[{"": "0", "document": "\nIt is necessary to consider another point in examining the character of\nthese principalities: that is, whether a prince has such power that, in\ncase of need, he can support himself with his own resources, or whether\nhe has always need of the assistance of others. And to make this quite\nclear I say that I consider those who are able to support themselves by\ntheir own resources who can, either by abundance of men or money, raise\na sufficient army to join battle against any one who comes to attack\nthem; and I consider those always to have need of others who cannot\nshow themselves against the enemy in the field, but are forced to\ndefend themselves by sheltering behind walls. The first case has been\ndiscussed, but we will speak of it again should it recur. In the second\ncase one can say nothing except to encourage such princes to provision\nand fortify their towns, and not on any account to defend the country.\nAnd whoever shall fortify his town well, and shall have managed the\nother concerns of his subjects in the way stated above, and to be often\nrepeated, will never be attacked without great caution, for men are\nalways adverse to enterprises where difficulties can be seen, and it\nwill be seen not to be an easy thing to attack one who has his town well\nfortified, and is not hated by his people.\n\nThe cities of Germany are absolutely free, they own but little country\naround them, and they yield obedience to the emperor when it suits\nthem, nor do they fear this or any other power they may have near them,\nbecause they are fortified in such a way that every one thinks the\ntaking of them by assault would be tedious and difficult, seeing they\nhave proper ditches and walls, they have sufficient artillery, and they\nalways keep in public depots enough for one year's eating, drinking, and\nfiring. And beyond this, to keep the people quiet and without loss to\nthe state, they always have the means of giving work to the community\nin those labours that are the life and strength of the city, and on\nthe pursuit of which the people are supported; they also hold military\nexercises in repute, and moreover have many ordinances to uphold them.\n\nTherefore, a prince who has a strong city, and had not made himself\nodious, will not be attacked, or if any one should attack he will only\nbe driven off with disgrace; again, because that the affairs of this\nworld are so changeable, it is almost impossible to keep an army a whole\nyear in the field without being interfered with. And whoever should\nreply: If the people have property outside the city, and see it burnt,\nthey will not remain patient, and the long siege and self-interest will\nmake them forget their prince; to this I answer that a powerful and\ncourageous prince will overcome all such difficulties by giving at one\ntime hope to his subjects that the evil will not be for long, at another\ntime fear of the cruelty of the enemy, then preserving himself adroitly\nfrom those subjects who seem to him to be too bold.\n\nFurther, the enemy would naturally on his arrival at once burn and ruin\nthe country at the time when the spirits of the people are still hot and\nready for the defence; and, therefore, so much the less ought the prince\nto hesitate; because after a time, when spirits have cooled, the damage\nis already done, the ills are incurred, and there is no longer any\nremedy; and therefore they are so much the more ready to unite with\ntheir prince, he appearing to be under obligations to them now that\ntheir houses have been burnt and their possessions ruined in his\ndefence. For it is the nature of men to be bound by the benefits they\nconfer as much as by those they receive. Therefore, if everything is\nwell considered, it will not be difficult for a wise prince to keep the\nminds of his citizens steadfast from first to last, when he does not\nfail to support and defend them.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nIt remains now to see what ought to be the rules of conduct for a prince\ntowards subject and friends. And as I know that many have written on\nthis point, I expect I shall be considered presumptuous in mentioning it\nagain, especially as in discussing it I shall depart from the methods of\nother people. But, it being my intention to write a thing which shall\nbe useful to him who apprehends it, it appears to me more appropriate to\nfollow up the real truth of the matter than the imagination of it; for\nmany have pictured republics and principalities which in fact have never\nbeen known or seen, because how one lives is so far distant from how one\nought to live, that he who neglects what is done for what ought to\nbe done, sooner effects his ruin than his preservation; for a man who\nwishes to act entirely up to his professions of virtue soon meets with\nwhat destroys him among so much that is evil.\n\nHence it is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know\nhow to do wrong, and to make use of it or not according to necessity.\nTherefore, putting on one side imaginary things concerning a prince, and\ndiscussing those which are real, I say that all men when they are spoken\nof, and chiefly princes for being more highly placed, are remarkable\nfor some of those qualities which bring them either blame or praise; and\nthus it is that one is reputed liberal, another miserly, using a Tuscan\nterm (because an avaricious person in our language is still he who\ndesires to possess by robbery, whilst we call one miserly who deprives\nhimself too much of the use of his own); one is reputed generous,\none rapacious; one cruel, one compassionate; one faithless, another\nfaithful; one effeminate and cowardly, another bold and brave; one\naffable, another haughty; one lascivious, another chaste; one sincere,\nanother cunning; one hard, another easy; one grave, another frivolous;\none religious, another unbelieving, and the like. And I know that every\none will confess that it would be most praiseworthy in a prince to\nexhibit all the above qualities that are considered good; but because\nthey can neither be entirely possessed nor observed, for human\nconditions do not permit it, it is necessary for him to be sufficiently\nprudent that he may know how to avoid the reproach of those vices which\nwould lose him his state; and also to keep himself, if it be possible,\nfrom those which would not lose him it; but this not being possible, he\nmay with less hesitation abandon himself to them. And again, he need\nnot make himself uneasy at incurring a reproach for those vices without\nwhich the state can only be saved with difficulty, for if everything is\nconsidered carefully, it will be found that something which looks like\nvirtue, if followed, would be his ruin; whilst something else, which\nlooks like vice, yet followed brings him security and prosperity.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "\"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", "document": "\nAll states, all powers, that have held and hold rule over men have been\nand are either republics or principalities.\n\nPrincipalities are either hereditary, in which the family has been long\nestablished; or they are new.\n\nThe new are either entirely new, as was Milan to Francesco Sforza, or\nthey are, as it were, members annexed to the hereditary state of the\nprince who has acquired them, as was the kingdom of Naples to that of\nthe King of Spain.\n\nSuch dominions thus acquired are either accustomed to live under a\nprince, or to live in freedom; and are acquired either by the arms of\nthe prince himself, or of others, or else by fortune or by ability.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nI will leave out all discussion on republics, inasmuch as in another\nplace I have written of them at length, and will address myself only to\nprincipalities. In doing so I will keep to the order indicated above,\nand discuss how such principalities are to be ruled and preserved.\n\nI say at once there are fewer difficulties in holding hereditary states,\nand those long accustomed to the family of their prince, than new\nones; for it is sufficient only not to transgress the customs of his\nancestors, and to deal prudently with circumstances as they arise, for a\nprince of average powers to maintain himself in his state, unless he\nbe deprived of it by some extraordinary and excessive force; and if he\nshould be so deprived of it, whenever anything sinister happens to the\nusurper, he will regain it.\n\nWe have in Italy, for example, the Duke of Ferrara, who could not have\nwithstood the attacks of the Venetians in '84, nor those of Pope Julius\nin '10, unless he had been long established in his dominions. For the\nhereditary prince has less cause and less necessity to offend; hence it\nhappens that he will be more loved; and unless extraordinary vices cause\nhim to be hated, it is reasonable to expect that his subjects will be\nnaturally well disposed towards him; and in the antiquity and duration\nof his rule the memories and motives that make for change are lost, for\none change always leaves the toothing for another.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Considering the difficulties which men have had to hold to a newly\nacquired state, some might wonder how, seeing that Alexander the\nGreat became the master of Asia in a few years, and died whilst it\nwas scarcely settled (whence it might appear reasonable that the whole\nempire would have rebelled), nevertheless his successors maintained\nthemselves, and had to meet no other difficulty than that which arose\namong themselves from their own ambitions.\n\nI answer that the principalities of which one has record are found to\nbe governed in two different ways; either by a prince, with a body\nof servants, who assist him to govern the kingdom as ministers by his\nfavour and permission; or by a prince and barons, who hold that dignity\nby antiquity of blood and not by the grace of the prince. Such barons\nhave states and their own subjects, who recognize them as lords and hold\nthem in natural affection. Those states that are governed by a prince\nand his servants hold their prince in more consideration, because in all\nthe country there is no one who is recognized as superior to him, and\nif they yield obedience to another they do it as to a minister and\nofficial, and they do not bear him any particular affection.\n\nThe examples of these two governments in our time are the Turk and the\nKing of France. The entire monarchy of the Turk is governed by one lord,\nthe others are his servants; and, dividing his kingdom into sanjaks, he\nsends there different administrators, and shifts and changes them as\nhe chooses. But the King of France is placed in the midst of an ancient\nbody of lords, acknowledged by their own subjects, and beloved by them;\nthey have their own prerogatives, nor can the king take these away\nexcept at his peril. Therefore, he who considers both of these states\nwill recognize great difficulties in seizing the state of the Turk,\nbut, once it is conquered, great ease in holding it. The causes of the\ndifficulties in seizing the kingdom of the Turk are that the usurper\ncannot be called in by the princes of the kingdom, nor can he hope to be\nassisted in his designs by the revolt of those whom the lord has around\nhim. This arises from the reasons given above; for his ministers, being\nall slaves and bondmen, can only be corrupted with great difficulty, and\none can expect little advantage from them when they have been corrupted,\nas they cannot carry the people with them, for the reasons assigned.