Coming home from this trip, he discovers Sue has relented and asked him to visit on that very day. Abandoning his attempt to discipline his feelings for her, he writes to arrange to visit as soon as possible."
180,"
The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle.  She grew to be a most
rare and wonderful production of a tenement district, a pretty girl.

None of the dirt of Rum Alley seemed to be in her veins.  The
philosophers up-stairs, down-stairs and on the same floor, puzzled over
it.

When a child, playing and fighting with gamins in the street, dirt
disguised her.  Attired in tatters and grime, she went unseen.

There came a time, however, when the young men of the vicinity said:
""Dat Johnson goil is a puty good looker.""  About this period her
brother remarked to her: ""Mag, I'll tell yeh dis!  See?  Yeh've edder
got teh go teh hell or go teh work!""  Whereupon she went to work,
having the feminine aversion of going to hell.

By a chance, she got a position in an establishment where they made
collars and cuffs.  She received a stool and a machine in a room where
sat twenty girls of various shades of yellow discontent.  She perched
on the stool and treadled at her machine all day, turning out collars,
the name of whose brand could be noted for its irrelevancy to anything
in connection with collars.  At night she returned home to her mother.

Jimmie grew large enough to take the vague position of head of the
family.  As incumbent of that office, he stumbled up-stairs late at
night, as his father had done before him.  He reeled about the room,
swearing at his relations, or went to sleep on the floor.

The mother had gradually arisen to that degree of fame that she could
bandy words with her acquaintances among the police-justices.
Court-officials called her by her first name.  When she appeared they
pursued a course which had been theirs for months.  They invariably
grinned and cried out: ""Hello, Mary, you here again?""  Her grey head
wagged in many a court.  She always besieged the bench with voluble
excuses, explanations, apologies and prayers.  Her flaming face and
rolling eyes were a sort of familiar sight on the island.  She measured
time by means of sprees, and was eternally swollen and dishevelled.

One day the young man, Pete, who as a lad had smitten the Devil's Row
urchin in the back of the head and put to flight the antagonists of his
friend, Jimmie, strutted upon the scene.  He met Jimmie one day on the
street, promised to take him to a boxing match in Williamsburg, and
called for him in the evening.

Maggie observed Pete.

He sat on a table in the Johnson home and dangled his checked legs with
an enticing nonchalance.  His hair was curled down over his forehead in
an oiled bang.  His rather pugged nose seemed to revolt from contact
with a bristling moustache of short, wire-like hairs.  His blue
double-breasted coat, edged with black braid, buttoned close to a red
puff tie, and his patent-leather shoes looked like murder-fitted
weapons.

His mannerisms stamped him as a man who had a correct sense of his
personal superiority.  There was valor and contempt for circumstances
in the glance of his eye.  He waved his hands like a man of the world,
who dismisses religion and philosophy, and says ""Fudge.""  He had
certainly seen everything and with each curl of his lip, he declared
that it amounted to nothing.  Maggie thought he must be a very elegant
and graceful bartender.

He was telling tales to Jimmie.

Maggie watched him furtively, with half-closed eyes, lit with a vague
interest.

""Hully gee!  Dey makes me tired,"" he said.  ""Mos' e'ry day some farmer
comes in an' tries teh run deh shop.  See?  But dey gits t'rowed right
out!  I jolt dem right out in deh street before dey knows where dey is!
See?""

""Sure,"" said Jimmie.

""Dere was a mug come in deh place deh odder day wid an idear he wus
goin' teh own deh place!  Hully gee, he wus goin' teh own deh place!  I
see he had a still on an' I didn' wanna giv 'im no stuff, so I says:
'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble,' I says like dat!
See?  'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble'; like dat.
'Git deh hell outa here,' I says.  See?""

Jimmie nodded understandingly.  Over his features played an eager
desire to state the amount of his valor in a similar crisis, but the
narrator proceeded.

""Well, deh blokie he says: 'T'hell wid it!  I ain' lookin' for no
scrap,' he says (See?), 'but' he says, 'I'm 'spectable cit'zen an' I
wanna drink an' purtydamnsoon, too.'  See?  'Deh hell,' I says.  Like
dat!  'Deh hell,' I says.  See?  'Don' make no trouble,' I says.  Like
dat.  'Don' make no trouble.'  See?  Den deh mug he squared off an'
said he was fine as silk wid his dukes (See?) an' he wanned a drink
damnquick.  Dat's what he said.  See?""

""Sure,"" repeated Jimmie.

Pete continued.  ""Say, I jes' jumped deh bar an' deh way I plunked dat
blokie was great.  See?  Dat's right!  In deh jaw!  See?  Hully gee, he
t'rowed a spittoon true deh front windee.  Say, I taut I'd drop dead.
But deh boss, he comes in after an' he says, 'Pete, yehs done jes'
right!  Yeh've gota keep order an' it's all right.'  See?  'It's all
right,' he says.  Dat's what he said.""

The two held a technical discussion.

""Dat bloke was a dandy,"" said Pete, in conclusion, ""but he hadn' oughta
made no trouble.  Dat's what I says teh dem: 'Don' come in here an'
make no trouble,' I says, like dat.  'Don' make no trouble.'  See?""

As Jimmie and his friend exchanged tales descriptive of their prowess,
Maggie leaned back in the shadow.  Her eyes dwelt wonderingly and
rather wistfully upon Pete's face.  The broken furniture, grimey walls,
and general disorder and dirt of her home of a sudden appeared before
her and began to take a potential aspect.  Pete's aristocratic person
looked as if it might soil.  She looked keenly at him, occasionally,
wondering if he was feeling contempt.  But Pete seemed to be enveloped
in reminiscence.

""Hully gee,"" said he, ""dose mugs can't phase me.  Dey knows I kin wipe
up deh street wid any t'ree of dem.""

When he said, ""Ah, what deh hell,"" his voice was burdened with disdain
for the inevitable and contempt for anything that fate might compel him
to endure.

Maggie perceived that here was the beau ideal of a man.  Her dim
thoughts were often searching for far away lands where, as God says,
the little hills sing together in the morning.  Under the trees of her
dream-gardens there had always walked a lover.


","Back to Maggie, a pretty young girl in a dilapidated tenement. What hope does she have growing up on Rum Alley? Her delicate beauty is lost on her co-workers at the sweatshop, where she sews collars and cuffs. Jimmie's in charge of the house now. Drunken Mary is still around, getting into scraps and developing her own relationship with police justices. Let's just say she's on a first-name basis with the local Bowery cops. Then along comes Pete--he's that guy who saved Jimmie's tail when he was getting into it with those Devil's Row urchins oh so many years ago. Through Maggie's eyes, Pete is a hunk and a savior. His contempt for the world and air of superiority floats her boat; she's all in. As she stares Pete down, Maggie becomes hyper-aware of the filth and disarray of her home. Compared to this noble gentleman , her surroundings are an embarrassment. She decides that he is the ""ideal man"" ."
181,"
The trees began softly to sing a hymn of twilight.  The sun sank until
slanted bronze rays struck the forest.  There was a lull in the noises
of insects as if they had bowed their beaks and were making a
devotional pause.  There was silence save for the chanted chorus of the
trees.

Then, upon this stillness, there suddenly broke a tremendous clangor of
sounds.  A crimson roar came from the distance.

The youth stopped.  He was transfixed by this terrific medley of all
noises.  It was as if worlds were being rended.  There was the ripping
sound of musketry and the breaking crash of the artillery.

His mind flew in all directions.  He conceived the two armies to be at
each other panther fashion.  He listened for a time.  Then he began to
run in the direction of the battle.  He saw that it was an ironical
thing for him to be running thus toward that which he had been at such
pains to avoid.  But he said, in substance, to himself that if the
earth and the moon were about to clash, many persons would doubtless
plan to get upon the roofs to witness the collision.

As he ran, he became aware that the forest had stopped its music, as if
at last becoming capable of hearing the foreign sounds.  The trees
hushed and stood motionless.  Everything seemed to be listening to the
crackle and clatter and earshaking thunder.  The chorus pealed over the
still earth.

It suddenly occurred to the youth that the fight in which he had been
was, after all, but perfunctory popping.  In the hearing of this
present din he was doubtful if he had seen real battle scenes.  This
uproar explained a celestial battle; it was tumbling hordes a-struggle
in the air.

Reflecting, he saw a sort of a humor in the point of view of himself
and his fellows during the late encounter.  They had taken themselves
and the enemy very seriously and had imagined that they were deciding
the war.  Individuals must have supposed that they were cutting the
letters of their names deep into everlasting tablets of brass, or
enshrining their reputations forever in the hearts of their countrymen,
while, as to fact, the affair would appear in printed reports under a
meek and immaterial title.  But he saw that it was good, else, he said,
in battle every one would surely run save forlorn hopes and their ilk.

He went rapidly on.  He wished to come to the edge of the forest that
he might peer out.

As he hastened, there passed through his mind pictures of stupendous
conflicts.  His accumulated thought upon such subjects was used to form
scenes.  The noise was as the voice of an eloquent being, describing.

Sometimes the brambles formed chains and tried to hold him back. Trees,
confronting him, stretched out their arms and forbade him to pass.
After its previous hostility this new resistance of the forest filled
him with a fine bitterness.  It seemed that Nature could not be quite
ready to kill him.

But he obstinately took roundabout ways, and presently he was where he
could see long gray walls of vapor where lay battle lines.  The voices
of cannon shook him.  The musketry sounded in long irregular surges
that played havoc with his ears.  He stood regardant for a moment.  His
eyes had an awestruck expression.  He gawked in the direction of the
fight.

Presently he proceeded again on his forward way.  The battle was like
the grinding of an immense and terrible machine to him.  Its
complexities and powers, its grim processes, fascinated him.  He must
go close and see it produce corpses.

He came to a fence and clambered over it. On the far side, the ground
was littered with clothes and guns.  A newspaper, folded up, lay in the
dirt.  A dead soldier was stretched with his face hidden in his arm.
Farther off there was a group of four or five corpses keeping mournful
company.  A hot sun had blazed upon the spot.

In this place the youth felt that he was an invader.  This forgotten
part of the battle ground was owned by the dead men, and he hurried, in
the vague apprehension that one of the swollen forms would rise and
tell him to begone.

He came finally to a road from which he could see in the distance dark
and agitated bodies of troops, smoke-fringed.  In the lane was a
blood-stained crowd streaming to the rear. The wounded men were
cursing, groaning, and wailing.  In the air, always, was a mighty swell
of sound that it seemed could sway the earth. With the courageous words
of the artillery and the spiteful sentences of the musketry mingled red
cheers.  And from this region of noises came the steady current of the
maimed.

One of the wounded men had a shoeful of blood.  He hopped like a
schoolboy in a game. He was laughing hysterically.

One was swearing that he had been shot in the arm through the
commanding general's mismanagement of the army.  One was marching with
an air imitative of some sublime drum major. Upon his features was an
unholy mixture of merriment and agony.  As he marched he sang a bit of
doggerel in a high and quavering voice:


  ""Sing a song 'a vic'try,
    A pocketful 'a bullets,
  Five an' twenty dead men
    Baked in a--pie.""

Parts of the procession limped and staggered to this tune.

Another had the gray seal of death already upon his face.  His lips
were curled in hard lines and his teeth were clinched.  His hands were
bloody from where he had pressed them upon his wound.  He seemed to be
awaiting the moment when he should pitch headlong.  He stalked like the
specter of a soldier, his eyes burning with the power of a stare into
the unknown.

There were some who proceeded sullenly, full of anger at their wounds,
and ready to turn upon anything as an obscure cause.

An officer was carried along by two privates. He was peevish.  ""Don't
joggle so, Johnson, yeh fool,"" he cried.  ""Think m' leg is made of
iron? If yeh can't carry me decent, put me down an' let some one else
do it.""

He bellowed at the tottering crowd who blocked the quick march of his
bearers.  ""Say, make way there, can't yeh?  Make way, dickens take it
all.""

They sulkily parted and went to the roadsides.  As he was carried past
they made pert remarks to him.  When he raged in reply and threatened
them, they told him to be damned.

The shoulder of one of the tramping bearers knocked heavily against the
spectral soldier who was staring into the unknown.

The youth joined this crowd and marched along with it.  The torn bodies
expressed the awful machinery in which the men had been entangled.

Orderlies and couriers occasionally broke through the throng in the
roadway, scattering wounded men right and left, galloping on followed
by howls.  The melancholy march was continually disturbed by the
messengers, and sometimes by bustling batteries that came swinging and
thumping down upon them, the officers shouting orders to clear the way.

There was a tattered man, fouled with dust, blood and powder stain from
hair to shoes, who trudged quietly at the youth's side.  He was
listening with eagerness and much humility to the lurid descriptions of
a bearded sergeant.  His lean features wore an expression of awe and
admiration.  He was like a listener in a country store to wondrous
tales told among the sugar barrels.  He eyed the story-teller with
unspeakable wonder.  His mouth was agape in yokel fashion.

The sergeant, taking note of this, gave pause to his elaborate history
while he administered a sardonic comment.  ""Be keerful, honey, you 'll
be a-ketchin' flies,"" he said.

The tattered man shrank back abashed.

After a time he began to sidle near to the youth, and in a different
way try to make him a friend.  His voice was gentle as a girl's voice
and his eyes were pleading.  The youth saw with surprise that the
soldier had two wounds, one in the head, bound with a blood-soaked rag,
and the other in the arm, making that member dangle like a broken bough.

After they had walked together for some time the tattered man mustered
sufficient courage to speak.  ""Was pretty good fight, wa'n't it?"" he
timidly said.  The youth, deep in thought, glanced up at the bloody and
grim figure with its lamblike eyes.  ""What?""

""Was pretty good fight, wa'n't it?

""Yes,"" said the youth shortly.  He quickened his pace.

But the other hobbled industriously after him. There was an air of
apology in his manner, but he evidently thought that he needed only to
talk for a time, and the youth would perceive that he was a good fellow.

""Was pretty good fight, wa'n't it?"" he began in a small voice, and then
he achieved the fortitude to continue.  ""Dern me if I ever see fellers
fight so.  Laws, how they did fight!  I knowed th' boys 'd like when
they onct got square at it. Th' boys ain't had no fair chanct up t'
now, but this time they showed what they was.  I knowed it 'd turn out
this way.  Yeh can't lick them boys. No, sir!  They're fighters, they
be.""

He breathed a deep breath of humble admiration.  He had looked at the
youth for encouragement several times.  He received none, but gradually
he seemed to get absorbed in his subject.

""I was talkin' 'cross pickets with a boy from Georgie, onct, an' that
boy, he ses, 'Your fellers 'll all run like hell when they onct hearn a
gun,' he ses.  'Mebbe they will,' I ses, 'but I don't b'lieve none of
it,' I ses; 'an' b'jiminey,' I ses back t' 'um, 'mebbe your fellers 'll
all run like hell when they onct hearn a gun,' I ses.  He larfed. Well,
they didn't run t' day, did they, hey?  No, sir!  They fit, an' fit,
an' fit.""