\nHence, he who attacks the Turk must bear in mind that he will find him\nunited, and he will have to rely more on his own strength than on the\nrevolt of others; but, if once the Turk has been conquered, and routed\nin the field in such a way that he cannot replace his armies, there\nis nothing to fear but the family of this prince, and, this being\nexterminated, there remains no one to fear, the others having no credit\nwith the people; and as the conqueror did not rely on them before his\nvictory, so he ought not to fear them after it.\n\nThe contrary happens in kingdoms governed like that of France, because\none can easily enter there by gaining over some baron of the kingdom,\nfor one always finds malcontents and such as desire a change. Such men,\nfor the reasons given, can open the way into the state and render the\nvictory easy; but if you wish to hold it afterwards, you meet with\ninfinite difficulties, both from those who have assisted you and from\nthose you have crushed. Nor is it enough for you to have exterminated\nthe family of the prince, because the lords that remain make themselves\nthe heads of fresh movements against you, and as you are unable either\nto satisfy or exterminate them, that state is lost whenever time brings\nthe opportunity.\n\nNow if you will consider what was the nature of the government of\nDarius, you will find it similar to the kingdom of the Turk, and\ntherefore it was only necessary for Alexander, first to overthrow him in\nthe field, and then to take the country from him. After which victory,\nDarius being killed, the state remained secure to Alexander, for the\nabove reasons. And if his successors had been united they would have\nenjoyed it securely and at their ease, for there were no tumults raised\nin the kingdom except those they provoked themselves.\n\nBut it is impossible to hold with such tranquillity states constituted\nlike that of France. Hence arose those frequent rebellions against the\nRomans in Spain, France, and Greece, owing to the many principalities\nthere were in these states, of which, as long as the memory of them\nendured, the Romans always held an insecure possession; but with the\npower and long continuance of the empire the memory of them passed\naway, and the Romans then became secure possessors. And when fighting\nafterwards amongst themselves, each one was able to attach to himself\nhis own parts of the country, according to the authority he had assumed\nthere; and the family of the former lord being exterminated, none other\nthan the Romans were acknowledged.\n\nWhen these things are remembered no one will marvel at the ease with\nwhich Alexander held the Empire of Asia, or at the difficulties which\nothers have had to keep an acquisition, such as Pyrrhus and many more;\nthis is not occasioned by the little or abundance of ability in the\nconqueror, but by the want of uniformity in the subject state.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Whenever those states which have been acquired as stated have been\naccustomed to live under their own laws and in freedom, there are three\ncourses for those who wish to hold them: the first is to ruin them, the\nnext is to reside there in person, the third is to permit them to live\nunder their own laws, drawing a tribute, and establishing within it an\noligarchy which will keep it friendly to you. Because such a government,\nbeing created by the prince, knows that it cannot stand without\nhis friendship and interest, and does it utmost to support him; and\ntherefore he who would keep a city accustomed to freedom will hold it\nmore easily by the means of its own citizens than in any other way.\n\nThere are, for example, the Spartans and the Romans. The Spartans held\nAthens and Thebes, establishing there an oligarchy; nevertheless they\nlost them. The Romans, in order to hold Capua, Carthage, and Numantia,\ndismantled them, and did not lose them. They wished to hold Greece as\nthe Spartans held it, making it free and permitting its laws, and did\nnot succeed. So to hold it they were compelled to dismantle many\ncities in the country, for in truth there is no safe way to retain them\notherwise than by ruining them. And he who becomes master of a city\naccustomed to freedom and does not destroy it, may expect to be\ndestroyed by it, for in rebellion it has always the watchword of liberty\nand its ancient privileges as a rallying point, which neither time\nnor benefits will ever cause it to forget. And whatever you may do or\nprovide against, they never forget that name or their privileges unless\nthey are disunited or dispersed, but at every chance they immediately\nrally to them, as Pisa after the hundred years she had been held in\nbondage by the Florentines.\n\nBut when cities or countries are accustomed to live under a prince, and\nhis family is exterminated, they, being on the one hand accustomed to\nobey and on the other hand not having the old prince, cannot agree in\nmaking one from amongst themselves, and they do not know how to govern\nthemselves. For this reason they are very slow to take up arms, and a\nprince can gain them to himself and secure them much more easily. But\nin republics there is more vitality, greater hatred, and more desire\nfor vengeance, which will never permit them to allow the memory of their\nformer liberty to rest; so that the safest way is to destroy them or to\nreside there.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nAlthough a prince may rise from a private station in two ways, neither\nof which can be entirely attributed to fortune or genius, yet it is\nmanifest to me that I must not be silent on them, although one could be\nmore copiously treated when I discuss republics. These methods are\nwhen, either by some wicked or nefarious ways, one ascends to the\nprincipality, or when by the favour of his fellow-citizens a private\nperson becomes the prince of his country. And speaking of the first\nmethod, it will be illustrated by two examples--one ancient, the other\nmodern--and without entering further into the subject, I consider these\ntwo examples will suffice those who may be compelled to follow them.\n\nAgathocles, the Sicilian,(*) became King of Syracuse not only from\na private but from a low and abject position. This man, the son of a\npotter, through all the changes in his fortunes always led an infamous\nlife. Nevertheless, he accompanied his infamies with so much ability of\nmind and body that, having devoted himself to the military profession,\nhe rose through its ranks to be Praetor of Syracuse. Being established\nin that position, and having deliberately resolved to make himself\nprince and to seize by violence, without obligation to others, that\nwhich had been conceded to him by assent, he came to an understanding\nfor this purpose with Amilcar, the Carthaginian, who, with his army, was\nfighting in Sicily. One morning he assembled the people and the senate\nof Syracuse, as if he had to discuss with them things relating to the\nRepublic, and at a given signal the soldiers killed all the senators and\nthe richest of the people; these dead, he seized and held the princedom\nof that city without any civil commotion. And although he was twice\nrouted by the Carthaginians, and ultimately besieged, yet not only was\nhe able to defend his city, but leaving part of his men for its defence,\nwith the others he attacked Africa, and in a short time raised the\nsiege of Syracuse. The Carthaginians, reduced to extreme necessity, were\ncompelled to come to terms with Agathocles, and, leaving Sicily to him,\nhad to be content with the possession of Africa.\n\n     (*) Agathocles the Sicilian, born 361 B.C., died 289 B.C.\n\nTherefore, he who considers the actions and the genius of this man will\nsee nothing, or little, which can be attributed to fortune, inasmuch as\nhe attained pre-eminence, as is shown above, not by the favour of any\none, but step by step in the military profession, which steps were\ngained with a thousand troubles and perils, and were afterwards boldly\nheld by him with many hazardous dangers. Yet it cannot be called talent\nto slay fellow-citizens, to deceive friends, to be without faith,\nwithout mercy, without religion; such methods may gain empire, but\nnot glory. Still, if the courage of Agathocles in entering into and\nextricating himself from dangers be considered, together with his\ngreatness of mind in enduring and overcoming hardships, it cannot be\nseen why he should be esteemed less than the most notable captain.\nNevertheless, his barbarous cruelty and inhumanity with infinite\nwickedness do not permit him to be celebrated among the most excellent\nmen. What he achieved cannot be attributed either to fortune or genius.\n\nIn our times, during the rule of Alexander the Sixth, Oliverotto da\nFermo, having been left an orphan many years before, was brought up\nby his maternal uncle, Giovanni Fogliani, and in the early days of his\nyouth sent to fight under Pagolo Vitelli, that, being trained under\nhis discipline, he might attain some high position in the military\nprofession. After Pagolo died, he fought under his brother Vitellozzo,\nand in a very short time, being endowed with wit and a vigorous body\nand mind, he became the first man in his profession. But it appearing\na paltry thing to serve under others, he resolved, with the aid of some\ncitizens of Fermo, to whom the slavery of their country was dearer than\nits liberty, and with the help of the Vitelleschi, to seize Fermo. So\nhe wrote to Giovanni Fogliani that, having been away from home for many\nyears, he wished to visit him and his city, and in some measure to look\nupon his patrimony; and although he had not laboured to acquire anything\nexcept honour, yet, in order that the citizens should see he had not\nspent his time in vain, he desired to come honourably, so would be\naccompanied by one hundred horsemen, his friends and retainers; and he\nentreated Giovanni to arrange that he should be received honourably by\nthe Fermians, all of which would be not only to his honour, but also to\nthat of Giovanni himself, who had brought him up.\n\nGiovanni, therefore, did not fail in any attentions due to his nephew,\nand he caused him to be honourably received by the Fermians, and he\nlodged him in his own house, where, having passed some days, and having\narranged what was necessary for his wicked designs, Oliverotto gave a\nsolemn banquet to which he invited Giovanni Fogliani and the chiefs of\nFermo. When the viands and all the other entertainments that are usual\nin such banquets were finished, Oliverotto artfully began certain grave\ndiscourses, speaking of the greatness of Pope Alexander and his son\nCesare, and of their enterprises, to which discourse Giovanni and others\nanswered; but he rose at once, saying that such matters ought to be\ndiscussed in a more private place, and he betook himself to a chamber,\nwhither Giovanni and the rest of the citizens went in after him. No\nsooner were they seated than soldiers issued from secret places and\nslaughtered Giovanni and the rest. After these murders Oliverotto,\nmounted on horseback, rode up and down the town and besieged the chief\nmagistrate in the palace, so that in fear the people were forced to obey\nhim, and to form a government, of which he made himself the prince. He\nkilled all the malcontents who were able to injure him, and strengthened\nhimself with new civil and military ordinances, in such a way that, in\nthe year during which he held the principality, not only was he\nsecure in the city of Fermo, but he had become formidable to all his\nneighbours. And his destruction would have been as difficult as that\nof Agathocles if he had not allowed himself to be overreached by Cesare\nBorgia, who took him with the Orsini and Vitelli at Sinigalia, as was\nstated above. Thus one year after he had committed this parricide, he\nwas strangled, together with Vitellozzo, whom he had made his leader in\nvalour and wickedness.\n\nSome may wonder how it can happen that Agathocles, and his like, after\ninfinite treacheries and cruelties, should live for long secure in\nhis country, and defend himself from external enemies, and never be\nconspired against by his own citizens; seeing that many others, by means\nof cruelty, have never been able even in peaceful times to hold the\nstate, still less in the doubtful times of war. I believe that this\nfollows from severities(*) being badly or properly used. Those may be\ncalled properly used, if of evil it is possible to speak well, that are\napplied at one blow and are necessary to one's security, and that are\nnot persisted in afterwards unless they can be turned to the advantage\nof the subjects. The badly employed are those which, notwithstanding\nthey may be few in the commencement, multiply with time rather than\ndecrease. Those who practise the first system are able, by aid of God\nor man, to mitigate in some degree their rule, as Agathocles did. It is\nimpossible for those who follow the other to maintain themselves.\n\n     (*) Mr Burd suggests that this word probably comes near the\n     modern equivalent of Machiavelli's thought when he speaks of\n     \"crudelta\" than the more obvious \"cruelties.\"\n\nHence it is to be remarked that, in seizing a state, the usurper ought\nto examine closely into all those injuries which it is necessary for him\nto inflict, and to do them all at one stroke so as not to have to repeat\nthem daily; and thus by not unsettling men he will be able to reassure\nthem, and win them to himself by benefits. He who does otherwise, either\nfrom timidity or evil advice, is always compelled to keep the knife\nin his hand; neither can he rely on his subjects, nor can they attach\nthemselves to him, owing to their continued and repeated wrongs. For\ninjuries ought to be done all at one time, so that, being tasted less,\nthey offend less; benefits ought to be given little by little, so that\nthe flavour of them may last longer.\n\nAnd above all things, a prince ought to live amongst his people in such\na way that no unexpected circumstances, whether of good or evil, shall\nmake him change; because if the necessity for this comes in troubled\ntimes, you are too late for harsh measures; and mild ones will not help\nyou, for they will be considered as forced from you, and no one will be\nunder any obligation to you for them.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nIt only remains now to speak of ecclesiastical principalities, touching\nwhich all difficulties are prior to getting possession, because they\nare acquired either by capacity or good fortune, and they can be held\nwithout either; for they are sustained by the ancient ordinances of\nreligion, which are so all-powerful, and of such a character that the\nprincipalities may be held no matter how their princes behave and live.\nThese princes alone have states and do not defend them; and they have\nsubjects and do not rule them; and the states, although unguarded, are\nnot taken from them, and the subjects, although not ruled, do not care,\nand they have neither the desire nor the ability to alienate themselves.\nSuch principalities only are secure and happy. But being upheld by\npowers, to which the human mind cannot reach, I shall speak no more of\nthem, because, being exalted and maintained by God, it would be the act\nof a presumptuous and rash man to discuss them.\n\nNevertheless, if any one should ask of me how comes it that the\nChurch has attained such greatness in temporal power, seeing that from\nAlexander backwards the Italian potentates (not only those who have been\ncalled potentates, but every baron and lord, though the smallest)\nhave valued the temporal power very slightly--yet now a king of France\ntrembles before it, and it has been able to drive him from Italy, and\nto ruin the Venetians--although this may be very manifest, it does not\nappear to me superfluous to recall it in some measure to memory.\n\nBefore Charles, King of France, passed into Italy,(*) this country was\nunder the dominion of the Pope, the Venetians, the King of Naples, the\nDuke of Milan, and the Florentines. These potentates had two principal\nanxieties: the one, that no foreigner should enter Italy under arms; the\nother, that none of themselves should seize more territory. Those about\nwhom there was the most anxiety were the Pope and the Venetians. To\nrestrain the Venetians the union of all the others was necessary, as it\nwas for the defence of Ferrara; and to keep down the Pope they made use\nof the barons of Rome, who, being divided into two factions, Orsini and\nColonnesi, had always a pretext for disorder, and, standing with arms in\ntheir hands under the eyes of the Pontiff, kept the pontificate weak and\npowerless. And although there might arise sometimes a courageous pope,\nsuch as Sixtus, yet neither fortune nor wisdom could rid him of these\nannoyances. And the short life of a pope is also a cause of weakness;\nfor in the ten years, which is the average life of a pope, he can with\ndifficulty lower one of the factions; and if, so to speak, one people\nshould almost destroy the Colonnesi, another would arise hostile to the\nOrsini, who would support their opponents, and yet would not have time\nto ruin the Orsini. This was the reason why the temporal powers of the\npope were little esteemed in Italy.\n\n     (*) Charles VIII invaded Italy in 1494.\n\nAlexander the Sixth arose afterwards, who of all the pontiffs that\nhave ever been showed how a pope with both money and arms was able to\nprevail; and through the instrumentality of the Duke Valentino, and by\nreason of the entry of the French, he brought about all those things\nwhich I have discussed above in the actions of the duke. And although\nhis intention was not to aggrandize the Church, but the duke,\nnevertheless, what he did contributed to the greatness of the Church,\nwhich, after his death and the ruin of the duke, became the heir to all\nhis labours.\n\nPope Julius came afterwards and found the Church strong, possessing all\nthe Romagna, the barons of Rome reduced to impotence, and, through the\nchastisements of Alexander, the factions wiped out; he also found\nthe way open to accumulate money in a manner such as had never been\npractised before Alexander's time. Such things Julius not only followed,\nbut improved upon, and he intended to gain Bologna, to ruin the\nVenetians, and to drive the French out of Italy. All of these\nenterprises prospered with him, and so much the more to his credit,\ninasmuch as he did everything to strengthen the Church and not any\nprivate person. He kept also the Orsini and Colonnesi factions within\nthe bounds in which he found them; and although there was among them\nsome mind to make disturbance, nevertheless he held two things firm: the\none, the greatness of the Church, with which he terrified them; and the\nother, not allowing them to have their own cardinals, who caused the\ndisorders among them. For whenever these factions have their cardinals\nthey do not remain quiet for long, because cardinals foster the factions\nin Rome and out of it, and the barons are compelled to support them, and\nthus from the ambitions of prelates arise disorders and tumults among\nthe barons. For these reasons his Holiness Pope Leo(*) found the\npontificate most powerful, and it is to be hoped that, if others made it\ngreat in arms, he will make it still greater and more venerated by his\ngoodness and infinite other virtues.\n\n\n", "summary": "We've arrived at the last type of state. Hurrah! But if the book is only half done, what's the rest of it about? Don't worry: it's coming. Church states are awesome because no matter what you do, you can't lose them. You don't have to defend them, or even govern them. It is totally a sweet deal being pope. Now, Machiavelli is just a little bit sarcastic when he says that, \"since Church states depend on forces beyond the reach of human reason, I shall say no more about them,\" but continues to talk about them for a couple of pages . Recently, the church has been getting more and more earthly power. We're not talking angels here, we're talking war popes. This sounds a bit weird to us, since we can't imagine Pope John Paul or Benedict XVI going all Rambo on someone, but these were hard core biker popes back in Machiavelli's day. Apparently the whole aggro-pope thing snuck up on Europe and no one noticed that they were getting so powerful that they could boss France around. We get it. They are popes. They're supposed to be goody two-shoes; plus, they only rule for like ten years. What can get done in that amount of time? Well, everything changed when Cesare Borgia's dad, Pope Alexander VI, came on the scene. He was darned determined to get his kid some land, and he did. Sure, that land was reabsorbed into the pope's territory, but oh well. So, when Julius, the next pope, took over, the church was stronger than ever. Machiavelli ends this chapter with some pretty blatant flattery to Pope Leo, the pope at the time, and the uncle of the prince Machiavelli was writing to. Tricky."}, {"": "8", "document": "\nA prince ought to have no other aim or thought, nor select anything else\nfor his study, than war and its rules and discipline; for this is the\nsole art that belongs to him who rules, and it is of such force that it\nnot only upholds those who are born princes, but it often enables men\nto rise from a private station to that rank. And, on the contrary, it is\nseen that when princes have thought more of ease than of arms they have\nlost their states. And the first cause of your losing it is to neglect\nthis art; and what enables you to acquire a state is to be master of\nthe art. Francesco Sforza, through being martial, from a private person\nbecame Duke of Milan; and the sons, through avoiding the hardships and\ntroubles of arms, from dukes became private persons. For among other\nevils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised, and\nthis is one of those ignominies against which a prince ought to guard\nhimself, as is shown later on. Because there is nothing proportionate\nbetween the armed and the unarmed; and it is not reasonable that he who\nis armed should yield obedience willingly to him who is unarmed, or that\nthe unarmed man should be secure among armed servants. Because, there\nbeing in the one disdain and in the other suspicion, it is not possible\nfor them to work well together. And therefore a prince who does not\nunderstand the art of war, over and above the other misfortunes already\nmentioned, cannot be respected by his soldiers, nor can he rely on them.\nHe ought never, therefore, to have out of his thoughts this subject of\nwar, and in peace he should addict himself more to its exercise than in\nwar; this he can do in two ways, the one by action, the other by study.\n\nAs regards action, he ought above all things to keep his men well\norganized and drilled, to follow incessantly the chase, by which he\naccustoms his body to hardships, and learns something of the nature of\nlocalities, and gets to find out how the mountains rise, how the valleys\nopen out, how the plains lie, and to understand the nature of rivers and\nmarshes, and in all this to take the greatest care. Which knowledge\nis useful in two ways. Firstly, he learns to know his country, and\nis better able to undertake its defence; afterwards, by means of the\nknowledge and observation of that locality, he understands with ease any\nother which it may be necessary for him to study hereafter; because\nthe hills, valleys, and plains, and rivers and marshes that are, for\ninstance, in Tuscany, have a certain resemblance to those of other\ncountries, so that with a knowledge of the aspect of one country one can\neasily arrive at a knowledge of others. And the prince that lacks this\nskill lacks the essential which it is desirable that a captain should\npossess, for it teaches him to surprise his enemy, to select quarters,\nto lead armies, to array the battle, to besiege towns to advantage.