His homely face was suffused with a light of love for the army which
was to him all things beautiful and powerful.

After a time he turned to the youth.  ""Where yeh hit, ol' boy?"" he
asked in a brotherly tone.

The youth felt instant panic at this question, although at first its
full import was not borne in upon him.

""What?"" he asked.

""Where yeh hit?"" repeated the tattered man.

""Why,"" began the youth, ""I--I--that is--why--I--""

He turned away suddenly and slid through the crowd.  His brow was
heavily flushed, and his fingers were picking nervously at one of his
buttons.  He bent his head and fastened his eyes studiously upon the
button as if it were a little problem.

The tattered man looked after him in astonishment.


","Stomping through the forest, Henry hears ""the crimson roar"" of battle. Hoping to get a closer look, he heads toward it. He comes upon a column of wounded men stumbling along a road, and notices one spectral soldier with a vacant gaze. Henry joins the column and a soldier with a bloody head and a dangling arm begins to talk to him. Henry tries to avoid this tattered man, but the wounded soldier continues to talk about the courage and fortitude of the army, exuding pride that his regiment did not flee from the fighting. He asks Henry where he has been wounded, and Henry hurries away in a panic"
182,"                [The Portuguese court.]

                Enter VICEROY OF PORTINGAL, NOBLES, ALEXANDRO, VILLUPPO.

  VICEROY.  Infortunate condition of kings,
    Seated amidst so many helpless doubts!
    First, we are plac'd upon extremest height,
    And oft supplanted with exceeding hate,
    But ever subject to the wheel of chance;
    And at our highest never joy we so
    As we doubt and dread our overthrow.
    So striveth not the waves with sundry winds
    As fortune toileth in the affairs of kings,
    That would be fear'd, yet fear to be belov'd,
    Sith fear and love to kings is flattery.
    For instance, lordings, look upon your king,
    By hate deprived of his dearest son,
    The only hope of our successive line.

  NOB.  I had not thought that Alexandro's heart
    Had been envenom'd with such extreme hate;
    But now I see that words have several works,
    And there's no credit in the countenance.

  VIL.  No, for, my lord, had you beheld the train
    That feigned love had colour'd in his looks
    When he in camp consorted Balthazar,
    Far more inconstant had you thought the sun,
    That hourly coasts the center of the earth,
    Then Alexandro's purpose to the prince.

  VICE.  No more, Villuppo! thou hast said enough,
    And with thy words thou slay'st our wounded thoughts.
    Nor shall I longer dally with the world,
    Procrastinating Alexandro's death.
    Go, some of you, and fetch the traitor forth,
    That, as he is condemned, he may die.

                Enter ALEXANDRO, with a NOBLE-MAN and
                HALBERTS.

  NOB. In such extremes will nought but patience serve.

  ALEX.  But in extremes what patience shall I use?
    Nor discontents it me to leave the world,
    With whom there nothing can prevail but wrong.

  NOB.  Yet hope the best.

  ALEX.                         'Tis heav'n is my hope:
    As for the earth, it is too much infect
    To yield me hope of any of her mould.

  VICE.  Why linger ye? bring forth that daring fiend,
    And let him die for his accursed deed.

  ALEX.  Not that I fear the extremity of death--
    For nobles cannot stoop to servile fear--
    Do I, O king, thus discontented live;
    But this, O this, torments my labouring soul,
    That thus I die suspected of a sin
    Whereof, as Heav'ns have known my secret thoughts,
    So am I free from this suggestion!

  VICE.  No more, I say; to the tortures!  when?
    Bind him, and burn his body in those flames,

                They bind him to the stake.

    That shall prefigure those unquenched fires
    Of Phlegethon prepared for his soul.

  ALEX.  My guiltless death will be aveng'd on thee!
    On thee, Villuppo, that hath malice'd thus,
    Or for thy meed hast falsely me accus'd!

  VIL.  Nay, Alexandro, if thou menace me,
    I'll lend a hand to send thee to the lake
    Where those thy words shall perish with thy works,
    Injurious traitor, monstrous homicide!

                Enter AMBASSADOR.

  AMBASS.  Stay!  hold a-while!
    And here, with pardon of his Majesty,
    Lay hands upon Villuppo!

  VICE.                        Ambassador,
   What news hath urg'd this sudden enterance?

  AMBASS.  Know, sovereign lord, that Balthazar doth live.

  VICE.  What say'st thou?  liveth Balthazar, our son?

  AMBASS.  Your Highness' son, Lord Balthazar doth live,
    And, well entreated in the court of Spain,
    Humbly commends him to your Majesty.
    These eyes beheld; and these my followers,
    With these, the letters of the king's commends,

                Gives him letters.

    Are happy witnesses of his Highness' health.

                The KING looks on the letters, and proceeds.

  VICE. [reads]  ""Thy son doth live; your tribute is receiv'd;
    Thy peace is made, and we are satisfied.
    The rest resolve upon as things propos'd
    For both our honours and thy benefit.""

  AMBASS.  These are his Highness' farther articles.

                He gives him more letters.

  VICE.  Accursed wretch to intimate these ills
    Against the life and reputation
    Of noble Alexandro!  come, my lord, unbind him!
    [To ALEXANDRO]  Let him unbind thee that is bound to death,
    To make acquittal for thy discontent.

                They unbind him.

  ALEX.  Dread lord, in kindness you could do no less,
    Upon report of such a damned fact;
    But thus we see our innocence hath sav'd
    The hopeless life which thou, Villuppo, sought
    By thy suggestions to have massacred.

  VICE.  Say, false Villuppo, wherefore didst thou thus
    Falsely betray Lord Alexandro's life?
    Him whom thou know'st that no unkindness else
    But even the slaughter of our dearest son
    Could once have mov'd us to have misconceiv'd.

  ALEX.  Say, treacherous Villuppo; tell the King!
    Or wherein hath Alexandro us'd thee ill?

  VIL.  Rent with remembrance of so foul a deed,
    My guilty soul submits me to thy doom,
    For, not for Alexandro's injuries,
    But for reward and hope to be prefer'd,
    Thus have I shamelessly hazarded his life.

  VICE.  Which, villain, shall be ransom'd with thy death,
    And not so mean a torment as we here
    Devis'd for him who thou said'st slew our son,
    But with the bitterest torments and extremes
    That may be yet invented for thine end.

                ALEXANDRO seems to entreat.

    Entreat me not!  Go, take the traitor hence!

                Exit VILLUPPO.

    And, Alexandro, let us honour thee
    With public notice of thy loyalty.
    To end those things articulated here
    By our great lord, the mighty king of Spain,
    We with our council will deliberate.
    Come, Alexandro, keep us company.

                Exeunt.","Okay, now we're back in Portugal to check back in on our subplot. The Viceroy is still being a crybaby. He spends his time gloomily complaining about how badly Fortune has dealt with him, the hardships of ruling a nation, and his son's supposed death. You of course remember that Villupo told the viceroy that Alexandro backstabbingly murdered Balthazar. And at this point, the Portuguese ruler is no mood for delayed punishment. Revenge may take time, but kings can kill when the mood suits them . The viceroy tells Alexandro to prepare to die. Alexander says something like, ""that's cool, but I hate dying while you're mad at me."" The hard-hitting torture dudes roll up, but just as they begin to set him on fire , the Portuguese ambassador returns from his trip to Spain. Hold the fire. The ambassador informs everyone that Balthazar is alive and well and quickly calls for Villupo's arrest. The viceroy calls for Alexandro to be untied and apologies to him . When Villupo is asked why he pulled this scheme, the ambitious weasel says he had nothing against Alexandro and was just looking for a reward. That's low, man. Well, for a reward he gets tortured far worse than they ever planned for Alexandro. It's nice to know that a special form of torture is saved for a special kind of villain."
183,"XXII. The Sea Still Rises


Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
portentously elastic swing with them.

Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: ""I know how
hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
destroy life in you?"" Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.

Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.

""Hark!"" said The Vengeance. ""Listen, then! Who comes?""

As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
murmur came rushing along.

""It is Defarge,"" said madame. ""Silence, patriots!""

Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
around him! ""Listen, everywhere!"" said madame again. ""Listen to him!""
Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
sprung to their feet.

""Say then, my husband. What is it?""

""News from the other world!""

""How, then?"" cried madame, contemptuously. ""The other world?""

""Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?""

""Everybody!"" from all throats.

""The news is of him. He is among us!""

""Among us!"" from the universal throat again. ""And dead?""

""Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?""

Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
could have heard the answering cry.

A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.

""Patriots!"" said Defarge, in a determined voice, ""are we ready?""

Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
house, rousing the women.

The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
belonging to them from being trampled under foot.

Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
wailing children.

No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
from him in the Hall.

""See!"" cried madame, pointing with her knife. ""See the old villain bound
with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!"" Madame put her knife
under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.

The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.

At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
him!

It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, ""Bring him
out! Bring him to the lamp!""

Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.

Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
through the streets.

Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
common, afterwards supping at their doors.

Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
hoped.

It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
husky tones, while fastening the door:

""At last it is come, my dear!""

""Eh well!"" returned madame. ""Almost.""

Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
Antoine's bosom.





","The Sea Still Rises A week after the storming of the Bastille, Madame Defarge is having a conversation with the Vengeance. Defarge bursts into the store with the news that the mob has found an aristocrat named Foulon, who told starving peasants that they should eat grass. The Defarges and the Vengeance immediately create a mob to punish Foulon. The women of the mob urge one another on. When they see that a bundle of grass has been tied to Foulon, they clap as if they were at a play. They successfully hang him on a lamppost the third time after the rope breaks the first two times. The mob is still anxious for blood, so they murder his son-in-law. They return to their homes in Saint Antoine and, although they are still starving, they feel satisfied and bonded after the violence of the day"
184,"This came home to me when, two days later, I drove over with Flora to
meet, as Mrs. Grose said, the little gentleman; and all the more for
an incident that, presenting itself the second evening, had deeply
disconcerted me. The first day had been, on the whole, as I have
expressed, reassuring; but I was to see it wind up in keen apprehension.
The postbag, that evening--it came late--contained a letter for me,
which, however, in the hand of my employer, I found to be composed but
of a few words enclosing another, addressed to himself, with a seal
still unbroken. ""This, I recognize, is from the headmaster, and the
headmaster's an awful bore. Read him, please; deal with him; but mind
you don't report. Not a word. I'm off!"" I broke the seal with a great
effort--so great a one that I was a long time coming to it; took the
unopened missive at last up to my room and only attacked it just before
going to bed. I had better have let it wait till morning, for it gave me
a second sleepless night. With no counsel to take, the next day, I
was full of distress; and it finally got so the better of me that I
determined to open myself at least to Mrs. Grose.

""What does it mean? The child's dismissed his school.""

She gave me a look that I remarked at the moment; then, visibly, with a
quick blankness, seemed to try to take it back. ""But aren't they all--?""

""Sent home--yes. But only for the holidays. Miles may never go back at
all.""

Consciously, under my attention, she reddened. ""They won't take him?""

""They absolutely decline.""

At this she raised her eyes, which she had turned from me; I saw them
fill with good tears. ""What has he done?""

I hesitated; then I judged best simply to hand her my letter--which,
however, had the effect of making her, without taking it, simply put her
hands behind her. She shook her head sadly. ""Such things are not for me,
miss.""

My counselor couldn't read! I winced at my mistake, which I attenuated
as I could, and opened my letter again to repeat it to her; then,
faltering in the act and folding it up once more, I put it back in my
pocket. ""Is he really BAD?""

The tears were still in her eyes. ""Do the gentlemen say so?""

""They go into no particulars. They simply express their regret that it
should be impossible to keep him. That can have only one meaning.""
Mrs. Grose listened with dumb emotion; she forbore to ask me what
this meaning might be; so that, presently, to put the thing with some
coherence and with the mere aid of her presence to my own mind, I went
on: ""That he's an injury to the others.""

At this, with one of the quick turns of simple folk, she suddenly flamed
up. ""Master Miles! HIM an injury?""

There was such a flood of good faith in it that, though I had not yet
seen the child, my very fears made me jump to the absurdity of the idea.
I found myself, to meet my friend the better, offering it, on the spot,
sarcastically. ""To his poor little innocent mates!""

""It's too dreadful,"" cried Mrs. Grose, ""to say such cruel things! Why,
he's scarce ten years old.""

""Yes, yes; it would be incredible.""

She was evidently grateful for such a profession. ""See him, miss, first.
THEN believe it!"" I felt forthwith a new impatience to see him; it was
the beginning of a curiosity that, for all the next hours, was to deepen
almost to pain. Mrs. Grose was aware, I could judge, of what she had
produced in me, and she followed it up with assurance. ""You might as
well believe it of the little lady. Bless her,"" she added the next
moment--""LOOK at her!""

I turned and saw that Flora, whom, ten minutes before, I had established
in the schoolroom with a sheet of white paper, a pencil, and a copy of
nice ""round o's,"" now presented herself to view at the open door.
She expressed in her little way an extraordinary detachment from
disagreeable duties, looking to me, however, with a great childish
light that seemed to offer it as a mere result of the affection she had
conceived for my person, which had rendered necessary that she should
follow me. I needed nothing more than this to feel the full force of
Mrs. Grose's comparison, and, catching my pupil in my arms, covered her
with kisses in which there was a sob of atonement.

Nonetheless, the rest of the day I watched for further occasion to
approach my colleague, especially as, toward evening, I began to fancy
she rather sought to avoid me. I overtook her, I remember, on the
staircase; we went down together, and at the bottom I detained her,
holding her there with a hand on her arm. ""I take what you said to me at
noon as a declaration that YOU'VE never known him to be bad.""

She threw back her head; she had clearly, by this time, and very
honestly, adopted an attitude. ""Oh, never known him--I don't pretend
THAT!""

I was upset again. ""Then you HAVE known him--?""

""Yes indeed, miss, thank God!""

On reflection I accepted this. ""You mean that a boy who never is--?""

""Is no boy for ME!""

I held her tighter. ""You like them with the spirit to be naughty?"" Then,
keeping pace with her answer, ""So do I!"" I eagerly brought out. ""But not
to the degree to contaminate--""

""To contaminate?""--my big word left her at a loss. I explained it. ""To
corrupt.""

She stared, taking my meaning in; but it produced in her an odd laugh.
""Are you afraid he'll corrupt YOU?"" She put the question with such a
fine bold humor that, with a laugh, a little silly doubtless, to match
her own, I gave way for the time to the apprehension of ridicule.

But the next day, as the hour for my drive approached, I cropped up in
another place. ""What was the lady who was here before?""

""The last governess? She was also young and pretty--almost as young and
almost as pretty, miss, even as you.""

""Ah, then, I hope her youth and her beauty helped her!"" I recollect
throwing off. ""He seems to like us young and pretty!""