\n\nPhilopoemen,(*) Prince of the Achaeans, among other praises which\nwriters have bestowed on him, is commended because in time of peace he\nnever had anything in his mind but the rules of war; and when he was in\nthe country with friends, he often stopped and reasoned with them: \"If\nthe enemy should be upon that hill, and we should find ourselves here\nwith our army, with whom would be the advantage? How should one best\nadvance to meet him, keeping the ranks? If we should wish to retreat,\nhow ought we to pursue?\" And he would set forth to them, as he went, all\nthe chances that could befall an army; he would listen to their opinion\nand state his, confirming it with reasons, so that by these continual\ndiscussions there could never arise, in time of war, any unexpected\ncircumstances that he could not deal with.\n\n     (*) Philopoemen, \"the last of the Greeks,\" born 252 B.C.,\n     died 183 B.C.\n\nBut to exercise the intellect the prince should read histories, and\nstudy there the actions of illustrious men, to see how they have borne\nthemselves in war, to examine the causes of their victories and defeat,\nso as to avoid the latter and imitate the former; and above all do as\nan illustrious man did, who took as an exemplar one who had been praised\nand famous before him, and whose achievements and deeds he always kept\nin his mind, as it is said Alexander the Great imitated Achilles, Caesar\nAlexander, Scipio Cyrus. And whoever reads the life of Cyrus, written\nby Xenophon, will recognize afterwards in the life of Scipio how that\nimitation was his glory, and how in chastity, affability, humanity, and\nliberality Scipio conformed to those things which have been written of\nCyrus by Xenophon. A wise prince ought to observe some such rules, and\nnever in peaceful times stand idle, but increase his resources with\nindustry in such a way that they may be available to him in adversity,\nso that if fortune chances it may find him prepared to resist her blows.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nCommencing then with the first of the above-named characteristics, I say\nthat it would be well to be reputed liberal. Nevertheless, liberality\nexercised in a way that does not bring you the reputation for it,\ninjures you; for if one exercises it honestly and as it should be\nexercised, it may not become known, and you will not avoid the reproach\nof its opposite. Therefore, any one wishing to maintain among men the\nname of liberal is obliged to avoid no attribute of magnificence; so\nthat a prince thus inclined will consume in such acts all his property,\nand will be compelled in the end, if he wish to maintain the name\nof liberal, to unduly weigh down his people, and tax them, and do\neverything he can to get money. This will soon make him odious to his\nsubjects, and becoming poor he will be little valued by any one; thus,\nwith his liberality, having offended many and rewarded few, he is\naffected by the very first trouble and imperilled by whatever may be the\nfirst danger; recognizing this himself, and wishing to draw back from\nit, he runs at once into the reproach of being miserly.\n\nTherefore, a prince, not being able to exercise this virtue of\nliberality in such a way that it is recognized, except to his cost, if\nhe is wise he ought not to fear the reputation of being mean, for in\ntime he will come to be more considered than if liberal, seeing that\nwith his economy his revenues are enough, that he can defend himself\nagainst all attacks, and is able to engage in enterprises without\nburdening his people; thus it comes to pass that he exercises liberality\ntowards all from whom he does not take, who are numberless, and meanness\ntowards those to whom he does not give, who are few.\n\nWe have not seen great things done in our time except by those who have\nbeen considered mean; the rest have failed. Pope Julius the Second was\nassisted in reaching the papacy by a reputation for liberality, yet he\ndid not strive afterwards to keep it up, when he made war on the King of\nFrance; and he made many wars without imposing any extraordinary tax on\nhis subjects, for he supplied his additional expenses out of his long\nthriftiness. The present King of Spain would not have undertaken or\nconquered in so many enterprises if he had been reputed liberal. A\nprince, therefore, provided that he has not to rob his subjects, that he\ncan defend himself, that he does not become poor and abject, that he\nis not forced to become rapacious, ought to hold of little account\na reputation for being mean, for it is one of those vices which will\nenable him to govern.\n\nAnd if any one should say: Caesar obtained empire by liberality, and\nmany others have reached the highest positions by having been liberal,\nand by being considered so, I answer: Either you are a prince in\nfact, or in a way to become one. In the first case this liberality is\ndangerous, in the second it is very necessary to be considered liberal;\nand Caesar was one of those who wished to become pre-eminent in Rome;\nbut if he had survived after becoming so, and had not moderated his\nexpenses, he would have destroyed his government. And if any one should\nreply: Many have been princes, and have done great things with armies,\nwho have been considered very liberal, I reply: Either a prince spends\nthat which is his own or his subjects' or else that of others. In the\nfirst case he ought to be sparing, in the second he ought not to neglect\nany opportunity for liberality. And to the prince who goes forth with\nhis army, supporting it by pillage, sack, and extortion, handling that\nwhich belongs to others, this liberality is necessary, otherwise he\nwould not be followed by soldiers. And of that which is neither yours\nnor your subjects' you can be a ready giver, as were Cyrus, Caesar, and\nAlexander; because it does not take away your reputation if you squander\nthat of others, but adds to it; it is only squandering your own that\ninjures you.\n\nAnd there is nothing wastes so rapidly as liberality, for even whilst\nyou exercise it you lose the power to do so, and so become either poor\nor despised, or else, in avoiding poverty, rapacious and hated. And a\nprince should guard himself, above all things, against being despised\nand hated; and liberality leads you to both. Therefore it is wiser to\nhave a reputation for meanness which brings reproach without hatred,\nthan to be compelled through seeking a reputation for liberality to\nincur a name for rapacity which begets reproach with hatred.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nEvery one admits how praiseworthy it is in a prince to keep faith, and\nto live with integrity and not with craft. Nevertheless our experience\nhas been that those princes who have done great things have held good\nfaith of little account, and have known how to circumvent the intellect\nof men by craft, and in the end have overcome those who have relied on\ntheir word. You must know there are two ways of contesting,(*) the one\nby the law, the other by force; the first method is proper to men, the\nsecond to beasts; but because the first is frequently not sufficient, it\nis necessary to have recourse to the second. Therefore it is necessary\nfor a prince to understand how to avail himself of the beast and the\nman. This has been figuratively taught to princes by ancient writers,\nwho describe how Achilles and many other princes of old were given to\nthe Centaur Chiron to nurse, who brought them up in his discipline;\nwhich means solely that, as they had for a teacher one who was half\nbeast and half man, so it is necessary for a prince to know how to make\nuse of both natures, and that one without the other is not durable. A\nprince, therefore, being compelled knowingly to adopt the beast, ought\nto choose the fox and the lion; because the lion cannot defend himself\nagainst snares and the fox cannot defend himself against wolves.\nTherefore, it is necessary to be a fox to discover the snares and a\nlion to terrify the wolves. Those who rely simply on the lion do not\nunderstand what they are about. Therefore a wise lord cannot, nor ought\nhe to, keep faith when such observance may be turned against him, and\nwhen the reasons that caused him to pledge it exist no longer. If men\nwere entirely good this precept would not hold, but because they are\nbad, and will not keep faith with you, you too are not bound to observe\nit with them. Nor will there ever be wanting to a prince legitimate\nreasons to excuse this non-observance. Of this endless modern examples\ncould be given, showing how many treaties and engagements have been made\nvoid and of no effect through the faithlessness of princes; and he who\nhas known best how to employ the fox has succeeded best.\n\n     (*) \"Contesting,\" i.e. \"striving for mastery.\" Mr Burd\n     points out that this passage is imitated directly from\n     Cicero's \"De Officiis\": \"Nam cum sint duo genera decertandi,\n     unum per disceptationem, alterum per vim; cumque illud\n     proprium sit hominis, hoc beluarum; confugiendum est ad\n     posterius, si uti non licet superiore.\"\n\nBut it is necessary to know well how to disguise this characteristic,\nand to be a great pretender and dissembler; and men are so simple, and\nso subject to present necessities, that he who seeks to deceive will\nalways find someone who will allow himself to be deceived. One recent\nexample I cannot pass over in silence. Alexander the Sixth did nothing\nelse but deceive men, nor ever thought of doing otherwise, and he\nalways found victims; for there never was a man who had greater power\nin asserting, or who with greater oaths would affirm a thing, yet would\nobserve it less; nevertheless his deceits always succeeded according to\nhis wishes,(*) because he well understood this side of mankind.\n\n     (*) \"Nondimanco sempre gli succederono gli inganni (ad\n     votum).\" The words \"ad votum\" are omitted in the Testina\n     addition, 1550.\n\n     Alexander never did what he said,\n     Cesare never said what he did.\n\nTherefore it is unnecessary for a prince to have all the good qualities\nI have enumerated, but it is very necessary to appear to have them. And\nI shall dare to say this also, that to have them and always to observe\nthem is injurious, and that to appear to have them is useful; to appear\nmerciful, faithful, humane, religious, upright, and to be so, but with a\nmind so framed that should you require not to be so, you may be able and\nknow how to change to the opposite.\n\nAnd you have to understand this, that a prince, especially a new one,\ncannot observe all those things for which men are esteemed, being often\nforced, in order to maintain the state, to act contrary to fidelity,(*)\nfriendship, humanity, and religion. Therefore it is necessary for him to\nhave a mind ready to turn itself accordingly as the winds and variations\nof fortune force it, yet, as I have said above, not to diverge from the\ngood if he can avoid doing so, but, if compelled, then to know how to\nset about it.\n\n     (*) \"Contrary to fidelity\" or \"faith,\" \"contro alla fede,\"\n     and \"tutto fede,\" \"altogether faithful,\" in the next\n     paragraph. It is noteworthy that these two phrases, \"contro\n     alla fede\" and \"tutto fede,\" were omitted in the Testina\n     edition, which was published with the sanction of the papal\n     authorities. It may be that the meaning attached to the word\n     \"fede\" was \"the faith,\" i.e. the Catholic creed, and not as\n     rendered here \"fidelity\" and \"faithful.\" Observe that the\n     word \"religione\" was suffered to stand in the text of the\n     Testina, being used to signify indifferently every shade of\n     belief, as witness \"the religion,\" a phrase inevitably\n     employed to designate the Huguenot heresy. South in his\n     Sermon IX, p. 69, ed. 1843, comments on this passage as\n     follows: \"That great patron and Coryphaeus of this tribe,\n     Nicolo Machiavel, laid down this for a master rule in his\n     political scheme: 'That the show of religion was helpful to\n     the politician, but the reality of it hurtful and\n     pernicious.'\"\n\nFor this reason a prince ought to take care that he never lets anything\nslip from his lips that is not replete with the above-named five\nqualities, that he may appear to him who sees and hears him altogether\nmerciful, faithful, humane, upright, and religious. There is nothing\nmore necessary to appear to have than this last quality, inasmuch as men\njudge generally more by the eye than by the hand, because it belongs to\neverybody to see you, to few to come in touch with you. Every one sees\nwhat you appear to be, few really know what you are, and those few dare\nnot oppose themselves to the opinion of the many, who have the majesty\nof the state to defend them; and in the actions of all men, and\nespecially of princes, which it is not prudent to challenge, one judges\nby the result.\n\nFor that reason, let a prince have the credit of conquering and holding\nhis state, the means will always be considered honest, and he will be\npraised by everybody; because the vulgar are always taken by what a\nthing seems to be and by what comes of it; and in the world there are\nonly the vulgar, for the few find a place there only when the many have\nno ground to rest on.\n\nOne prince(*) of the present time, whom it is not well to name, never\npreaches anything else but peace and good faith, and to both he is\nmost hostile, and either, if he had kept it, would have deprived him of\nreputation and kingdom many a time.\n\n     (*) Ferdinand of Aragon. \"When Machiavelli was writing 'The\n     Prince' it would have been clearly impossible to mention\n     Ferdinand's name here without giving offence.\" Burd's \"Il\n     Principe,\" p. 308.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n1. Some princes, so as to hold securely the state, have disarmed their\nsubjects; others have kept their subject towns distracted by factions;\nothers have fostered enmities against themselves; others have laid\nthemselves out to gain over those whom they distrusted in the beginning\nof their governments; some have built fortresses; some have overthrown\nand destroyed them. And although one cannot give a final judgment on all\nof these things unless one possesses the particulars of those states\nin which a decision has to be made, nevertheless I will speak as\ncomprehensively as the matter of itself will admit.\n\n2. There never was a new prince who has disarmed his subjects; rather\nwhen he has found them disarmed he has always armed them, because, by\narming them, those arms become yours, those men who were distrusted\nbecome faithful, and those who were faithful are kept so, and your\nsubjects become your adherents. And whereas all subjects cannot be\narmed, yet when those whom you do arm are benefited, the others can be\nhandled more freely, and this difference in their treatment, which they\nquite understand, makes the former your dependents, and the latter,\nconsidering it to be necessary that those who have the most danger and\nservice should have the most reward, excuse you. But when you disarm\nthem, you at once offend them by showing that you distrust them, either\nfor cowardice or for want of loyalty, and either of these opinions\nbreeds hatred against you. And because you cannot remain unarmed, it\nfollows that you turn to mercenaries, which are of the character already\nshown; even if they should be good they would not be sufficient to\ndefend you against powerful enemies and distrusted subjects. Therefore,\nas I have said, a new prince in a new principality has always\ndistributed arms. Histories are full of examples. But when a prince\nacquires a new state, which he adds as a province to his old one, then\nit is necessary to disarm the men of that state, except those who have\nbeen his adherents in acquiring it; and these again, with time and\nopportunity, should be rendered soft and effeminate; and matters should\nbe managed in such a way that all the armed men in the state shall be\nyour own soldiers who in your old state were living near you.\n\n3. Our forefathers, and those who were reckoned wise, were accustomed\nto say that it was necessary to hold Pistoia by factions and Pisa by\nfortresses; and with this idea they fostered quarrels in some of their\ntributary towns so as to keep possession of them the more easily.\nThis may have been well enough in those times when Italy was in a way\nbalanced, but I do not believe that it can be accepted as a precept\nfor to-day, because I do not believe that factions can ever be of use;\nrather it is certain that when the enemy comes upon you in divided\ncities you are quickly lost, because the weakest party will always\nassist the outside forces and the other will not be able to resist.\nThe Venetians, moved, as I believe, by the above reasons, fostered the\nGuelph and Ghibelline factions in their tributary cities; and although\nthey never allowed them to come to bloodshed, yet they nursed these\ndisputes amongst them, so that the citizens, distracted by their\ndifferences, should not unite against them. Which, as we saw, did not\nafterwards turn out as expected, because, after the rout at Vaila, one\nparty at once took courage and seized the state. Such methods argue,\ntherefore, weakness in the prince, because these factions will never be\npermitted in a vigorous principality; such methods for enabling one the\nmore easily to manage subjects are only useful in times of peace, but if\nwar comes this policy proves fallacious.\n\n4. Without doubt princes become great when they overcome the\ndifficulties and obstacles by which they are confronted, and therefore\nfortune, especially when she desires to make a new prince great, who\nhas a greater necessity to earn renown than an hereditary one, causes\nenemies to arise and form designs against him, in order that he may have\nthe opportunity of overcoming them, and by them to mount higher, as by a\nladder which his enemies have raised. For this reason many consider that\na wise prince, when he has the opportunity, ought with craft to foster\nsome animosity against himself, so that, having crushed it, his renown\nmay rise higher.\n\n5. Princes, especially new ones, have found more fidelity and assistance\nin those men who in the beginning of their rule were distrusted than\namong those who in the beginning were trusted. Pandolfo Petrucci, Prince\nof Siena, ruled his state more by those who had been distrusted than by\nothers. But on this question one cannot speak generally, for it varies\nso much with the individual; I will only say this, that those men who\nat the commencement of a princedom have been hostile, if they are of\na description to need assistance to support themselves, can always be\ngained over with the greatest ease, and they will be tightly held to\nserve the prince with fidelity, inasmuch as they know it to be very\nnecessary for them to cancel by deeds the bad impression which he had\nformed of them; and thus the prince always extracts more profit from\nthem than from those who, serving him in too much security, may neglect\nhis affairs. And since the matter demands it, I must not fail to warn a\nprince, who by means of secret favours has acquired a new state, that he\nmust well consider the reasons which induced those to favour him who\ndid so; and if it be not a natural affection towards him, but only\ndiscontent with their government, then he will only keep them friendly\nwith great trouble and difficulty, for it will be impossible to satisfy\nthem. And weighing well the reasons for this in those examples which\ncan be taken from ancient and modern affairs, we shall find that it is\neasier for the prince to make friends of those men who were contented\nunder the former government, and are therefore his enemies, than of\nthose who, being discontented with it, were favourable to him and\nencouraged him to seize it.\n\n6. It has been a custom with princes, in order to hold their states\nmore securely, to build fortresses that may serve as a bridle and bit\nto those who might design to work against them, and as a place of refuge\nfrom a first attack. I praise this system because it has been made use\nof formerly. Notwithstanding that, Messer Nicolo Vitelli in our times\nhas been seen to demolish two fortresses in Citta di Castello so that he\nmight keep that state; Guido Ubaldo, Duke of Urbino, on returning to\nhis dominion, whence he had been driven by Cesare Borgia, razed to the\nfoundations all the fortresses in that province, and considered that\nwithout them it would be more difficult to lose it; the Bentivogli\nreturning to Bologna came to a similar decision. Fortresses, therefore,\nare useful or not according to circumstances; if they do you good in one\nway they injure you in another. And this question can be reasoned thus:\nthe prince who has more to fear from the people than from foreigners\nought to build fortresses, but he who has more to fear from foreigners\nthan from the people ought to leave them alone. The castle of Milan,\nbuilt by Francesco Sforza, has made, and will make, more trouble for the\nhouse of Sforza than any other disorder in the state. For this reason\nthe best possible fortress is--not to be hated by the people, because,\nalthough you may hold the fortresses, yet they will not save you if the\npeople hate you, for there will never be wanting foreigners to assist\na people who have taken arms against you. It has not been seen in our\ntimes that such fortresses have been of use to any prince, unless to the\nCountess of Forli,(*) when the Count Girolamo, her consort, was killed;\nfor by that means she was able to withstand the popular attack and wait\nfor assistance from Milan, and thus recover her state; and the posture\nof affairs was such at that time that the foreigners could not assist\nthe people. But fortresses were of little value to her afterwards when\nCesare Borgia attacked her, and when the people, her enemy, were allied\nwith foreigners. Therefore, it would have been safer for her, both then\nand before, not to have been hated by the people than to have had the\nfortresses. All these things considered then, I shall praise him\nwho builds fortresses as well as him who does not, and I shall blame\nwhoever, trusting in them, cares little about being hated by the people.\n\n     (*) Catherine Sforza, a daughter of Galeazzo Sforza and\n     Lucrezia Landriani, born 1463, died 1509. It was to the\n     Countess of Forli that Machiavelli was sent as envoy on 1499.\n     A letter from Fortunati to the countess announces the\n     appointment: \"I have been with the signori,\" wrote\n     Fortunati, \"to learn whom they would send and when. They\n     tell me that Nicolo Machiavelli, a learned young Florentine\n     noble, secretary to my Lords of the Ten, is to leave with me\n     at once.