""Oh, he DID,"" Mrs. Grose assented: ""it was the way he liked everyone!""
She had no sooner spoken indeed than she caught herself up. ""I mean
that's HIS way--the master's.""

I was struck. ""But of whom did you speak first?""

She looked blank, but she colored. ""Why, of HIM.""

""Of the master?""

""Of who else?""

There was so obviously no one else that the next moment I had lost my
impression of her having accidentally said more than she meant; and I
merely asked what I wanted to know. ""Did SHE see anything in the boy--?""

""That wasn't right? She never told me.""

I had a scruple, but I overcame it. ""Was she careful--particular?""

Mrs. Grose appeared to try to be conscientious. ""About some
things--yes.""

""But not about all?""

Again she considered. ""Well, miss--she's gone. I won't tell tales.""

""I quite understand your feeling,"" I hastened to reply; but I thought
it, after an instant, not opposed to this concession to pursue: ""Did she
die here?""

""No--she went off.""

I don't know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose's that struck
me as ambiguous. ""Went off to die?"" Mrs. Grose looked straight out of
the window, but I felt that, hypothetically, I had a right to know what
young persons engaged for Bly were expected to do. ""She was taken ill,
you mean, and went home?""

""She was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in this house. She left it,
at the end of the year, to go home, as she said, for a short holiday,
to which the time she had put in had certainly given her a right. We
had then a young woman--a nursemaid who had stayed on and who was a good
girl and clever; and SHE took the children altogether for the interval.
But our young lady never came back, and at the very moment I was
expecting her I heard from the master that she was dead.""

I turned this over. ""But of what?""

""He never told me! But please, miss,"" said Mrs. Grose, ""I must get to my
work.""

","The governess is late picking up Miles, whom she finds standing outside the inn exuding the same beauty and purity as Flora. Joining Mrs. Grose back at Bly, the governess rejects, on the basis of Miles's attractive appearance, any charges she or the headmaster may have made against Miles. She determines to do nothing in regard to Miles's expulsion. Mrs. Grose says she will stand by that decision, and the two kiss and embrace. The governess soon becomes absorbed in her responsibilities,  and her two pupils give her little, if any, trouble. During her private hour one evening, the governess takes a walk around the grounds, fantasizing unrealistically about meeting her master, and when she comes back in view of the house she sees a strange man standing atop one of the house's towers, looking at her. The governess experiences a stillness and sudden hush. Her confrontation with the man lasts a long, intense moment before he passes from one of the tower's corners to the other. In retrospect, the governess remembers that the man turned away from her without ever breaking his stare."
185,"SCENE IV
          THESEUS, HIPPOLYTUS, PHAEDRA, OENONE, THERAMENES


          THESEUS
          Fortune no longer fights against my wishes,
          Madam, and to your arms restores--

          PHAEDRA
          Stay, Theseus!
          Do not profane endearments that were once
          So sweet, but which I am unworthy now
          To taste. You have been wrong'd. Fortune has proved
          Spiteful, nor in your absence spared your wife.
          I am unfit to meet your fond caress,
          How I may bear my shame my only care
          Henceforth.




Scene V
          THESEUS, HIPPOLYTUS, THERAMENES


          THESEUS
          Strange welcome for your father, this!
          What does it mean, my son?

          HIPPOLYTUS
          Phaedra alone
          Can solve this mystery. But if my wish
          Can move you, let me never see her more;
          Suffer Hippolytus to disappear
          For ever from the home that holds your wife.

          THESEUS
          You, my son! Leave me?

          HIPPOLYTUS
          'Twas not I who sought her:
          'Twas you who led her footsteps to these shores.
          At your departure you thought meet, my lord,
          To trust Aricia and the Queen to this
          Troezenian land, and I myself was charged
          With their protection. But what cares henceforth
          Need keep me here? My youth of idleness
          Has shown its skill enough o'er paltry foes
          That range the woods. May I not quit a life
          Of such inglorious ease, and dip my spear
          In nobler blood? Ere you had reach'd my age
          More than one tyrant, monster more than one
          Had felt the weight of your stout arm. Already,
          Successful in attacking insolence,
          You had removed all dangers that infested
          Our coasts to east and west. The traveller fear'd
          Outrage no longer. Hearing of your deeds,
          Already Hercules relied on you,
          And rested from his toils. While I, unknown
          Son of so brave a sire, am far behind
          Even my mother's footsteps. Let my courage
          Have scope to act, and if some monster yet
          Has 'scaped you, let me lay the glorious spoils
          Down at your feet; or let the memory
          Of death faced nobly keep my name alive,
          And prove to all the world I was your son.

          THESEUS
          Why, what is this? What terror has possess'd
          My family to make them fly before me?
          If I return to find myself so fear'd,
          So little welcome, why did Heav'n release me
          From prison? My sole friend, misled by passion,
          Was bent on robbing of his wife the tyrant
          Who ruled Epirus. With regret I lent
          The lover aid, but Fate had made us blind,
          Myself as well as him. The tyrant seized me
          Defenceless and unarm'd. Pirithous
          I saw with tears cast forth to be devour'd
          By savage beasts that lapp'd the blood of men.
          Myself in gloomy caverns he inclosed,
          Deep in the bowels of the earth, and nigh
          To Pluto's realms. Six months I lay ere Heav'n
          Had pity, and I 'scaped the watchful eyes
          That guarded me. Then did I purge the world
          Of a foul foe, and he himself has fed
          His monsters. But when with expectant joy
          To all that is most precious I draw near
          Of what the gods have left me, when my soul
          Looks for full satisfaction in a sight
          So dear, my only welcome is a shudder,
          Embrace rejected, and a hasty flight.
          Inspiring, as I clearly do, such terror,
          Would I were still a prisoner in Epirus!
          Phaedra complains that I have suffer'd outrage.
          Who has betray'd me? Speak. Why was I not
          Avenged? Has Greece, to whom mine arm so oft
          Brought useful aid, shelter'd the criminal?
          You make no answer. Is my son, mine own
          Dear son, confederate with mine enemies?
          I'll enter. This suspense is overwhelming.
          I'll learn at once the culprit and the crime,
          And Phaedra must explain her troubled state.




Scene VI
          HIPPOLYTUS, THERAMENES


          HIPPOLYTUS
          What do these words portend, which seem'd to freeze
          My very blood? Will Phaedra, in her frenzy
          Accuse herself, and seal her own destruction?
          What will the King say? Gods! What fatal poison
          Has love spread over all his house! Myself,
          Full of a fire his hatred disapproves,
          How changed he finds me from the son he knew!
          With dark forebodings in my mind alarm'd,
          But innocence has surely naught to fear.
          Come, let us go, and in some other place
          Consider how I best may move my sire
          To tenderness, and tell him of a flame
          Vex'd but not vanquish'd by a father's blame.





","Theseus, Hippolytus, and Theramenes appear, and Theseus goes eagerly toward his wife, but she refuses his embrace, saying she is no longer worthy of it, and flees. Troubled, Theseus asks Hippolytus the meaning of this strange welcome. Hippolytus, embarrassed, suggests that Theseus ask Phaedra to explain; for his part, he also has a request to make. He can no longer live in the same place with his father's wife, and he wants his father's permission to leave Troezen. Theseus protests, but Hippolytus reminds him that at his age, Theseus had already killed more than one monster and traveled strange lands, but Hippolytus has not yet equaled even the exploits of his mother, much less those of his father. ""Permit me,"" he begs, ""if there is still some monster which has escaped you, to bring you the trophy of his death, or to die honorably in the attempt."" Theseus is dismayed. What kind of welcome is this for a returning husband and father? He might better have remained in prison in Epirus. And he goes on to recount how, out of old friendship, he consented to help Pirithous carry off the wife of the tyrant of Epirus, how that tyrant captured them both, fed Pirithous to the monsters, and imprisoned Theseus in a cave. Fortunately, Theseus was able to trick his enemy and throw him as food to his own monsters. Once free, his only thought was to rejoin his loved ones, wife and son, but now both reject him, both wish to leave him. What is going on? Who has betrayed him? Hippolytus is silent, and, deeply hurt, Theseus cries, ""Is my own son cooperating with my enemies?"" Phaedra must speak; he will know the truth and learn exactly what is the crime and who the guilty one. Left alone with Theramenes, Hippolytus too is troubled. Will Phaedra tell the truth, a truth which will certainly cost her her life? What will Theseus say, particularly when he learns that during his absence his son has spoken of love to Aricia, a woman to whom he has forbidden marriage? He fears what is to come, but after all, he is innocent, and innocence has nothing to fear. Perhaps by a skillful approach he can touch his father's heart and win his consent to a love which he will never abandon, no matter what Theseus' reaction is."
186,"
    ""Would it were yesterday and I i' the grave,
     With her sweet faith above for monument""


Rosamond and Will stood motionless--they did not know how long--he
looking towards the spot where Dorothea had stood, and she looking
towards him with doubt.  It seemed an endless time to Rosamond, in
whose inmost soul there was hardly so much annoyance as gratification
from what had just happened.  Shallow natures dream of an easy sway
over the emotions of others, trusting implicitly in their own petty
magic to turn the deepest streams, and confident, by pretty gestures
and remarks, of making the thing that is not as though it were.  She
knew that Will had received a severe blow, but she had been little used
to imagining other people's states of mind except as a material cut
into shape by her own wishes; and she believed in her own power to
soothe or subdue.  Even Tertius, that most perverse of men, was always
subdued in the long-run: events had been obstinate, but still Rosamond
would have said now, as she did before her marriage, that she never
gave up what she had set her mind on.

She put out her arm and laid the tips of her fingers on Will's
coat-sleeve.

""Don't touch me!"" he said, with an utterance like the cut of a lash,
darting from her, and changing from pink to white and back again, as if
his whole frame were tingling with the pain of the sting.  He wheeled
round to the other side of the room and stood opposite to her, with the
tips of his fingers in his pockets and his head thrown back, looking
fiercely not at Rosamond but at a point a few inches away from her.

She was keenly offended, but the Signs she made of this were such as
only Lydgate was used to interpret.  She became suddenly quiet and
seated herself, untying her hanging bonnet and laying it down with her
shawl.  Her little hands which she folded before her were very cold.

It would have been safer for Will in the first instance to have taken
up his hat and gone away; but he had felt no impulse to do this; on the
contrary, he had a horrible inclination to stay and shatter Rosamond
with his anger.  It seemed as impossible to bear the fatality she had
drawn down on him without venting his fury as it would be to a panther
to bear the javelin-wound without springing and biting.  And yet--how
could he tell a woman that he was ready to curse her?  He was fuming
under a repressive law which he was forced to acknowledge: he was
dangerously poised, and Rosamond's voice now brought the decisive
vibration.  In flute-like tones of sarcasm she said--

""You can easily go after Mrs. Casaubon and explain your preference.""

""Go after her!"" he burst out, with a sharp edge in his voice.  ""Do you
think she would turn to look at me, or value any word I ever uttered to
her again at more than a dirty feather?--Explain!  How can a man
explain at the expense of a woman?""

""You can tell her what you please,"" said Rosamond with more tremor.

""Do you suppose she would like me better for sacrificing you?  She is
not a woman to be flattered because I made myself despicable--to
believe that I must be true to her because I was a dastard to you.""

He began to move about with the restlessness of a wild animal that sees
prey but cannot reach it.  Presently he burst out again--

""I had no hope before--not much--of anything better to come.  But I had
one certainty--that she believed in me.  Whatever people had said or
done about me, she believed in me.--That's gone!  She'll never again
think me anything but a paltry pretence--too nice to take heaven
except upon flattering conditions, and yet selling myself for any
devil's change by the sly.  She'll think of me as an incarnate insult
to her, from the first moment we--""

Will stopped as if he had found himself grasping something that must
not be thrown and shattered.  He found another vent for his rage by
snatching up Rosamond's words again, as if they were reptiles to be
throttled and flung off.

""Explain!  Tell a man to explain how he dropped into hell!  Explain my
preference!  I never had a _preference_ for her, any more than I have a
preference for breathing.  No other woman exists by the side of her.  I
would rather touch her hand if it were dead, than I would touch any
other woman's living.""

Rosamond, while these poisoned weapons were being hurled at her, was
almost losing the sense of her identity, and seemed to be waking into
some new terrible existence.  She had no sense of chill resolute
repulsion, of reticent self-justification such as she had known under
Lydgate's most stormy displeasure: all her sensibility was turned into
a bewildering novelty of pain; she felt a new terrified recoil under a
lash never experienced before.  What another nature felt in opposition
to her own was being burnt and bitten into her consciousness.  When
Will had ceased to speak she had become an image of sickened misery:
her lips were pale, and her eyes had a tearless dismay in them.  If it
had been Tertius who stood opposite to her, that look of misery would
have been a pang to him, and he would have sunk by her side to comfort
her, with that strong-armed comfort which, she had often held very
cheap.

Let it be forgiven to Will that he had no such movement of pity.  He
had felt no bond beforehand to this woman who had spoiled the ideal
treasure of his life, and he held himself blameless.  He knew that he
was cruel, but he had no relenting in him yet.

After he had done speaking, he still moved about, half in absence of
mind, and Rosamond sat perfectly still.  At length Will, seeming to
bethink himself, took up his hat, yet stood some moments irresolute.
He had spoken to her in a way that made a phrase of common politeness
difficult to utter; and yet, now that he had come to the point of going
away from her without further speech, he shrank from it as a brutality;
he felt checked and stultified in his anger.  He walked towards the
mantel-piece and leaned his arm on it, and waited in silence for--he
hardly knew what.  The vindictive fire was still burning in him, and he
could utter no word of retractation; but it was nevertheless in his
mind that having come back to this hearth where he had enjoyed a
caressing friendship he had found calamity seated there--he had had
suddenly revealed to him a trouble that lay outside the home as well as
within it.  And what seemed a foreboding was pressing upon him as with
slow pincers:--that his life might come to be enslaved by this helpless
woman who had thrown herself upon him in the dreary sadness of her
heart.  But he was in gloomy rebellion against the fact that his quick
apprehensiveness foreshadowed to him, and when his eyes fell on
Rosamond's blighted face it seemed to him that he was the more pitiable
of the two; for pain must enter into its glorified life of memory
before it can turn into compassion.

And so they remained for many minutes, opposite each other, far apart,
in silence; Will's face still possessed by a mute rage, and Rosamond's
by a mute misery.  The poor thing had no force to fling out any passion
in return; the terrible collapse of the illusion towards which all her
hope had been strained was a stroke which had too thoroughly shaken
her: her little world was in ruins, and she felt herself tottering in
the midst as a lonely bewildered consciousness.

Will wished that she would speak and bring some mitigating shadow
across his own cruel speech, which seemed to stand staring at them both
in mockery of any attempt at revived fellowship.  But she said nothing,
and at last with a desperate effort over himself, he asked, ""Shall I
come in and see Lydgate this evening?""

""If you like,"" Rosamond answered, just audibly.

And then Will went out of the house, Martha never knowing that he had
been in.

After he was gone, Rosamond tried to get up from her seat, but fell
back fainting.  When she came to herself again, she felt too ill to
make the exertion of rising to ring the bell, and she remained helpless
until the girl, surprised at her long absence, thought for the first
time of looking for her in all the down-stairs rooms.  Rosamond said
that she had felt suddenly sick and faint, and wanted to be helped
up-stairs. When there she threw herself on the bed with her clothes on,
and lay in apparent torpor, as she had done once before on a memorable
day of grief.

Lydgate came home earlier than he had expected, about half-past five,
and found her there.  The perception that she was ill threw every other
thought into the background.  When he felt her pulse, her eyes rested
on him with more persistence than they had done for a long while, as if
she felt some content that he was there.  He perceived the difference
in a moment, and seating himself by her put his arm gently under her,
and bending over her said, ""My poor Rosamond! has something agitated
you?""  Clinging to him she fell into hysterical sobbings and cries, and
for the next hour he did nothing but soothe and tend her.  He imagined
that Dorothea had been to see her, and that all this effect on her
nervous system, which evidently involved some new turning towards
himself, was due to the excitement of the new impressions which that
visit had raised.


","Will and Rosamond are shocked at being found, and in a way that would look bad to Dorothea. Will realizes suddenly what Rosamond was trying to do; Rosamond wanted it to look like Will loved her, and kept him around in order to create this impression. He blows up at her, especially when she tries her methods that usually work on Lydgate. But her ways of quietly manipulating fail with Will; he gets very angry when she intimates that Will loves her, and says that the only woman he loves, or could think of loving, was Dorothea. Rosamond is very hurt, and her illusions and vanity are finally shattered. Will was a bit harsh toward her, but this was a lesson that she desperately needed, and hopefully it will do her good."
187,"CHAPTER VIII



""DON'T I, in looking for things to do, show that I'm not attentive
enough to Will? Am I impressed enough by his work? I will be. Oh, I will
be. If I can't be one of the town, if I must be an outcast----""

When Kennicott came home she bustled, ""Dear, you must tell me a lot more
about your cases. I want to know. I want to understand.""

""Sure. You bet."" And he went down to fix the furnace.

At supper she asked, ""For instance, what did you do today?""

""Do today? How do you mean?""

""Medically. I want to understand----""

""Today? Oh, there wasn't much of anything: couple chumps with
bellyaches, and a sprained wrist, and a fool woman that thinks she wants
to kill herself because her husband doesn't like her and----Just routine
work.""

""But the unhappy woman doesn't sound routine!""

""Her? Just case of nerves. You can't do much with these marriage
mix-ups.""

""But dear, PLEASE, will you tell me about the next case that you do
think is interesting?""

""Sure. You bet. Tell you about anything that----Say that's pretty good
salmon. Get it at Howland's?""



II


Four days after the Jolly Seventeen debacle Vida Sherwin called and
casually blew Carol's world to pieces.

""May I come in and gossip a while?"" she said, with such excess of bright
innocence that Carol was uneasy. Vida took off her furs with a bounce,
she sat down as though it were a gymnasium exercise, she flung out:

""Feel disgracefully good, this weather! Raymond Wutherspoon says if he
had my energy he'd be a grand opera singer. I always think this climate
is the finest in the world, and my friends are the dearest people in the
world, and my work is the most essential thing in the world. Probably
I fool myself. But I know one thing for certain: You're the pluckiest
little idiot in the world.""

""And so you are about to flay me alive."" Carol was cheerful about it.

""Am I? Perhaps. I've been wondering--I know that the third party to a
squabble is often the most to blame: the one who runs between A and B
having a beautiful time telling each of them what the other has said.
But I want you to take a big part in vitalizing Gopher Prairie and
so----Such a very unique opportunity and----Am I silly?""

""I know what you mean. I was too abrupt at the Jolly Seventeen.""

""It isn't that. Matter of fact, I'm glad you told them some wholesome
truths about servants. (Though perhaps you were just a bit tactless.)
It's bigger than that. I wonder if you understand that in a secluded
community like this every newcomer is on test? People cordial to her
but watching her all the time. I remember when a Latin teacher came here
from Wellesley, they resented her broad A. Were sure it was affected. Of
course they have discussed you----""

""Have they talked about me much?""

""My dear!""

""I always feel as though I walked around in a cloud, looking out at
others but not being seen. I feel so inconspicuous and so normal--so
normal that there's nothing about me to discuss. I can't realize that
Mr. and Mrs. Haydock must gossip about me."" Carol was working up a small
passion of distaste. ""And I don't like it. It makes me crawly to think
of their daring to talk over all I do and say. Pawing me over! I resent
it. I hate----""

""Wait, child! Perhaps they resent some things in you. I want you to try
and be impersonal. They'd paw over anybody who came in new. Didn't you,
with newcomers in College?""

""Yes.""

""Well then! Will you be impersonal? I'm paying you the compliment of
supposing that you can be. I want you to be big enough to help me make
this town worth while.""

""I'll be as impersonal as cold boiled potatoes. (Not that I shall ever
be able to help you 'make the town worth while.') What do they say about
me? Really. I want to know.""

""Of course the illiterate ones resent your references to anything
farther away than Minneapolis. They're so suspicious--that's it,
suspicious. And some think you dress too well.""

""Oh, they do, do they! Shall I dress in gunny-sacking to suit them?""

""Please! Are you going to be a baby?""

""I'll be good,"" sulkily.

""You certainly will, or I won't tell you one single thing. You must
understand this: I'm not asking you to change yourself. Just want you
to know what they think. You must do that, no matter how absurd their
prejudices are, if you're going to handle them. Is it your ambition to
make this a better town, or isn't it?""

""I don't know whether it is or not!""

""Why--why----Tut, tut, now, of course it is! Why, I depend on you.
You're a born reformer.""

""I am not--not any more!""

""Of course you are.""

""Oh, if I really could help----So they think I'm affected?""

""My lamb, they do! Now don't say they're nervy. After all, Gopher
Prairie standards are as reasonable to Gopher Prairie as Lake Shore
Drive standards are to Chicago. And there's more Gopher Prairies than
there are Chicagos. Or Londons. And----I'll tell you the whole story:
They think you're showing off when you say 'American' instead of
'Ammurrican.' They think you're too frivolous. Life's so serious to them
that they can't imagine any kind of laughter except Juanita's snortling.
Ethel Villets was sure you were patronizing her when----""

""Oh, I was not!""

""----you talked about encouraging reading; and Mrs. Elder thought you
were patronizing when you said she had 'such a pretty little car.' She
thinks it's an enormous car! And some of the merchants say you're too
flip when you talk to them in the store and----""

""Poor me, when I was trying to be friendly!""

""----every housewife in town is doubtful about your being so chummy with
your Bea. All right to be kind, but they say you act as though she were
your cousin. (Wait now! There's plenty more.) And they think you were
eccentric in furnishing this room--they think the broad couch and that
Japanese dingus are absurd. (Wait! I know they're silly.) And I guess
I've heard a dozen criticize you because you don't go to church oftener
and----""

""I can't stand it--I can't bear to realize that they've been saying all
these things while I've been going about so happily and liking them. I
wonder if you ought to have told me? It will make me self-conscious.""

""I wonder the same thing. Only answer I can get is the old saw about
knowledge being power. And some day you'll see how absorbing it is to
have power, even here; to control the town----Oh, I'm a crank. But I do
like to see things moving.""

""It hurts. It makes these people seem so beastly and treacherous, when
I've been perfectly natural with them. But let's have it all. What did
they say about my Chinese house-warming party?""

""Why, uh----""

""Go on. Or I'll make up worse things than anything you can tell me.""

""They did enjoy it. But I guess some of them felt you were showing
off--pretending that your husband is richer than he is.""

""I can't----Their meanness of mind is beyond any horrors I could
imagine. They really thought that I----And you want to 'reform' people
like that when dynamite is so cheap? Who dared to say that? The rich or
the poor?""

""Fairly well assorted.""

""Can't they at least understand me well enough to see that though I
might be affected and culturine, at least I simply couldn't commit that
other kind of vulgarity? If they must know, you may tell them, with my
compliments, that Will makes about four thousand a year, and the party
cost half of what they probably thought it did. Chinese things are not
very expensive, and I made my own costume----""

""Stop it! Stop beating me! I know all that. What they meant was: they
felt you were starting dangerous competition by giving a party such as
most people here can't afford. Four thousand is a pretty big income for
this town.""

""I never thought of starting competition. Will you believe that it was
in all love and friendliness that I tried to give them the gayest party
I could? It was foolish; it was childish and noisy. But I did mean it so
well.""

""I know, of course. And it certainly is unfair of them to make fun of
your having that Chinese food--chow men, was it?--and to laugh about
your wearing those pretty trousers----""

Carol sprang up, whimpering, ""Oh, they didn't do that! They didn't poke
fun at my feast, that I ordered so carefully for them! And my little
Chinese costume that I was so happy making--I made it secretly, to
surprise them. And they've been ridiculing it, all this while!""

She was huddled on the couch.

Vida was stroking her hair, muttering, ""I shouldn't----""

Shrouded in shame, Carol did not know when Vida slipped away. The
clock's bell, at half past five, aroused her. ""I must get hold of myself
before Will comes. I hope he never knows what a fool his wife is. . . .
Frozen, sneering, horrible hearts.""

Like a very small, very lonely girl she trudged up-stairs, slow step by
step, her feet dragging, her hand on the rail. It was not her husband
to whom she wanted to run for protection--it was her father, her smiling
understanding father, dead these twelve years.



III


Kennicott was yawning, stretched in the largest chair, between the
radiator and a small kerosene stove.

Cautiously, ""Will dear, I wonder if the people here don't criticize me
sometimes? They must. I mean: if they ever do, you mustn't let it bother
you.""

""Criticize you? Lord, I should say not. They all keep telling me you're
the swellest girl they ever saw.""

""Well, I've just fancied----The merchants probably think I'm too fussy
about shopping. I'm afraid I bore Mr. Dashaway and Mr. Howland and Mr.
Ludelmeyer.""

""I can tell you how that is. I didn't want to speak of it but since
you've brought it up: Chet Dashaway probably resents the fact that you
got this new furniture down in the Cities instead of here. I didn't want
to raise any objection at the time but----After all, I make my money
here and they naturally expect me to spend it here.""

""If Mr. Dashaway will kindly tell me how any civilized person can
furnish a room out of the mortuary pieces that he calls----"" She
remembered. She said meekly, ""But I understand.""

""And Howland and Ludelmeyer----Oh, you've probably handed 'em a few
roasts for the bum stocks they carry, when you just meant to jolly 'em.
But rats, what do we care! This is an independent town, not like these
Eastern holes where you have to watch your step all the time, and live
up to fool demands and social customs, and a lot of old tabbies always
busy criticizing. Everybody's free here to do what he wants to."" He said
it with a flourish, and Carol perceived that he believed it. She turned
her breath of fury into a yawn.

""By the way, Carrie, while we're talking of this: Of course I like
to keep independent, and I don't believe in this business of binding
yourself to trade with the man that trades with you unless you really
want to, but same time: I'd be just as glad if you dealt with Jenson or
Ludelmeyer as much as you ran, instead of Howland & Gould, who go to Dr.
Gould every last time, and the whole tribe of 'em the same way. I don't
see why I should be paying out my good money for groceries and having
them pass it on to Terry Gould!""

""I've gone to Howland & Gould because they're better, and cleaner.""

""I know. I don't mean cut them out entirely. Course Jenson is
tricky--give you short weight--and Ludelmeyer is a shiftless old Dutch
hog. But same time, I mean let's keep the trade in the family whenever
it is convenient, see how I mean?""

""I see.""

""Well, guess it's about time to turn in.""

He yawned, went out to look at the thermometer, slammed the door, patted
her head, unbuttoned his waistcoat, yawned, wound the clock, went down
to look at the furnace, yawned, and clumped up-stairs to bed, casually
scratching his thick woolen undershirt.

Till he bawled, ""Aren't you ever coming up to bed?"" she sat unmoving.




","Carol decides to take an interest in her husband's business, but when she questions him at dinner she finds him uncommunicative and uninspired by his cases. Several days later Vida Sherwin explains, with good intentions, that the town perceives Carol as patronizing and showy. Carol is deeply affected and offended by the realization and barely appreciates Vida's assertion that the town would react the same way to anyone new. That evening Carol cautiously questions her husband as to whether or not she is accepted and he suggests that she should temper her critiques. Also, after proclaiming that in a small town a person is free to do what they want suggests, he suggests that she concentrate her business on his clients"
188,"
Oh, if I had done nothing simply from laziness!  Heavens, how I should
have respected myself, then.  I should have respected myself because I
should at least have been capable of being lazy; there would at least
have been one quality, as it were, positive in me, in which I could
have believed myself.  Question:  What is he?  Answer:  A sluggard; how
very pleasant it would have been to hear that of oneself!  It would
mean that I was positively defined, it would mean that there was
something to say about me. ""Sluggard""--why, it is a calling and
vocation, it is a career.  Do not jest, it is so.  I should then be a
member of the best club by right, and should find my occupation in
continually respecting myself.  I knew a gentleman who prided himself
all his life on being a connoisseur of Lafitte.  He considered this as
his positive virtue, and never doubted himself.  He died, not simply
with a tranquil, but with a triumphant conscience, and he was quite
right, too.  Then I should have chosen a career for myself, I should
have been a sluggard and a glutton, not a simple one, but, for
instance, one with sympathies for everything sublime and beautiful.
How do you like that?  I have long had visions of it.  That ""sublime
and beautiful"" weighs heavily on my mind at forty But that is at forty;
then--oh, then it would have been different!  I should have found for
myself a form of activity in keeping with it, to be precise, drinking
to the health of everything ""sublime and beautiful.""  I should have
snatched at every opportunity to drop a tear into my glass and then to
drain it to all that is ""sublime and beautiful.""  I should then have
turned everything into the sublime and the beautiful; in the nastiest,
unquestionable trash, I should have sought out the sublime and the
beautiful.  I should have exuded tears like a wet sponge.  An artist,
for instance, paints a picture worthy of Gay.  At once I drink to the
health of the artist who painted the picture worthy of Gay, because I
love all that is ""sublime and beautiful.""  An author has written AS YOU
WILL: at once I drink to the health of ""anyone you will"" because I love
all that is ""sublime and beautiful.""

I should claim respect for doing so.  I should persecute anyone who
would not show me respect.  I should live at ease, I should die with
dignity, why, it is charming, perfectly charming!  And what a good
round belly I should have grown, what a treble chin I should have
established, what a ruby nose I should have coloured for myself, so
that everyone would have said, looking at me: ""Here is an asset!  Here
is something real and solid!""  And, say what you like, it is very
agreeable to hear such remarks about oneself in this negative age.