\" Cf. \"Catherine Sforza,\" by Count Pasolini,\n     translated by P. Sylvester, 1898.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nNothing makes a prince so much esteemed as great enterprises and setting\na fine example. We have in our time Ferdinand of Aragon, the present\nKing of Spain. He can almost be called a new prince, because he has\nrisen, by fame and glory, from being an insignificant king to be the\nforemost king in Christendom; and if you will consider his deeds\nyou will find them all great and some of them extraordinary. In the\nbeginning of his reign he attacked Granada, and this enterprise was the\nfoundation of his dominions. He did this quietly at first and without\nany fear of hindrance, for he held the minds of the barons of Castile\noccupied in thinking of the war and not anticipating any innovations;\nthus they did not perceive that by these means he was acquiring power\nand authority over them. He was able with the money of the Church and\nof the people to sustain his armies, and by that long war to lay the\nfoundation for the military skill which has since distinguished him.\nFurther, always using religion as a plea, so as to undertake greater\nschemes, he devoted himself with pious cruelty to driving out and\nclearing his kingdom of the Moors; nor could there be a more admirable\nexample, nor one more rare. Under this same cloak he assailed Africa,\nhe came down on Italy, he has finally attacked France; and thus his\nachievements and designs have always been great, and have kept the minds\nof his people in suspense and admiration and occupied with the issue of\nthem. And his actions have arisen in such a way, one out of the other,\nthat men have never been given time to work steadily against him.\n\nAgain, it much assists a prince to set unusual examples in internal\naffairs, similar to those which are related of Messer Bernabo da Milano,\nwho, when he had the opportunity, by any one in civil life doing some\nextraordinary thing, either good or bad, would take some method of\nrewarding or punishing him, which would be much spoken about. And a\nprince ought, above all things, always endeavour in every action to gain\nfor himself the reputation of being a great and remarkable man.\n\nA prince is also respected when he is either a true friend or a\ndownright enemy, that is to say, when, without any reservation, he\ndeclares himself in favour of one party against the other; which course\nwill always be more advantageous than standing neutral; because if two\nof your powerful neighbours come to blows, they are of such a character\nthat, if one of them conquers, you have either to fear him or not.\nIn either case it will always be more advantageous for you to declare\nyourself and to make war strenuously; because, in the first case, if\nyou do not declare yourself, you will invariably fall a prey to\nthe conqueror, to the pleasure and satisfaction of him who has been\nconquered, and you will have no reasons to offer, nor anything to\nprotect or to shelter you. Because he who conquers does not want\ndoubtful friends who will not aid him in the time of trial; and he who\nloses will not harbour you because you did not willingly, sword in hand,\ncourt his fate.\n\nAntiochus went into Greece, being sent for by the Aetolians to drive\nout the Romans. He sent envoys to the Achaeans, who were friends of\nthe Romans, exhorting them to remain neutral; and on the other hand the\nRomans urged them to take up arms. This question came to be discussed in\nthe council of the Achaeans, where the legate of Antiochus urged them to\nstand neutral. To this the Roman legate answered: \"As for that which has\nbeen said, that it is better and more advantageous for your state not\nto interfere in our war, nothing can be more erroneous; because by\nnot interfering you will be left, without favour or consideration, the\nguerdon of the conqueror.\" Thus it will always happen that he who is not\nyour friend will demand your neutrality, whilst he who is your friend\nwill entreat you to declare yourself with arms. And irresolute princes,\nto avoid present dangers, generally follow the neutral path, and are\ngenerally ruined. But when a prince declares himself gallantly in favour\nof one side, if the party with whom he allies himself conquers, although\nthe victor may be powerful and may have him at his mercy, yet he is\nindebted to him, and there is established a bond of amity; and men are\nnever so shameless as to become a monument of ingratitude by oppressing\nyou. Victories after all are never so complete that the victor must not\nshow some regard, especially to justice. But if he with whom you ally\nyourself loses, you may be sheltered by him, and whilst he is able he\nmay aid you, and you become companions on a fortune that may rise again.\n\nIn the second case, when those who fight are of such a character that\nyou have no anxiety as to who may conquer, so much the more is it\ngreater prudence to be allied, because you assist at the destruction\nof one by the aid of another who, if he had been wise, would have saved\nhim; and conquering, as it is impossible that he should not do with your\nassistance, he remains at your discretion. And here it is to be noted\nthat a prince ought to take care never to make an alliance with one\nmore powerful than himself for the purposes of attacking others, unless\nnecessity compels him, as is said above; because if he conquers you are\nat his discretion, and princes ought to avoid as much as possible being\nat the discretion of any one. The Venetians joined with France against\nthe Duke of Milan, and this alliance, which caused their ruin, could\nhave been avoided. But when it cannot be avoided, as happened to the\nFlorentines when the Pope and Spain sent armies to attack Lombardy, then\nin such a case, for the above reasons, the prince ought to favour one of\nthe parties.\n\nNever let any Government imagine that it can choose perfectly safe\ncourses; rather let it expect to have to take very doubtful ones,\nbecause it is found in ordinary affairs that one never seeks to avoid\none trouble without running into another; but prudence consists in\nknowing how to distinguish the character of troubles, and for choice to\ntake the lesser evil.\n\nA prince ought also to show himself a patron of ability, and to honour\nthe proficient in every art. At the same time he should encourage his\ncitizens to practise their callings peaceably, both in commerce and\nagriculture, and in every other following, so that the one should not be\ndeterred from improving his possessions for fear lest they be taken away\nfrom him or another from opening up trade for fear of taxes; but the\nprince ought to offer rewards to whoever wishes to do these things and\ndesigns in any way to honour his city or state.\n\nFurther, he ought to entertain the people with festivals and spectacles\nat convenient seasons of the year; and as every city is divided into\nguilds or into societies,(*) he ought to hold such bodies in esteem, and\nassociate with them sometimes, and show himself an example of courtesy\nand liberality; nevertheless, always maintaining the majesty of his\nrank, for this he must never consent to abate in anything.\n\n     (*) \"Guilds or societies,\" \"in arti o in tribu.\" \"Arti\" were\n     craft or trade guilds, cf. Florio: \"Arte . . . a whole\n     company of any trade in any city or corporation town.\" The\n     guilds of Florence are most admirably described by Mr\n     Edgcumbe Staley in his work on the subject (Methuen, 1906).\n     Institutions of a somewhat similar character, called\n     \"artel,\" exist in Russia to-day, cf. Sir Mackenzie Wallace's\n     \"Russia,\" ed. 1905: \"The sons . . . were always during the\n     working season members of an artel. In some of the larger\n     towns there are artels of a much more complex kind--\n     permanent associations, possessing large capital, and\n     pecuniarily responsible for the acts of the individual\n     members.\" The word \"artel,\" despite its apparent similarity,\n     has, Mr Aylmer Maude assures me, no connection with \"ars\" or\n     \"arte.\" Its root is that of the verb \"rotisya,\" to bind\n     oneself by an oath; and it is generally admitted to be only\n     another form of \"rota,\" which now signifies a \"regimental\n     company.\" In both words the underlying idea is that of a\n     body of men united by an oath. \"Tribu\" were possibly gentile\n     groups, united by common descent, and included individuals\n     connected by marriage. Perhaps our words \"sects\" or \"clans\"\n     would be most appropriate.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nThe choice of servants is of no little importance to a prince, and they\nare good or not according to the discrimination of the prince. And the\nfirst opinion which one forms of a prince, and of his understanding, is\nby observing the men he has around him; and when they are capable and\nfaithful he may always be considered wise, because he has known how\nto recognize the capable and to keep them faithful. But when they are\notherwise one cannot form a good opinion of him, for the prime error\nwhich he made was in choosing them.\n\nThere were none who knew Messer Antonio da Venafro as the servant of\nPandolfo Petrucci, Prince of Siena, who would not consider Pandolfo to\nbe a very clever man in having Venafro for his servant. Because there\nare three classes of intellects: one which comprehends by itself;\nanother which appreciates what others comprehended; and a third which\nneither comprehends by itself nor by the showing of others; the first is\nthe most excellent, the second is good, the third is useless. Therefore,\nit follows necessarily that, if Pandolfo was not in the first rank, he\nwas in the second, for whenever one has judgment to know good and\nbad when it is said and done, although he himself may not have the\ninitiative, yet he can recognize the good and the bad in his servant,\nand the one he can praise and the other correct; thus the servant cannot\nhope to deceive him, and is kept honest.\n\nBut to enable a prince to form an opinion of his servant there is one\ntest which never fails; when you see the servant thinking more of his\nown interests than of yours, and seeking inwardly his own profit in\neverything, such a man will never make a good servant, nor will you ever\nbe able to trust him; because he who has the state of another in his\nhands ought never to think of himself, but always of his prince, and\nnever pay any attention to matters in which the prince is not concerned.\n\nOn the other hand, to keep his servant honest the prince ought to study\nhim, honouring him, enriching him, doing him kindnesses, sharing with\nhim the honours and cares; and at the same time let him see that he\ncannot stand alone, so that many honours may not make him desire more,\nmany riches make him wish for more, and that many cares may make him\ndread chances. When, therefore, servants, and princes towards servants,\nare thus disposed, they can trust each other, but when it is otherwise,\nthe end will always be disastrous for either one or the other.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nI do not wish to leave out an important branch of this subject, for it\nis a danger from which princes are with difficulty preserved, unless\nthey are very careful and discriminating. It is that of flatterers, of\nwhom courts are full, because men are so self-complacent in their own\naffairs, and in a way so deceived in them, that they are preserved with\ndifficulty from this pest, and if they wish to defend themselves they\nrun the danger of falling into contempt. Because there is no other way\nof guarding oneself from flatterers except letting men understand that\nto tell you the truth does not offend you; but when every one may tell\nyou the truth, respect for you abates.\n\nTherefore a wise prince ought to hold a third course by choosing the\nwise men in his state, and giving to them only the liberty of speaking\nthe truth to him, and then only of those things of which he inquires,\nand of none others; but he ought to question them upon everything, and\nlisten to their opinions, and afterwards form his own conclusions.\nWith these councillors, separately and collectively, he ought to carry\nhimself in such a way that each of them should know that, the more\nfreely he shall speak, the more he shall be preferred; outside of\nthese, he should listen to no one, pursue the thing resolved on, and be\nsteadfast in his resolutions. He who does otherwise is either overthrown\nby flatterers, or is so often changed by varying opinions that he falls\ninto contempt.\n\nI wish on this subject to adduce a modern example. Fra Luca, the man of\naffairs to Maximilian,(*) the present emperor, speaking of his majesty,\nsaid: He consulted with no one, yet never got his own way in anything.\nThis arose because of his following a practice the opposite to the\nabove; for the emperor is a secretive man--he does not communicate his\ndesigns to any one, nor does he receive opinions on them. But as in\ncarrying them into effect they become revealed and known, they are\nat once obstructed by those men whom he has around him, and he, being\npliant, is diverted from them. Hence it follows that those things he\ndoes one day he undoes the next, and no one ever understands what he\nwishes or intends to do, and no one can rely on his resolutions.\n\n     (*) Maximilian I, born in 1459, died 1519, Emperor of the\n     Holy Roman Empire. He married, first, Mary, daughter of\n     Charles the Bold; after her death, Bianca Sforza; and thus\n     became involved in Italian politics.\n\nA prince, therefore, ought always to take counsel, but only when he\nwishes and not when others wish; he ought rather to discourage every one\nfrom offering advice unless he asks it; but, however, he ought to be\na constant inquirer, and afterwards a patient listener concerning the\nthings of which he inquired; also, on learning that any one, on any\nconsideration, has not told him the truth, he should let his anger be\nfelt.\n\nAnd if there are some who think that a prince who conveys an impression\nof his wisdom is not so through his own ability, but through the good\nadvisers that he has around him, beyond doubt they are deceived, because\nthis is an axiom which never fails: that a prince who is not wise\nhimself will never take good advice, unless by chance he has yielded his\naffairs entirely to one person who happens to be a very prudent man. In\nthis case indeed he may be well governed, but it would not be for long,\nbecause such a governor would in a short time take away his state from\nhim.\n\nBut if a prince who is not inexperienced should take counsel from more\nthan one he will never get united counsels, nor will he know how to\nunite them. Each of the counsellors will think of his own interests, and\nthe prince will not know how to control them or to see through them. And\nthey are not to be found otherwise, because men will always prove untrue\nto you unless they are kept honest by constraint. Therefore it must be\ninferred that good counsels, whencesoever they come, are born of\nthe wisdom of the prince, and not the wisdom of the prince from good\ncounsels.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nThe previous suggestions, carefully observed, will enable a new prince\nto appear well established, and render him at once more secure and fixed\nin the state than if he had been long seated there. For the actions of\na new prince are more narrowly observed than those of an hereditary\none, and when they are seen to be able they gain more men and bind\nfar tighter than ancient blood; because men are attracted more by the\npresent than by the past, and when they find the present good they enjoy\nit and seek no further; they will also make the utmost defence of a\nprince if he fails them not in other things. Thus it will be a double\nglory for him to have established a new principality, and adorned and\nstrengthened it with good laws, good arms, good allies, and with a good\nexample; so will it be a double disgrace to him who, born a prince,\nshall lose his state by want of wisdom.\n\nAnd if those seigniors are considered who have lost their states in\nItaly in our times, such as the King of Naples, the Duke of Milan,\nand others, there will be found in them, firstly, one common defect in\nregard to arms from the causes which have been discussed at length; in\nthe next place, some one of them will be seen, either to have had the\npeople hostile, or if he has had the people friendly, he has not known\nhow to secure the nobles. In the absence of these defects states that\nhave power enough to keep an army in the field cannot be lost.\n\nPhilip of Macedon, not the father of Alexander the Great, but he who\nwas conquered by Titus Quintius, had not much territory compared to\nthe greatness of the Romans and of Greece who attacked him, yet being a\nwarlike man who knew how to attract the people and secure the nobles, he\nsustained the war against his enemies for many years, and if in the\nend he lost the dominion of some cities, nevertheless he retained the\nkingdom.\n\nTherefore, do not let our princes accuse fortune for the loss of their\nprincipalities after so many years' possession, but rather their own\nsloth, because in quiet times they never thought there could be a change\n(it is a common defect in man not to make any provision in the calm\nagainst the tempest), and when afterwards the bad times came they\nthought of flight and not of defending themselves, and they hoped that\nthe people, disgusted with the insolence of the conquerors, would recall\nthem. This course, when others fail, may be good, but it is very bad to\nhave neglected all other expedients for that, since you would never\nwish to fall because you trusted to be able to find someone later on to\nrestore you. This again either does not happen, or, if it does, it will\nnot be for your security, because that deliverance is of no avail which\ndoes not depend upon yourself; those only are reliable, certain, and\ndurable that depend on yourself and your valour.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nIt is not unknown to me how many men have had, and still have, the\nopinion that the affairs of the world are in such wise governed by\nfortune and by God that men with their wisdom cannot direct them and\nthat no one can even help them; and because of this they would have us\nbelieve that it is not necessary to labour much in affairs, but to let\nchance govern them. This opinion has been more credited in our times\nbecause of the great changes in affairs which have been seen, and\nmay still be seen, every day, beyond all human conjecture. Sometimes\npondering over this, I am in some degree inclined to their opinion.\nNevertheless, not to extinguish our free will, I hold it to be true that\nFortune is the arbiter of one-half of our actions,(*) but that she still\nleaves us to direct the other half, or perhaps a little less.\n\n     (*) Frederick the Great was accustomed to say: \"The older\n     one gets the more convinced one becomes that his Majesty\n     King Chance does three-quarters of the business of this\n     miserable universe.\" Sorel's \"Eastern Question.\"\n\nI compare her to one of those raging rivers, which when in flood\noverflows the plains, sweeping away trees and buildings, bearing away\nthe soil from place to place; everything flies before it, all yield to\nits violence, without being able in any way to withstand it; and yet,\nthough its nature be such, it does not follow therefore that men, when\nthe weather becomes fair, shall not make provision, both with defences\nand barriers, in such a manner that, rising again, the waters may\npass away by canal, and their force be neither so unrestrained nor so\ndangerous. So it happens with fortune, who shows her power where valour\nhas not prepared to resist her, and thither she turns her forces where\nshe knows that barriers and defences have not been raised to constrain\nher.\n\nAnd if you will consider Italy, which is the seat of these changes, and\nwhich has given to them their impulse, you will see it to be an open\ncountry without barriers and without any defence. For if it had been\ndefended by proper valour, as are Germany, Spain, and France, either\nthis invasion would not have made the great changes it has made or it\nwould not have come at all. And this I consider enough to say concerning\nresistance to fortune in general.\n\nBut confining myself more to the particular, I say that a prince may be\nseen happy to-day and ruined to-morrow without having shown any change\nof disposition or character. This, I believe, arises firstly from causes\nthat have already been discussed at length, namely, that the prince who\nrelies entirely on fortune is lost when it changes. I believe also that\nhe will be successful who directs his actions according to the spirit of\nthe times, and that he whose actions do not accord with the times will\nnot be successful. Because men are seen, in affairs that lead to the end\nwhich every man has before him, namely, glory and riches, to get there\nby various methods; one with caution, another with haste; one by force,\nanother by skill; one by patience, another by its opposite; and each one\nsucceeds in reaching the goal by a different method. One can also see of\ntwo cautious men the one attain his end, the other fail; and similarly,\ntwo men by different observances are equally successful, the one being\ncautious, the other impetuous; all this arises from nothing else than\nwhether or not they conform in their methods to the spirit of the times.\nThis follows from what I have said, that two men working differently\nbring about the same effect, and of two working similarly, one attains\nhis object and the other does not.\n\nChanges in estate also issue from this, for if, to one who governs\nhimself with caution and patience, times and affairs converge in such a\nway that his administration is successful, his fortune is made; but if\ntimes and affairs change, he is ruined if he does not change his course\nof action. But a man is not often found sufficiently circumspect to know\nhow to accommodate himself to the change, both because he cannot deviate\nfrom what nature inclines him to do, and also because, having always\nprospered by acting in one way, he cannot be persuaded that it is well\nto leave it; and, therefore, the cautious man, when it is time to turn\nadventurous, does not know how to do it, hence he is ruined; but had he\nchanged his conduct with the times fortune would not have changed.\n\nPope Julius the Second went to work impetuously in all his affairs, and\nfound the times and circumstances conform so well to that line of action\nthat he always met with success. Consider his first enterprise against\nBologna, Messer Giovanni Bentivogli being still alive. The Venetians\nwere not agreeable to it, nor was the King of Spain, and he had the\nenterprise still under discussion with the King of France; nevertheless\nhe personally entered upon the expedition with his accustomed boldness\nand energy, a move which made Spain and the Venetians stand irresolute\nand passive, the latter from fear, the former from desire to recover\nthe kingdom of Naples; on the other hand, he drew after him the King of\nFrance, because that king, having observed the movement, and desiring\nto make the Pope his friend so as to humble the Venetians, found it\nimpossible to refuse him. Therefore Julius with his impetuous action\naccomplished what no other pontiff with simple human wisdom could have\ndone; for if he had waited in Rome until he could get away, with his\nplans arranged and everything fixed, as any other pontiff would have\ndone, he would never have succeeded. Because the King of France would\nhave made a thousand excuses, and the others would have raised a\nthousand fears.