","The narrator explains how people find pleasure in the pain they are suffering. He uses a toothache as an example. A person moans when his tooth hurts, because there is a kind of pleasure in the moaning. When the moaning is heard by another person, it is even more pleasurable, for the moaner is inflicting his suffering upon someone else."
189,"
    ""Piacer e popone
     Vuol la sua stagione.""
            --Italian Proverb.


Mr. Casaubon, as might be expected, spent a great deal of his time at
the Grange in these weeks, and the hindrance which courtship occasioned
to the progress of his great work--the Key to all
Mythologies--naturally made him look forward the more eagerly to the
happy termination of courtship.  But he had deliberately incurred the
hindrance, having made up his mind that it was now time for him to
adorn his life with the graces of female companionship, to irradiate
the gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the intervals of studious
labor with the play of female fancy, and to secure in this, his
culminating age, the solace of female tendance for his declining years.
Hence he determined to abandon himself to the stream of feeling, and
perhaps was surprised to find what an exceedingly shallow rill it was.
As in droughty regions baptism by immersion could only be performed
symbolically, Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the utmost
approach to a plunge which his stream would afford him; and he
concluded that the poets had much exaggerated the force of masculine
passion.  Nevertheless, he observed with pleasure that Miss Brooke
showed an ardent submissive affection which promised to fulfil his most
agreeable previsions of marriage.  It had once or twice crossed his
mind that possibly there was some deficiency in Dorothea to account for
the moderation of his abandonment; but he was unable to discern the
deficiency, or to figure to himself a woman who would have pleased him
better; so that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the
exaggerations of human tradition.

""Could I not be preparing myself now to be more useful?"" said Dorothea
to him, one morning, early in the time of courtship; ""could I not learn
to read Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton's daughters did to
their father, without understanding what they read?""

""I fear that would be wearisome to you,"" said Mr. Casaubon, smiling;
""and, indeed, if I remember rightly, the young women you have mentioned
regarded that exercise in unknown tongues as a ground for rebellion
against the poet.""

""Yes; but in the first place they were very naughty girls, else they
would have been proud to minister to such a father; and in the second
place they might have studied privately and taught themselves to
understand what they read, and then it would have been interesting.  I
hope you don't expect me to be naughty and stupid?""

""I expect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in every
possible relation of life.  Certainly it might be a great advantage if
you were able to copy the Greek character, and to that end it were well
to begin with a little reading.""

Dorothea seized this as a precious permission.  She would not have
asked Mr. Casaubon at once to teach her the languages, dreading of all
things to be tiresome instead of helpful; but it was not entirely out
of devotion to her future husband that she wished to know Latin and
Greek.  Those provinces of masculine knowledge seemed to her a
standing-ground from which all truth could be seen more truly.  As it
was, she constantly doubted her own conclusions, because she felt her
own ignorance: how could she be confident that one-roomed cottages were
not for the glory of God, when men who knew the classics appeared to
conciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for the glory?
Perhaps even Hebrew might be necessary--at least the alphabet and a few
roots--in order to arrive at the core of things, and judge soundly on
the social duties of the Christian.  And she had not reached that point
of renunciation at which she would have been satisfied with having a
wise husband: she wished, poor child, to be wise herself.  Miss Brooke
was certainly very naive with all her alleged cleverness.  Celia, whose
mind had never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other
people's pretensions much more readily.  To have in general but little
feeling, seems to be the only security against feeling too much on any
particular occasion.

However, Mr. Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour
together, like a schoolmaster of little boys, or rather like a lover,
to whom a mistress's elementary ignorance and difficulties have a
touching fitness.  Few scholars would have disliked teaching the
alphabet under such circumstances.  But Dorothea herself was a little
shocked and discouraged at her own stupidity, and the answers she got
to some timid questions about the value of the Greek accents gave her a
painful suspicion that here indeed there might be secrets not capable
of explanation to a woman's reason.

Mr. Brooke had no doubt on that point, and expressed himself with his
usual strength upon it one day that he came into the library while the
reading was going forward.

""Well, but now, Casaubon, such deep studies, classics, mathematics,
that kind of thing, are too taxing for a woman--too taxing, you know.""

""Dorothea is learning to read the characters simply,"" said Mr.
Casaubon, evading the question.  ""She had the very considerate thought
of saving my eyes.""

""Ah, well, without understanding, you know--that may not be so bad.
But there is a lightness about the feminine mind--a touch and
go--music, the fine arts, that kind of thing--they should study those
up to a certain point, women should; but in a light way, you know.  A
woman should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old
English tune.  That is what I like; though I have heard most
things--been at the opera in Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that
sort.  But I'm a conservative in music--it's not like ideas, you know.
I stick to the good old tunes.""

""Mr. Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not,""
said Dorothea, whose slight regard for domestic music and feminine fine
art must be forgiven her, considering the small tinkling and smearing
in which they chiefly consisted at that dark period.  She smiled and
looked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes.  If he had always been
asking her to play the ""Last Rose of Summer,"" she would have required
much resignation.  ""He says there is only an old harpsichord at Lowick,
and it is covered with books.""

""Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear.  Celia, now, plays very
prettily, and is always ready to play.  However, since Casaubon does
not like it, you are all right.  But it's a pity you should not have
little recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung--that
kind of thing, you know--will not do.""

""I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears
teased with measured noises,"" said Mr. Casaubon.  ""A tune much iterated
has the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort
of minuet to keep time--an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after
boyhood.  As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn
celebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to
the ancient conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not
immediately concerned.""

""No; but music of that sort I should enjoy,"" said Dorothea.  ""When we
were coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the great organ
at Freiberg, and it made me sob.""

""That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear,"" said Mr. Brooke.
""Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to
take things more quietly, eh, Dorothea?""

He ended with a smile, not wishing to hurt his niece, but really
thinking that it was perhaps better for her to be early married to so
sober a fellow as Casaubon, since she would not hear of Chettam.

""It is wonderful, though,"" he said to himself as he shuffled out of the
room--""it is wonderful that she should have liked him.  However, the
match is good.  I should have been travelling out of my brief to have
hindered it, let Mrs. Cadwallader say what she will.  He is pretty
certain to be a bishop, is Casaubon.  That was a very seasonable
pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:--a deanery at least.  They
owe him a deanery.""

And here I must vindicate a claim to philosophical reflectiveness, by
remarking that Mr. Brooke on this occasion little thought of the
Radical speech which, at a later period, he was led to make on the
incomes of the bishops.  What elegant historian would neglect a
striking opportunity for pointing out that his heroes did not foresee
the history of the world, or even their own actions?--For example, that
Henry of Navarre, when a Protestant baby, little thought of being a
Catholic monarch; or that Alfred the Great, when he measured his
laborious nights with burning candles, had no idea of future gentlemen
measuring their idle days with watches.  Here is a mine of truth,
which, however vigorously it may be worked, is likely to outlast our
coal.

But of Mr. Brooke I make a further remark perhaps less warranted by
precedent--namely, that if he had foreknown his speech, it might not
have made any great difference.  To think with pleasure of his niece's
husband having a large ecclesiastical income was one thing--to make a
Liberal speech was another thing; and it is a narrow mind which cannot
look at a subject from various points of view.


","Casaubon has exhausted his meager reserves of passion already, and looks forward to married life, which he expects will be more pleasant and fulfilled. Not once does he stop and consider his duties for Dorothea, showing himself to be an unsuitable partner who will be hard-pressed to make her happy. Dorothea is eager to begin learning, out of her own desire to be able to understand and know things. Mr. Brooke cautions Casaubon that Dorothea, as a woman, might not be capable of such learning; Dorothea resents such talk, and tries to ignore it."
190,"
But the period of my dissipation would end and I always felt very sick
afterwards.  It was followed by remorse--I tried to drive it away; I
felt too sick.  By degrees, however, I grew used to that too.  I grew
used to everything, or rather I voluntarily resigned myself to enduring
it.  But I had a means of escape that reconciled everything--that was
to find refuge in ""the sublime and the beautiful,"" in dreams, of
course.  I was a terrible dreamer, I would dream for three months on
end, tucked away in my corner, and you may believe me that at those
moments I had no resemblance to the gentleman who, in the perturbation
of his chicken heart, put a collar of German beaver on his great-coat.
I suddenly became a hero.  I would not have admitted my six-foot
lieutenant even if he had called on me.  I could not even picture him
before me then.  What were my dreams and how I could satisfy myself
with them--it is hard to say now, but at the time I was satisfied with
them.  Though, indeed, even now, I am to some extent satisfied with
them.  Dreams were particularly sweet and vivid after a spell of
dissipation; they came with remorse and with tears, with curses and
transports.  There were moments of such positive intoxication, of such
happiness, that there was not the faintest trace of irony within me, on
my honour.  I had faith, hope, love.  I believed blindly at such times
that by some miracle, by some external circumstance, all this would
suddenly open out, expand; that suddenly a vista of suitable
activity--beneficent, good, and, above all, READY MADE (what sort of
activity I had no idea, but the great thing was that it should be all
ready for me)--would rise up before me--and I should come out into the
light of day, almost riding a white horse and crowned with laurel.
Anything but the foremost place I could not conceive for myself, and
for that very reason I quite contentedly occupied the lowest in
reality.  Either to be a hero or to grovel in the mud--there was
nothing between.  That was my ruin, for when I was in the mud I
comforted myself with the thought that at other times I was a hero, and
the hero was a cloak for the mud: for an ordinary man it was shameful
to defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly defiled, and
so he might defile himself.  It is worth noting that these attacks of
the ""sublime and the beautiful"" visited me even during the period of
dissipation and just at the times when I was touching the bottom.  They
came in separate spurts, as though reminding me of themselves, but did
not banish the dissipation by their appearance. On the contrary, they
seemed to add a zest to it by contrast, and were only sufficiently
present to serve as an appetising sauce.  That sauce was made up of
contradictions and sufferings, of agonising inward analysis, and all
these pangs and pin-pricks gave a certain piquancy, even a significance
to my dissipation--in fact, completely answered the purpose of an
appetising sauce.  There was a certain depth of meaning in it.  And I
could hardly have resigned myself to the simple, vulgar, direct
debauchery of a clerk and have endured all the filthiness of it.  What
could have allured me about it then and have drawn me at night into the
street?  No, I had a lofty way of getting out of it all.

And what loving-kindness, oh Lord, what loving-kindness I felt at times
in those dreams of mine!  in those ""flights into the sublime and the
beautiful""; though it was fantastic love, though it was never applied
to anything human in reality, yet there was so much of this love that
one did not feel afterwards even the impulse to apply it in reality;
that would have been superfluous.  Everything, however, passed
satisfactorily by a lazy and fascinating transition into the sphere of
art, that is, into the beautiful forms of life, lying ready, largely
stolen from the poets and novelists and adapted to all sorts of needs
and uses.  I, for instance, was triumphant over everyone; everyone, of
course, was in dust and ashes, and was forced spontaneously to
recognise my superiority, and I forgave them all.  I was a poet and a
grand gentleman, I fell in love; I came in for countless millions and
immediately devoted them to humanity, and at the same time I confessed
before all the people my shameful deeds, which, of course, were not
merely shameful, but had in them much that was ""sublime and beautiful""
something in the Manfred style.  Everyone would kiss me and weep (what
idiots they would be if they did not), while I should go barefoot and
hungry preaching new ideas and fighting a victorious Austerlitz against
the obscurantists.  Then the band would play a march, an amnesty would
be declared, the Pope would agree to retire from Rome to Brazil; then
there would be a ball for the whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese on
the shores of Lake Como, Lake Como being for that purpose transferred
to the neighbourhood of Rome; then would come a scene in the bushes,
and so on, and so on--as though you did not know all about it?  You
will say that it is vulgar and contemptible to drag all this into
public after all the tears and transports which I have myself
confessed.  But why is it contemptible?  Can you imagine that I am
ashamed of it all, and that it was stupider than anything in your life,
gentlemen?  And I can assure you that some of these fancies were by no
means badly composed....  It did not all happen on the shores of Lake
Como.  And yet you are right--it really is vulgar and contemptible.
And most contemptible of all it is that now I am attempting to justify
myself to you.  And even more contemptible than that is my making this
remark now.  But that's enough, or there will be no end to it; each
step will be more contemptible than the last....

I could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time
without feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society.  To
plunge into society meant to visit my superior at the office, Anton
Antonitch Syetotchkin.  He was the only permanent acquaintance I have
had in my life, and I wonder at the fact myself now.  But I only went
to see him when that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached
such a point of bliss that it became essential at once to embrace my
fellows and all mankind; and for that purpose I needed, at least, one
human being, actually existing.  I had to call on Anton Antonitch,
however, on Tuesday--his at-home day; so I had always to time my
passionate desire to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a
Tuesday.

This Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth storey in a house in Five
Corners, in four low-pitched rooms, one smaller than the other, of a
particularly frugal and sallow appearance.  He had two daughters and
their aunt, who used to pour out the tea.  Of the daughters one was
thirteen and another fourteen, they both had snub noses, and I was
awfully shy of them because they were always whispering and giggling
together.  The master of the house usually sat in his study on a
leather couch in front of the table with some grey-headed gentleman,
usually a colleague from our office or some other department.  I never
saw more than two or three visitors there, always the same.  They
talked about the excise duty; about business in the senate, about
salaries, about promotions, about His Excellency, and the best means of
pleasing him, and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside
these people for four hours at a stretch, listening to them without
knowing what to say to them or venturing to say a word.  I became
stupefied, several times I felt myself perspiring, I was overcome by a
sort of paralysis; but this was pleasant and good for me.  On returning
home I deferred for a time my desire to embrace all mankind.

I had however one other acquaintance of a sort, Simonov, who was an old
schoolfellow.  I had a number of schoolfellows, indeed, in Petersburg,
but I did not associate with them and had even given up nodding to them
in the street.  I believe I had transferred into the department I was
in simply to avoid their company and to cut off all connection with my
hateful childhood.  Curses on that school and all those terrible years
of penal servitude!  In short, I parted from my schoolfellows as soon
as I got out into the world.  There were two or three left to whom I
nodded in the street.  One of them was Simonov, who had in no way been
distinguished at school, was of a quiet and equable disposition; but I
discovered in him a certain independence of character and even honesty
I don't even suppose that he was particularly stupid.  I had at one
time spent some rather soulful moments with him, but these had not
lasted long and had somehow been suddenly clouded over.  He was
evidently uncomfortable at these reminiscences, and was, I fancy,
always afraid that I might take up the same tone again.  I suspected
that he had an aversion for me, but still I went on going to see him,
not being quite certain of it.

And so on one occasion, unable to endure my solitude and knowing that
as it was Thursday Anton Antonitch's door would be closed, I thought of
Simonov.  Climbing up to his fourth storey I was thinking that the man
disliked me and that it was a mistake to go and see him.  But as it
always happened that such reflections impelled me, as though purposely,
to put myself into a false position, I went in.  It was almost a year
since I had last seen Simonov.


","Dreaming is the only method the UM now finds to escape his life of ""debauchery"" and enter the world of the ""beautiful and sublime. He says that he dreamt for three months straight, and this dreaming was quite satisfying and even intoxicating, he admits. He explains that he would go from considering himself to be a hero , to believing himself to be nothing but dirt, shifting from dominating over others to being dominated by them. In these fantasies, he finds a love for humanity, and soon he wants to exhibit this love in the real world. So growing restless of this dream-life, he decides to enter society, meaning he plans to visit an old schoolmate named Simonov"
191,"
Pete took note of Maggie.

""Say, Mag, I'm stuck on yer shape.  It's outa sight,"" he said,
parenthetically, with an affable grin.

As he became aware that she was listening closely, he grew still more
eloquent in his descriptions of various happenings in his career.  It
appeared that he was invincible in fights.

""Why,"" he said, referring to a man with whom he had had a
misunderstanding, ""dat mug scrapped like a damn dago.  Dat's right.  He
was dead easy.  See?  He tau't he was a scrapper.  But he foun' out
diff'ent!  Hully gee.""

He walked to and fro in the small room, which seemed then to grow even
smaller and unfit to hold his dignity, the attribute of a supreme
warrior.  That swing of the shoulders that had frozen the timid when he
was but a lad had increased with his growth and education at the ratio
of ten to one.  It, combined with the sneer upon his mouth, told
mankind that there was nothing in space which could appall him.  Maggie
marvelled at him and surrounded him with greatness.  She vaguely tried
to calculate the altitude of the pinnacle from which he must have
looked down upon her.

""I met a chump deh odder day way up in deh city,"" he said.  ""I was
goin' teh see a frien' of mine.  When I was a-crossin' deh street deh
chump runned plump inteh me, an' den he turns aroun' an' says, 'Yer
insolen' ruffin,' he says, like dat.  'Oh, gee,' I says, 'oh, gee, go
teh hell and git off deh eart',' I says, like dat.  See?  'Go teh hell
an' git off deh eart',' like dat.  Den deh blokie he got wild.  He says
I was a contempt'ble scoun'el, er somet'ing like dat, an' he says I was
doom' teh everlastin' pe'dition an' all like dat.  'Gee,' I says, 'gee!
Deh hell I am,' I says.  'Deh hell I am,' like dat.  An' den I slugged
'im.  See?""

With Jimmie in his company, Pete departed in a sort of a blaze of glory
from the Johnson home.  Maggie, leaning from the window, watched him as
he walked down the street.

Here was a formidable man who disdained the strength of a world full of
fists.  Here was one who had contempt for brass-clothed power; one
whose knuckles could defiantly ring against the granite of law.  He was
a knight.

The two men went from under the glimmering street-lamp and passed into
shadows.

Turning, Maggie contemplated the dark, dust-stained walls, and the
scant and crude furniture of her home.  A clock, in a splintered and
battered oblong box of varnished wood, she suddenly regarded as an
abomination.  She noted that it ticked raspingly.  The almost vanished
flowers in the carpet-pattern, she conceived to be newly hideous.  Some
faint attempts she had made with blue ribbon, to freshen the appearance
of a dingy curtain, she now saw to be piteous.

She wondered what Pete dined on.

She reflected upon the collar and cuff factory.  It began to appear to
her mind as a dreary place of endless grinding.  Pete's elegant
occupation brought him, no doubt, into contact with people who had
money and manners.  It was probable that he had a large acquaintance of
pretty girls.  He must have great sums of money to spend.

To her the earth was composed of hardships and insults.  She felt
instant admiration for a man who openly defied it.  She thought that if
the grim angel of death should clutch his heart, Pete would shrug his
shoulders and say: ""Oh, ev'ryt'ing goes.""

She anticipated that he would come again shortly.  She spent some of
her week's pay in the purchase of flowered cretonne for a lambrequin.
She made it with infinite care and hung it to the slightly-careening
mantel, over the stove, in the kitchen.  She studied it with painful
anxiety from different points in the room.  She wanted it to look well
on Sunday night when, perhaps, Jimmie's friend would come.  On Sunday
night, however, Pete did not appear.

Afterward the girl looked at it with a sense of humiliation.  She was
now convinced that Pete was superior to admiration for lambrequins.

A few evenings later Pete entered with fascinating innovations in his
apparel.  As she had seen him twice and he had different suits on each
time, Maggie had a dim impression that his wardrobe was prodigiously
extensive.

""Say, Mag,"" he said, ""put on yer bes' duds Friday night an' I'll take
yehs teh deh show.  See?""

He spent a few moments in flourishing his clothes and then vanished,
without having glanced at the lambrequin.

Over the eternal collars and cuffs in the factory Maggie spent the most
of three days in making imaginary sketches of Pete and his daily
environment.  She imagined some half dozen women in love with him and
thought he must lean dangerously toward an indefinite one, whom she
pictured with great charms of person, but with an altogether
contemptible disposition.

She thought he must live in a blare of pleasure.  He had friends, and
people who were afraid of him.

She saw the golden glitter of the place where Pete was to take her.  An
entertainment of many hues and many melodies where she was afraid she
might appear small and mouse-colored.

Her mother drank whiskey all Friday morning.  With lurid face and
tossing hair she cursed and destroyed furniture all Friday afternoon.
When Maggie came home at half-past six her mother lay asleep amidst the
wreck of chairs and a table.  Fragments of various household utensils
were scattered about the floor.  She had vented some phase of drunken
fury upon the lambrequin.  It lay in a bedraggled heap in the corner.

""Hah,"" she snorted, sitting up suddenly, ""where deh hell yeh been?  Why
deh hell don' yeh come home earlier?  Been loafin' 'round deh streets.
Yer gettin' teh be a reg'lar devil.""

When Pete arrived Maggie, in a worn black dress, was waiting for him in
the midst of a floor strewn with wreckage.  The curtain at the window
had been pulled by a heavy hand and hung by one tack, dangling to and
fro in the draft through the cracks at the sash.  The knots of blue
ribbons appeared like violated flowers.  The fire in the stove had gone
out.  The displaced lids and open doors showed heaps of sullen grey
ashes.  The remnants of a meal, ghastly, like dead flesh, lay in a
corner.  Maggie's red mother, stretched on the floor, blasphemed and
gave her daughter a bad name.


","She's cute, and he's a ""warrior,"" ""invincible,"" and a ""formidable man."" Suffice it to say, she's hooked on the Pete Kool-Aid. Now her house seems even grimmer. She passes the time thinking about Pete and his job, his friends, his money, and just how generally superior he is to everything in her sad-sack life. Anticipating Pete's next visit, Maggie spruces up the house with some drapery. Apparently it--or something--works, because he asks her out to see a show. She's all excited because everyone is afraid of him. He is clearly the Big Man on Campus, and crowds part when he comes down the sidewalk. Momma Mary is still getting wasted, so of course she embarrasses Maggie when Pete comes to pick her up. Thanks, Mom."
192,"ACT II. SCENE I.
Rome. Before the palace

Enter AARON

  AARON. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus' top,
    Safe out of Fortune's shot, and sits aloft,
    Secure of thunder's crack or lightning flash,
    Advanc'd above pale envy's threat'ning reach.
    As when the golden sun salutes the morn,
    And, having gilt the ocean with his beams,
    Gallops the zodiac in his glistening coach
    And overlooks the highest-peering hills,
    So Tamora.
    Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait,
    And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown.
    Then, Aaron, arm thy heart and fit thy thoughts
    To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress,
    And mount her pitch whom thou in triumph long
    Hast prisoner held, fett'red in amorous chains,
    And faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes
    Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus.
    Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts!
    I will be bright and shine in pearl and gold,
    To wait upon this new-made empress.
    To wait, said I? To wanton with this queen,
    This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph,
    This siren that will charm Rome's Saturnine,
    And see his shipwreck and his commonweal's.
    Hullo! what storm is this?

            Enter CHIRON and DEMETRIUS, braving

  DEMETRIUS. Chiron, thy years wants wit, thy wits wants edge
    And manners, to intrude where I am grac'd,
    And may, for aught thou knowest, affected be.
  CHIRON. Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all;
    And so in this, to bear me down with braves.
    'Tis not the difference of a year or two
    Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate:
    I am as able and as fit as thou
    To serve and to deserve my mistress' grace;
    And that my sword upon thee shall approve,
    And plead my passions for Lavinia's love.
  AARON.  [Aside]  Clubs, clubs! These lovers will not keep the
    peace.
  DEMETRIUS. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvis'd,
    Gave you a dancing rapier by your side,
    Are you so desperate grown to threat your friends?
    Go to; have your lath glued within your sheath
    Till you know better how to handle it.
  CHIRON. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have,
    Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare.
  DEMETRIUS. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave?              [They draw]
  AARON.  [Coming forward]  Why, how now, lords!
    So near the Emperor's palace dare ye draw
    And maintain such a quarrel openly?
    Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge:
    I would not for a million of gold
    The cause were known to them it most concerns;
    Nor would your noble mother for much more
    Be so dishonoured in the court of Rome.
    For shame, put up.
  DEMETRIUS. Not I, till I have sheath'd
    My rapier in his bosom, and withal
    Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat
    That he hath breath'd in my dishonour here.
  CHIRON. For that I am prepar'd and full resolv'd,
    Foul-spoken coward, that thund'rest with thy tongue,
    And with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform.
  AARON. Away, I say!
    Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore,
    This pretty brabble will undo us all.
    Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous
    It is to jet upon a prince's right?
    What, is Lavinia then become so loose,
    Or Bassianus so degenerate,
    That for her love such quarrels may be broach'd
    Without controlment, justice, or revenge?
    Young lords, beware; an should the Empress know
    This discord's ground, the music would not please.
  CHIRON. I care not, I, knew she and all the world:
    I love Lavinia more than all the world.
  DEMETRIUS. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice:
    Lavina is thine elder brother's hope.
  AARON. Why, are ye mad, or know ye not in Rome
    How furious and impatient they be,
    And cannot brook competitors in love?
    I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths
    By this device.
  CHIRON. Aaron, a thousand deaths
    Would I propose to achieve her whom I love.
  AARON. To achieve her- how?
  DEMETRIUS. Why mak'st thou it so strange?
    She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd;
    She is a woman, therefore may be won;
    She is Lavinia, therefore must be lov'd.
    What, man! more water glideth by the mill
    Than wots the miller of; and easy it is
    Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know.
    Though Bassianus be the Emperor's brother,
    Better than he have worn Vulcan's badge.
  AARON.  [Aside]  Ay, and as good as Saturninus may.
  DEMETRIUS. Then why should he despair that knows to court it
    With words, fair looks, and liberality?
    What, hast not thou full often struck a doe,
    And borne her cleanly by the keeper's nose?
  AARON. Why, then, it seems some certain snatch or so
    Would serve your turns.
  CHIRON. Ay, so the turn were served.
  DEMETRIUS. Aaron, thou hast hit it.
  AARON. Would you had hit it too!
    Then should not we be tir'd with this ado.
    Why, hark ye, hark ye! and are you such fools
    To square for this? Would it offend you, then,
    That both should speed?
  CHIRON. Faith, not me.
  DEMETRIUS. Nor me, so I were one.
  AARON. For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar.
    'Tis policy and stratagem must do
    That you affect; and so must you resolve
    That what you cannot as you would achieve,
    You must perforce accomplish as you may.
    Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste
    Than this Lavinia, Bassianus' love.
    A speedier course than ling'ring languishment
    Must we pursue, and I have found the path.
    My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand;
    There will the lovely Roman ladies troop;
    The forest walks are wide and spacious,
    And many unfrequented plots there are
    Fitted by kind for rape and villainy.
    Single you thither then this dainty doe,
    And strike her home by force if not by words.
    This way, or not at all, stand you in hope.
    Come, come, our Empress, with her sacred wit
    To villainy and vengeance consecrate,
    Will we acquaint with all what we intend;
    And she shall file our engines with advice
    That will not suffer you to square yourselves,
    But to your wishes' height advance you both.
    The Emperor's court is like the house of Fame,
    The palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears;
    The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull.
    There speak and strike, brave boys, and take your turns;
    There serve your lust, shadowed from heaven's eye,
    And revel in Lavinia's treasury.
  CHIRON. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice.
  DEMETRIUS. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream
    To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits,
    Per Styga, per manes vehor.                           Exeunt





","Alone in front of the Senate-house, Aaron delivers a soliloquy about Tamora's rise to power in Rome. Since Tamora and Aaron are longtime secret lovers, Aaron is hoping to benefit from Tamora's new status as Rome's imperial first lady. Aaron also brags that, since Tamora is basically his love slave, he'll soon be in a position to destroy Rome. Chiron and Demetrius show up and they're in the middle of a big, nasty argument, which goes something like this: Chiron: ""I'm just as tough as you are and I'm going to seduce Lavinia."" Demetrius: ""You're a wimp and I'm the one who's going to seduce Lavinia."" Aaron steps in and says Chiron and Demetrius are crazy if they think they're going to fight over Lavinia in public. For one thing, Lavinia's not the type of girl to cheat on her husband. Plus, Bassianus isn't the type of guy to stand around while two punks try to hit on his wife. Aaron announces there's a way Chiron and Demetrius can both have Lavinia - during tomorrow's big panther hunt, they can take turns raping Lavinia in the forest. Chiron and Demetrius think this is an excellent idea."
193,"SCENE IV


          THESEUS (alone)
          What is there in her mind? What meaning lurks
          In speech begun but to be broken short?
          Would both deceive me with a vain pretence?
          Have they conspired to put me to the torture?
          And yet, despite my stern severity,
          What plaintive voice cries deep within my heart?
          A secret pity troubles and alarms me.
          Oenone shall be questioned once again,
          I must have clearer light upon this crime.
          Guards, bid Oenone come, and come alone.




SCENE V
          THESEUS, PANOPE


          PANOPE
          I know not what the Queen intends to do,
          But from her agitation dread the worst.
          Fatal despair is painted on her features;
          Death's pallor is already in her face.
          Oenone, shamed and driven from her sight,
          Has cast herself into the ocean depths.
          None knows what prompted her to deed so rash;
          And now the waves hide her from us for ever.

          THESEUS
          What say you?

          PANOPE
          Her sad fate seems to have added
          Fresh trouble to the Queen's tempestuous soul.
          Sometimes, to soothe her secret pain, she clasps
          Her children close, and bathes them with her tears;
          Then suddenly, the mother's love forgotten,
          She thrusts them from her with a look of horror,
          She wanders to and fro with doubtful steps;
          Her vacant eye no longer knows us. Thrice
          She wrote, and thrice did she, changing her mind,
          Destroy the letter ere 'twas well begun.
          Vouchsafe to see her, Sire: vouchsafe to help her.

          THESEUS
          Heav'ns! Is Oenone dead, and Phaedra bent
          On dying too? Oh, call me back my son!
          Let him defend himself, and I am ready
          To hear him. Be not hasty to bestow
          Thy fatal bounty, Neptune; let my pray'rs
          Rather remain ever unheard. Too soon
          I lifted cruel hands, believing lips
          That may have lied! Ah! What despair may follow!




","Disturbed by Oenone's hints, Theseus realizes that he himself still has doubts and calls the guards to bring Oenone to him so that he may question her further. But Panope, one of Phaedra's waiting women, has shocking news for him. Phaedra has driven Oenone from her presence, and Oenone has thrown herself into the sea. Now Phaedra, alternately kissing her sons and pushing them away in horror, has three times begun a letter and thrice destroyed it. Panope fears she is about to kill herself and begs Theseus to come and calm her. Glimpsing the truth, Theseus calls upon his son to come back and defend himself and begs Neptune not to grant him his boon."
194,"                [A street.]

                Enter two PORTINGALES, and HIERONIMO
                meets them.

  I PORT.  By your leave, sir.

  HIERO.  Good leave have you; nay, I pray you go,
    For I'll leave you, if you can leave me so.

  II PORT.  Pray you, which is the next way to my lord
    the duke's?

  HIERO.  The next way from me.

  I PORT.                       To the house, we mean.

  HIERO. O hard by; 'tis yon house that you see.

  II PORT.  You could not tell us if his son were there?

  HIERO.  Who?  my lord Lorenzo?

  I PORT.                               Aye, sir.

                He goeth in at one door and comes out at another.

  HIERO.                                        Oh, forbear,
    For other talk for us far fitter were!
    But, if you be importunate to know
    The way to him and where to find him out,
    Then list to me, and I'll resolve your doubt:
    There is a path upon your left hand side
    That leadeth from a guilty conscience
    Unto a forest of distrust and fear,--
    A darksome place and dangerous to pass,--
    There shall you meet with melancholy thoughts
    Whose baleful humours if you but behold,
    It will conduct you to despair and death:
    Whose rocky cliffs when you have once beheld,
    Within a hugy dale of lasting night,
    That, kindled with worlds of iniquities,
    Doth cast up filthy and detested fumes,--
    Not far from thence where murderers have built
    A habitation for their cursed souls,
    There, in a brazen caldron fix'd by Jove
    In his fell wrath upon a sulfur flame,
    Yourselves shall find Lorenzo bathing him
    In boiling lead and blood of innocents.

  I PORT.  Ha, ha, ha!

  HIERO.  Ha, ha, ha!  why, ha, ha, ha!  Farewell, good ha,
    ha, ha!

                Exit.

  II PORT.  Doubtless this man is passing lunatic,
    Or imperfection of his age doth make him dote.
    Come, let's away to seek my lord the duke.

                [Exeunt.]
","Two random Portuguese dudes question Hieronimo about the whereabouts of the Duke of Castile , but Hieronimo only gives evasive answers. But he does manage to talk in coded language about the injustice of the Spanish court. And while his crazy talk makes sense to the audience, the Portuguese guys just think he's nuts. From this point on, Hieronimo consistently sounds like madman. Has grief and the twisted path of revenge driven him mad or is he as Hamlet will later say, ""essentially not in madness But mad in craft"" . Which is to say, ""I'm not really crazy, but I'm going to act like I am to throw everyone off my trail."" This is a big question in the play, and perhaps the biggest question in Shakespeare's Hamlet. Coincidence? We think not."
195,"
Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure
that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior
spare room--something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,
equally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday
week.

Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only
faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at
times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves.
When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her
nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might
upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to
George--they met again almost immediately at the Rectory--his voice
moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she
really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves,
which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered
from ""things that came out of nothing and meant she didn't know what.""
Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the
troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.

It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, ""She loves young
Emerson."" A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is
easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome ""nerves""
or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved
Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the
phrases should have been reversed?

But the external situation--she will face that bravely.

The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between
Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,
and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,
and was glad that he did not seem shy either.

""A nice fellow,"" said Mr. Beebe afterwards ""He will work off his
crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life
gracefully.""

Lucy said, ""He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.""

""Yes,"" replied the clergyman. ""He is waking up.""

That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell,
and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the
clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival.
She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.
Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton
station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy
and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for
a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with
little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper
lawn for tea.

""I shall never forgive myself,"" said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising
from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.
""I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on
paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.""

""Our visitors never do such dreadful things,"" said Lucy, while her
brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial,
exclaimed in irritable tones: ""Just what I've been trying to convince
Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.""

""I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,"" said Miss Bartlett, and
looked at her frayed glove.

""All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to
the driver.""

Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could
any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four
half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: ""But who
am I to give the sovereign to?""

""Let's leave it all till mother comes back,"" suggested Lucy.

""No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not
hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt
settling of accounts.""

Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be
quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution
seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking
his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned
round.

But this did not do, either.

""Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me
wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.""

""Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,"" interposed Cecil. ""So it will work
out right if you give the pound to me.""

""Fifteen shillings,"" said Miss Bartlett dubiously. ""How is that, Mr.
Vyse?""

""Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we
shall avoid this deplorable gambling.""

Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered
up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For
a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers.
Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the
smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying
twaddle.

""But I don't see that!"" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched
the iniquitous transaction. ""I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the
quid.""

""Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,"" they said solemnly.
""Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.""

""But I don't see--""

They tried to stifle her with cake.

""No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss
Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's
ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss
What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver.""

""I had forgotten the driver,"" said Miss Bartlett, reddening. ""Thank you,
dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change
for half a crown?""

""I'll get it,"" said the young hostess, rising with decision.

""Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get
Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the
beginning.""

""Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!"" protested Miss Bartlett, and
followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity.
When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said
quite briskly: ""Have you told him about him yet?""

""No, I haven't,"" replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue
for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. ""Let me see--a
sovereign's worth of silver.""

She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were
too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke
or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had
been a ruse to surprise the soul.

""No, I haven't told Cecil or any one,"" she remarked, when she returned.
""I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except
two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely
now.""

Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.
John ascending, which had been framed.

""How dreadful!"" she murmured, ""how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse
should come to hear of it from some other source.""

""Oh, no, Charlotte,"" said the girl, entering the battle. ""George Emerson
is all right, and what other source is there?""

Miss Bartlett considered. ""For instance, the driver. I saw him looking
through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.""

Lucy shuddered a little. ""We shall get the silly affair on our nerves
if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of
Cecil?""

""We must think of every possibility.""

""Oh, it's all right.""

""Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.""

""I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but
even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at
it.""

""To contradict it?""

""No, to laugh at it."" But she knew in her heart that she could not trust
him, for he desired her untouched.

""Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what
they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.""

""Now, Charlotte!"" She struck at her playfully. ""You kind, anxious thing.
What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say,
'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!""

Miss Bartlett sighed ""I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I
blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able
to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You
will never forgive me.""

""Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't.""

For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with
a teaspoon.

""Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have
you seen the young one yet?""

""Yes, I have.""

""What happened?""

""We met at the Rectory.""

""What line is he taking up?""

""No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all
right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly?
I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any
nuisance, Charlotte.""

""Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.""

Lucy paused. ""Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that
there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious."" She
paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through
the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It
was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from
the station.

""Once a cad, always a cad,"" droned Miss Bartlett.

""What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into
all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we
ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a
person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;
it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire
me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and
has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has
improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into
tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big
railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa
was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There!
Now for the garden."" She took hold of her guest by the arm. ""Suppose we
don't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to
have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.""

Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected
an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one
cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly
people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the
entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of
them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her
brain.


","The plans are set - Charlotte will come to stay at Windy Corner, and George will come to play tennis with Freddy on Sunday. Lucy feels disaster approaching. Lucy's feelings for George are complicated; he makes her nervous, but she wants to be near him. The narrator wisely notes that it's obvious to us that Lucy is in love with George, but it's far from obvious to her. Instead, she is confused, still believing that she loves Cecil instead. We learn that Lucy and George had another meeting , in which they seem to have gotten along quite well - in a post-conversation instant replay with Mr. Beebe , Lucy observes that George seems to be in better spirits. She can't stop thinking about him, and wishes he was nearby. Charlotte arrives, after much drama , then further drama ensues as she attempts to pay the cab driver. Everyone is in an uproar; Lucy is in a foul mood. Charlotte, of course, immediately wants to discuss the Emerson situation in her usual melodramatic fashion. Lucy demonstrates that she certainly has changed - she takes over the conversation and essentially brushes Charlotte off, telling her not to worry."
196,"                [A room in the DUKE's castle.]

                Enter LORENZO, BALTHAZAR and the PAGE.

  LOR.  Boy, talk no further; thus far things go well.
    Thou art assur'd that thou sawest him dead?

  PAGE.  Or else, my lord, I live not.

  LOR.                  That's enough.
    As for this resolution at his end,
    Leave that to him with whom he sojourns now.
    Here, take my ring, and give it Christophel,
    And bid him let my sister be enlarg'd,
    And bring her hither straight.

                Exit PAGE.

    This that I did was for a policy,
    To smooth and keep the murder secret,
    Which as a nine days wonder being o'er-blown,
    My gentle sister will I now enlarge.

  BAL.  And time, Lorenzo; for my lord the duke,
    You heard, enquired for her yester-night.

  LOR.  Why!  and, my lord, I hope you heard me say
    Sufficient reason why she kept away;
    But that's all one.  My lord, you love her?

  BAL.                          Aye.

  LOR.  Then in your love beware; deal cunningly;
    Salve all suspicions; only soothe me up,
    And, if she hap to stand on terms with us,
    As for her sweet-heart, and concealment so,
    Jest with her gently; under feigned jest
    Are things conceal'd that else would breed unrest.
    But here she comes.

                Enter BEL-IMPERIA.

  LOR.  Now, sister.

  BEL.                          Sister?  No!
    Thou art no brother, but an enemy,
    Else wouldst thou not have us'd thy sister so:
    First, to affright me with thy weapons drawn,
    And with extremes abuse my company;
    And then to hurry me like whirlwind's rage
    Amidst a crew of thy confederates,
    And clap me up where none might come at me,
    Nor I at any to reveal my wrongs.
    What madding fury did possess thy wits?
    Or wherein is't that I offended thee?

  LOR.  Advise you better, Bel-imperia;
    For I have done you no disparagement,--
    Unless, by more discretion then deserv'd,
    I sought to save your honour and mine own.

  BEL.  Mine honour?  Why, Lorenzo, wherein is't
    That I neglect my reputation so
    As you, or any, need to rescue it?

  LOR.  His Highness and my father were resolv'd
    To come confer with old Hieronimo
    Concerning certain matters of estate
    That by the viceroy was determined.

  BEL.  And wherein was mine honour touch'd in that?

  BAL.  Have patience, Bel-imperia; hear the rest.

  LOR.  Me, next in sight, as messenger they sent
    To give him notice that they were so nigh:
    Now, when I came, consorted with the prince,
    And unexpected in an arbor there
    Found Bel-imperia with Horatio--

  BEL.   How then?

  LOR.  Why, then, rememb'ring that old disgrace
    Which you for Don Andrea had endur'd,
    And now were likely longer to sustain
    By being found so meanly accompanied,
    Thought rather, for I knew no readier mean,
    To thrust Horatio forth my father's way.

  BAL.  And carry you obscurely somewhere else,
    Lest that his Highness should have found you there.

  BEL.  Ev'n so, my lord?  And you are witness
    That this is true which he entreateth of?
    You, gentle brother, forg'd this for my sake?
    And you, my lord, were made his instrument?
    A work of worth!  worthy the noting too!
    But what's the cause that you conceal'd me since?

  LOR.  Your melancholy, sister, since the news
    Of your first favorite Don Andrea's death
    My father's old wrath hath exasperate.

  BAL.  And better was't for you, being in disgrace,
    To absent yourself and give his fury place.

  BEL.  But why I had no notice of his ire?

  LOR.  That were to add more fuel to your fire,
    Who burnt like Aetna for Andrea's loss.

  BEL.  Hath not my father then enquir'd for me?

  LOR.  Sister, he hath; and this excus'd I thee.

                He whispereth in her ear.

    But, Bel-imperia, see the gentle prince;
    Look on thy love; behold young Balthazar,
    Whose passions by thy presence are increas'd,
    And in whose melancholy thou may'st see
    Thy hate, his love, thy flight, his following thee.

  BEL.  Brother, you are become an orator--
    I know not, ay, by what experience--
    Too politic for me, past all compare,
    Since I last saw you.  But content yourself;
    The prince is meditating higher things.

  BAL.  'Tis of thy beauty, then, that conquers kings,
    Of those thy tresses, Ariadne's twines,
    Wherewith my liberty thou hast surpris'd,
    Of that thine ivory front, my sorrow's map,
    Wherein I see no hav'n to rest my hope.

  BEL.  To love and fear, and both at once, my lord,
    In my conceit, are things of more import
    Then women's wit are to be busied with.

  BAL.  'Tis I that love.

  BEL.                  Whom?

  BAL.                                  Bel-imperia.

  BEL.  But I that fear.

  BAL.                  Whom?

  BEL.                                  Bel-imperia.

  LOR.  Fear yourself?

  BEL.                  Aye, brother.

  LOR.                                  How?

  BEL.                                          As those
    That, when they love, are loath and fear to lose.

  BAL.  Then, fair, let Balthazar your keeper be.

  BEL.  No, Balthazar doth fear as well as we;
    Et tremulo metui pavidum junxere timorem,
    Est vanum stolidae proditionis opus.

                Exit.

  LOR.  Nay, and you argue things so cunningly,
    We'll go continue this discourse at court.

  BAL. Led by the loadstar of her heav'nly looks,
    Wends poor oppressed Balthazar,
    As o'er the mountains walks the wanderer
    Incertain to effect his pilgrimage.

                Exeunt.","Our sadistic little messenger boy with the empty box comes back to Lorenzo and Balthazar to tell them that Pedringano is dead. Given the happy news, Lorenzo sends the messenger to inform the jailor to free Bel-Imperia. After getting freed, Bel-Imperia storms angrily on the scene. But Lorenzo tells her that he held her captive so that her dad wouldn't yell at her for slumming with Horatio. Lorenzo then tells Bel-Imperia that he smoothed over the issues with dad. Bel-Imperia has to know her brother is lying, but she plays her cards close to the chest. The always eagerly persistent Balthazar busts into wooing mode again, but Bel-Imperia verbally beats down the would-be Romeo, once again."
197,"[The Duke's Castle]

                Enter HORATIO and BEL-IMPERIA.

  HOR.  Now, madame, since by favour of your love
    Our hidden smoke is turn'd to open flame,
    And that with looks and words we feed our thought,--
    Two chief contents where more cannot be had,--
    Thus in the midst of love's fair blandishments
    Why show you sign of inward languishments?

                PEDRINGANO showeth all to the PRINCE and
                LORENZO, placing them in secret.

  BEL.  My heart, sweet friend, is like a ship at sea:
    She wisheth port, where, riding all at ease,
    She may repair what stormy times have worn,
    And, leaning on the shore, may sing with joy
    That pleasure follows pain, and bliss annoy.
    Possession of thy love is th' only port
    Wherein my heart, with fears and hopes long toss'd,
    Each hour doth wish and long to make resort,
    There to repair the joys that it hath lost,
    And, sitting safe, to sing in Cupid's choir
    That sweetest bliss is crown of love's desire.

                BALTHAZAR, above.

  BAL.  O sleep, mine eyes; see not my love profan'd!
    Be deaf, my ears; hear not my discontent!
    Die, heart; another joys what thou deserv'st!

  LOR.  Watch still, mine eyes, to see this love disjoin'd!
    Hear still, mine ears, to hear them both lament!
    Live, heart, to joy at fond Horatio's fall!

  BEL.  Why stands Horatio speechless all this while?

  HOR.  The less I speak, the more I meditate.

  BEL.  But whereon dost thou chiefly meditate?

  HOR.  On dangers past and pleasures to ensue.

  BAL. On pleasures past and dangers to ensue!

  BEL.  What dangers and what pleasures dost thou mean?

  HOR.  Dangers of war and pleasures of our love.

  LOR.  Dangers of death, but pleasures none at all!

  BEL. Let dangers go; thy war shall be with me,
    But such a war as breaks no bond of peace.
    Speak thou fair words, I'll cross them with fair words;
    Send thou sweet looks, I'll meet them with sweet looks;
    Write loving lines, I'll answer loving lines;
    Give me a kiss, I'll countercheck thy kiss:
    Be this our warring peace, or peaceful war.

  HOR.  But, gracious madame, then appoint the field
    Where trial of this war shall first be made.

  BAL.  Ambitious villain, how his boldness grows!

  BEL.  Then be thy father's pleasant bow'r the field,--
    Where first we vow'd a mutual amity.
    The court were dangerous; that place is safe.
    Our hour shall be when Vesper 'gins to rise,
    That summons home distressful travelers.
    There none shall hear us but the harmless birds:
    Haply the gentle nightingale
    Shall carroll us asleep ere we be ware,
    And, singing with the prickle at her breast,
    Tell our delight and mirthful dalliance.
    Till then, each hour will seem a year and more.

  HOR.  But, honey-sweet and honourable love,
    Return we now into your father's sight;
    Dang'rous suspicion waits on our delight.

  LOR.  Aye, danger mix'd with jealous despite
    Shall send thy soul into eternal night!

                Exeunt.

","This is one of those awesome Renaissance drama scenes where spying comes into play. Overheard conversations are a great convention for creating intrigue and moving plots along. So, as Pedringano, Lorenzo, and Balthazar hide behind a potted plant or something, Bel-Imperia and Horatio give a public display of affection without even knowing it. Horatio notices that Bel-Imperia is sad even though they're falling in love. She says she's doing her best not to worry, but that she senses the bad coming . Now is a good time to mention that the ghost of Andrea has zero problem with his buddy dating his ex. All the while, the three evil amigos spying on the scene are spewing hatefully violent remarks unbeknownst to the lovers. Bel-Imperia and Horatio realize that everyone will freak out about their relationship. So they decide to get sneaky and make secret vows in Horatio's secret garden. After the lovers exit, Lorenzo vows to send Horatio to ""eternal night,"" which really doesn't sound that pleasant at all ."
198,"
The brick front was just in a line with the street, or rather the road.
Behind the door hung a cloak with a small collar, a bridle, and a black
leather cap, and on the floor, in a corner, were a pair of leggings,
still covered with dry mud. On the right was the one apartment, that was
both dining and sitting room. A canary yellow paper, relieved at the
top by a garland of pale flowers, was puckered everywhere over the badly
stretched canvas; white calico curtains with a red border hung crossways
at the length of the window; and on the narrow mantelpiece a clock with
a head of Hippocrates shone resplendent between two plate candlesticks
under oval shades. On the other side of the passage was Charles's
consulting room, a little room about six paces wide, with a table,
three chairs, and an office chair. Volumes of the ""Dictionary of Medical
Science,"" uncut, but the binding rather the worse for the successive
sales through which they had gone, occupied almost along the six shelves
of a deal bookcase.

The smell of melted butter penetrated through the walls when he saw
patients, just as in the kitchen one could hear the people coughing in
the consulting room and recounting their histories.

Then, opening on the yard, where the stable was, came a large
dilapidated room with a stove, now used as a wood-house, cellar, and
pantry, full of old rubbish, of empty casks, agricultural implements
past service, and a mass of dusty things whose use it was impossible to
guess.

The garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with espaliered
apricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from the field. In the
middle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal; four flower beds with
eglantines surrounded symmetrically the more useful kitchen garden bed.
Right at the bottom, under the spruce bushes, was a cure in plaster
reading his breviary.

Emma went upstairs. The first room was not furnished, but in the second,
which was their bedroom, was a mahogany bedstead in an alcove with red
drapery. A shell box adorned the chest of drawers, and on the secretary
near the window a bouquet of orange blossoms tied with white satin
ribbons stood in a bottle. It was a bride's bouquet; it was the other
one's. She looked at it. Charles noticed it; he took it and carried it
up to the attic, while Emma seated in an arm-chair (they were putting
her things down around her) thought of her bridal flowers packed up in
a bandbox, and wondered, dreaming, what would be done with them if she
were to die.

During the first days she occupied herself in thinking about changes in
the house. She took the shades off the candlesticks, had new wallpaper
put up, the staircase repainted, and seats made in the garden round the
sundial; she even inquired how she could get a basin with a jet fountain
and fishes. Finally her husband, knowing that she liked to drive out,
picked up a second-hand dogcart, which, with new lamps and splashboard
in striped leather, looked almost like a tilbury.

He was happy then, and without a care in the world. A meal together,
a walk in the evening on the highroad, a gesture of her hands over her
hair, the sight of her straw hat hanging from the window-fastener, and
many another thing in which Charles had never dreamed of pleasure, now
made up the endless round of his happiness. In bed, in the morning, by
her side, on the pillow, he watched the sunlight sinking into the down
on her fair cheek, half hidden by the lappets of her night-cap. Seen
thus closely, her eyes looked to him enlarged, especially when, on
waking up, she opened and shut them rapidly many times. Black in the
shade, dark blue in broad daylight, they had, as it were, depths of
different colours, that, darker in the centre, grew paler towards the
surface of the eye. His own eyes lost themselves in these depths; he saw
himself in miniature down to the shoulders, with his handkerchief round
his head and the top of his shirt open. He rose. She came to the window
to see him off, and stayed leaning on the sill between two pots of
geranium, clad in her dressing gown hanging loosely about her. Charles,
in the street buckled his spurs, his foot on the mounting stone, while
she talked to him from above, picking with her mouth some scrap of
flower or leaf that she blew out at him. Then this, eddying, floating,
described semicircles in the air like a bird, and was caught before
it reached the ground in the ill-groomed mane of the old white mare
standing motionless at the door. Charles from horseback threw her a
kiss; she answered with a nod; she shut the window, and he set off. And
then along the highroad, spreading out its long ribbon of dust, along
the deep lanes that the trees bent over as in arbours, along paths where
the corn reached to the knees, with the sun on his back and the morning
air in his nostrils, his heart full of the joys of the past night, his
mind at rest, his flesh at ease, he went on, re-chewing his happiness,
like those who after dinner taste again the truffles which they are
digesting.

Until now what good had he had of his life? His time at school, when
he remained shut up within the high walls, alone, in the midst of
companions richer than he or cleverer at their work, who laughed at his
accent, who jeered at his clothes, and whose mothers came to the school
with cakes in their muffs? Later on, when he studied medicine, and never
had his purse full enough to treat some little work-girl who would have
become his mistress? Afterwards, he had lived fourteen months with the
widow, whose feet in bed were cold as icicles. But now he had for life
this beautiful woman whom he adored. For him the universe did not extend
beyond the circumference of her petticoat, and he reproached himself
with not loving her. He wanted to see her again; he turned back quickly,
ran up the stairs with a beating heart. Emma, in her room, was dressing;
he came up on tiptoe, kissed her back; she gave a cry.

He could not keep from constantly touching her comb, her ring, her
fichu; sometimes he gave her great sounding kisses with all his mouth on
her cheeks, or else little kisses in a row all along her bare arm
from the tip of her fingers up to her shoulder, and she put him away
half-smiling, half-vexed, as you do a child who hangs about you.

Before marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that
should have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought,
have been mistaken. And Emma tried to find out what one meant exactly in
life by the words felicity, passion, rapture, that had seemed to her so
beautiful in books.


","The small house in Tostes is comfortable and modestly furnished. The front of the house is flush with the street and a narrow garden extends to the rear. Upstairs Emma discovers the previous Madame Bovary's wedding bouquet sitting in the master bedroom. Charles carries the bouquet to the attic and Emma wonders what will become of her own bouquet if she dies. In the following days Emma makes small changes to the house's decor and Charles purchases a second-hand buggy. Charles is perfectly happy now that Emma has come to live with him and he takes pleasure in the smallest routines of daily life. Emma wonders why she hasn't yet experienced true happiness. Words like ""bliss"", ""passion"", and ""rapture"" that hold so much meaning in novels seem impossibly distant in her life with Charles."
199,"SCENE IV.
Rome. Before the palace

Enter the EMPEROR, and the EMPRESS and her two sons, DEMETRIUS
and CHIRON;
LORDS and others. The EMPEROR brings the arrows in his hand that
TITUS
shot at him

  SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen
    An emperor in Rome thus overborne,
    Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent
    Of egal justice, us'd in such contempt?
    My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods,
    However these disturbers of our peace
    Buzz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd
    But even with law against the wilful sons
    Of old Andronicus. And what an if
    His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits,
    Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,
    His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness?
    And now he writes to heaven for his redress.
    See, here's 'To Jove' and this 'To Mercury';
    This 'To Apollo'; this 'To the God of War'-
    Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!
    What's this but libelling against the Senate,
    And blazoning our unjustice every where?
    A goodly humour, is it not, my lords?
    As who would say in Rome no justice were.
    But if I live, his feigned ecstasies
    Shall be no shelter to these outrages;
    But he and his shall know that justice lives
    In Saturninus' health; whom, if she sleep,
    He'll so awake as he in fury shall
    Cut off the proud'st conspirator that lives.
  TAMORA. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,
    Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts,
    Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age,
    Th' effects of sorrow for his valiant sons
    Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep and scarr'd his heart;
    And rather comfort his distressed plight
    Than prosecute the meanest or the best
    For these contempts.  [Aside]  Why, thus it shall become
    High-witted Tamora to gloze with all.
    But, Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick,
    Thy life-blood on't; if Aaron now be wise,
    Then is all safe, the anchor in the port.

                       Enter CLOWN

    How now, good fellow! Wouldst thou speak with us?
  CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistriship be Emperial.
  TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the Emperor.
  CLOWN. 'Tis he.- God and Saint Stephen give you godden. I have
    brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.
                                   [SATURNINUS reads the letter]
  SATURNINUS. Go take him away, and hang him presently.
  CLOWN. How much money must I have?
  TAMORA. Come, sirrah, you must be hang'd.
  CLOWN. Hang'd! by'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a
fair
    end.                                          [Exit guarded]
  SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs!
    Shall I endure this monstrous villainy?
    I know from whence this same device proceeds.
    May this be borne- as if his traitorous sons
    That died by law for murder of our brother
    Have by my means been butchered wrongfully?
    Go drag the villain hither by the hair;
    Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege.
    For this proud mock I'll be thy slaughterman,
    Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great,
    In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.

                   Enter NUNTIUS AEMILIUS

    What news with thee, Aemilius?
  AEMILIUS. Arm, my lords! Rome never had more cause.
    The Goths have gathered head; and with a power
    Of high resolved men, bent to the spoil,
    They hither march amain, under conduct
    Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus;
    Who threats in course of this revenge to do
    As much as ever Coriolanus did.
  SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths?
    These tidings nip me, and I hang the head
    As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.
    Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach.
    'Tis he the common people love so much;
    Myself hath often heard them say-
    When I have walked like a private man-
    That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully,
    And they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor.
  TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is not your city strong?
  SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius,
    And will revolt from me to succour him.
  TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like thy name!
    Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it?
    The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
    And is not careful what they mean thereby,
    Knowing that with the shadow of his wings
    He can at pleasure stint their melody;
    Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.
    Then cheer thy spirit; for know thou, Emperor,
    I will enchant the old Andronicus
    With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,
    Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep,
    When as the one is wounded with the bait,
    The other rotted with delicious feed.
  SATURNINUS. But he will not entreat his son for us.
  TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will;
    For I can smooth and fill his aged ears
    With golden promises, that, were his heart
    Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,
    Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.
    [To AEMILIUS]  Go thou before to be our ambassador;
    Say that the Emperor requests a parley
    Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting
    Even at his father's house, the old Andronicus.
  SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message honourably;
    And if he stand on hostage for his safety,
    Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.
  AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually.            Exit
  TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus,
    And temper him with all the art I have,
    To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths.
    And now, sweet Emperor, be blithe again,
    And bury all thy fear in my devices.
  SATURNINUS. Then go successantly, and plead to him.
                                                          Exeunt







","At the palace, Saturninus complains to Tamora, Demetrius, and Chiron about Titus shooting arrows at him. Saturninus is not amused by this stunt and believes Titus is just pretending to be a madman. The old man better watch out, because Saturninus isn't buying into his crazy act. Tamora steps in and smoothes Saturninus's ruffled feathers, saying that Titus's grief and old age really have made him crazy. Then she whispers to the audience that everything is going according to her deliciously evil plan. The Clown enters and offers up the basket of pigeons and Titus's letter. Saturninus reads the letter and then immediately sentences the Clown to death by hanging. The Clown, who has no idea what's going, stands around waiting to be tipped for his efforts. Saturninus orders his men to fetch Titus, who is totally going to pay for whatever it was that he wrote in the letter. Aemilius enters and announces that Lucius has amassed an army of Goths and they're getting ready to attack. Saturninus decides that this could be bad. There's a huge army coming after him, and it also seems like his people love Lucius more than him - everyone wants Lucius to be the emperor. Saturninus apparently knows this because, in his spare time, he disguises himself as a commoner and walks the streets of Rome so he can keep tabs on what everyone is saying about him. Tamora tells Saturninus not to worry - she's going to pay Titus a visit and convince the crazy old guy to stop badmouthing Saturninus."