\n\nI will leave his other actions alone, as they were all alike, and they\nall succeeded, for the shortness of his life did not let him experience\nthe contrary; but if circumstances had arisen which required him to go\ncautiously, his ruin would have followed, because he would never have\ndeviated from those ways to which nature inclined him.\n\nI conclude, therefore that, fortune being changeful and mankind\nsteadfast in their ways, so long as the two are in agreement men are\nsuccessful, but unsuccessful when they fall out. For my part I consider\nthat it is better to be adventurous than cautious, because fortune is\na woman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and\nill-use her; and it is seen that she allows herself to be mastered by\nthe adventurous rather than by those who go to work more coldly. She is,\ntherefore, always, woman-like, a lover of young men, because they are\nless cautious, more violent, and with more audacity command her.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nHaving carefully considered the subject of the above discourses, and\nwondering within myself whether the present times were propitious to\na new prince, and whether there were elements that would give an\nopportunity to a wise and virtuous one to introduce a new order of\nthings which would do honour to him and good to the people of this\ncountry, it appears to me that so many things concur to favour a new\nprince that I never knew a time more fit than the present.\n\nAnd if, as I said, it was necessary that the people of Israel should be\ncaptive so as to make manifest the ability of Moses; that the Persians\nshould be oppressed by the Medes so as to discover the greatness of the\nsoul of Cyrus; and that the Athenians should be dispersed to illustrate\nthe capabilities of Theseus: then at the present time, in order to\ndiscover the virtue of an Italian spirit, it was necessary that Italy\nshould be reduced to the extremity that she is now in, that she should\nbe more enslaved than the Hebrews, more oppressed than the Persians,\nmore scattered than the Athenians; without head, without order, beaten,\ndespoiled, torn, overrun; and to have endured every kind of desolation.\n\nAlthough lately some spark may have been shown by one, which made us\nthink he was ordained by God for our redemption, nevertheless it was\nafterwards seen, in the height of his career, that fortune rejected him;\nso that Italy, left as without life, waits for him who shall yet heal\nher wounds and put an end to the ravaging and plundering of Lombardy,\nto the swindling and taxing of the kingdom and of Tuscany, and cleanse\nthose sores that for long have festered. It is seen how she entreats God\nto send someone who shall deliver her from these wrongs and barbarous\ninsolencies. It is seen also that she is ready and willing to follow a\nbanner if only someone will raise it.\n\nNor is there to be seen at present one in whom she can place more hope\nthan in your illustrious house,(*) with its valour and fortune, favoured\nby God and by the Church of which it is now the chief, and which could\nbe made the head of this redemption. This will not be difficult if you\nwill recall to yourself the actions and lives of the men I have named.\nAnd although they were great and wonderful men, yet they were men, and\neach one of them had no more opportunity than the present offers, for\ntheir enterprises were neither more just nor easier than this, nor was\nGod more their friend than He is yours.\n\n     (*) Giuliano de Medici. He had just been created a cardinal\n     by Leo X. In 1523 Giuliano was elected Pope, and took the\n     title of Clement VII.\n\nWith us there is great justice, because that war is just which is\nnecessary, and arms are hallowed when there is no other hope but in\nthem. Here there is the greatest willingness, and where the willingness\nis great the difficulties cannot be great if you will only follow those\nmen to whom I have directed your attention. Further than this, how\nextraordinarily the ways of God have been manifested beyond example:\nthe sea is divided, a cloud has led the way, the rock has poured\nforth water, it has rained manna, everything has contributed to\nyour greatness; you ought to do the rest. God is not willing to do\neverything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory\nwhich belongs to us.\n\nAnd it is not to be wondered at if none of the above-named Italians\nhave been able to accomplish all that is expected from your illustrious\nhouse; and if in so many revolutions in Italy, and in so many campaigns,\nit has always appeared as if military virtue were exhausted, this has\nhappened because the old order of things was not good, and none of us\nhave known how to find a new one. And nothing honours a man more than to\nestablish new laws and new ordinances when he himself was newly risen.\nSuch things when they are well founded and dignified will make him\nrevered and admired, and in Italy there are not wanting opportunities to\nbring such into use in every form.\n\nHere there is great valour in the limbs whilst it fails in the head.\nLook attentively at the duels and the hand-to-hand combats, how superior\nthe Italians are in strength, dexterity, and subtlety. But when it comes\nto armies they do not bear comparison, and this springs entirely from\nthe insufficiency of the leaders, since those who are capable are not\nobedient, and each one seems to himself to know, there having never been\nany one so distinguished above the rest, either by valour or fortune,\nthat others would yield to him. Hence it is that for so long a time,\nand during so much fighting in the past twenty years, whenever there\nhas been an army wholly Italian, it has always given a poor account of\nitself; the first witness to this is Il Taro, afterwards Allesandria,\nCapua, Genoa, Vaila, Bologna, Mestri.(*)\n\n     (*) The battles of Il Taro, 1495; Alessandria, 1499; Capua,\n     1501; Genoa, 1507; Vaila, 1509; Bologna, 1511; Mestri, 1513.\n\nIf, therefore, your illustrious house wishes to follow these remarkable\nmen who have redeemed their country, it is necessary before all things,\nas a true foundation for every enterprise, to be provided with your\nown forces, because there can be no more faithful, truer, or better\nsoldiers. And although singly they are good, altogether they will\nbe much better when they find themselves commanded by their prince,\nhonoured by him, and maintained at his expense. Therefore it is\nnecessary to be prepared with such arms, so that you can be defended\nagainst foreigners by Italian valour.\n\nAnd although Swiss and Spanish infantry may be considered very\nformidable, nevertheless there is a defect in both, by reason of which\na third order would not only be able to oppose them, but might be relied\nupon to overthrow them. For the Spaniards cannot resist cavalry, and the\nSwitzers are afraid of infantry whenever they encounter them in close\ncombat. Owing to this, as has been and may again be seen, the Spaniards\nare unable to resist French cavalry, and the Switzers are overthrown by\nSpanish infantry. And although a complete proof of this latter cannot\nbe shown, nevertheless there was some evidence of it at the battle of\nRavenna, when the Spanish infantry were confronted by German battalions,\nwho follow the same tactics as the Swiss; when the Spaniards, by agility\nof body and with the aid of their shields, got in under the pikes of the\nGermans and stood out of danger, able to attack, while the Germans stood\nhelpless, and, if the cavalry had not dashed up, all would have been\nover with them. It is possible, therefore, knowing the defects of both\nthese infantries, to invent a new one, which will resist cavalry and not\nbe afraid of infantry; this need not create a new order of arms, but\na variation upon the old. And these are the kind of improvements which\nconfer reputation and power upon a new prince.\n\nThis opportunity, therefore, ought not to be allowed to pass for letting\nItaly at last see her liberator appear. Nor can one express the love\nwith which he would be received in all those provinces which have\nsuffered so much from these foreign scourings, with what thirst for\nrevenge, with what stubborn faith, with what devotion, with what tears.\nWhat door would be closed to him? Who would refuse obedience to him?\nWhat envy would hinder him? What Italian would refuse him homage? To all\nof us this barbarous dominion stinks. Let, therefore, your illustrious\nhouse take up this charge with that courage and hope with which all\njust enterprises are undertaken, so that under its standard our native\ncountry may be ennobled, and under its auspices may be verified that\nsaying of Petrarch:\n\n     Virtu contro al Furore\n     Prendera l'arme, e fia il combatter corto:\n     Che l'antico valore\n     Negli italici cuor non e ancor morto.\n\n     Virtue against fury shall advance the fight,\n     And it i' th' combat soon shall put to flight:\n     For the old Roman valour is not dead,\n     Nor in th' Italians' brests extinguished.\n\n     Edward Dacre, 1640.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nAuxiliaries, which are the other useless arm, are employed when a prince\nis called in with his forces to aid and defend, as was done by Pope\nJulius in the most recent times; for he, having, in the enterprise\nagainst Ferrara, had poor proof of his mercenaries, turned to\nauxiliaries, and stipulated with Ferdinand, King of Spain,(*) for his\nassistance with men and arms. These arms may be useful and good\nin themselves, but for him who calls them in they are always\ndisadvantageous; for losing, one is undone, and winning, one is their\ncaptive.\n\nAnd although ancient histories may be full of examples, I do not wish\nto leave this recent one of Pope Julius the Second, the peril of which\ncannot fail to be perceived; for he, wishing to get Ferrara, threw\nhimself entirely into the hands of the foreigner. But his good fortune\nbrought about a third event, so that he did not reap the fruit of his\nrash choice; because, having his auxiliaries routed at Ravenna, and\nthe Switzers having risen and driven out the conquerors (against all\nexpectation, both his and others), it so came to pass that he did\nnot become prisoner to his enemies, they having fled, nor to his\nauxiliaries, he having conquered by other arms than theirs.\n\nThe Florentines, being entirely without arms, sent ten thousand\nFrenchmen to take Pisa, whereby they ran more danger than at any other\ntime of their troubles.\n\nThe Emperor of Constantinople,(*) to oppose his neighbours, sent ten\nthousand Turks into Greece, who, on the war being finished, were not\nwilling to quit; this was the beginning of the servitude of Greece to\nthe infidels.\n\nTherefore, let him who has no desire to conquer make use of these arms,\nfor they are much more hazardous than mercenaries, because with them the\nruin is ready made; they are all united, all yield obedience to others;\nbut with mercenaries, when they have conquered, more time and better\nopportunities are needed to injure you; they are not all of one\ncommunity, they are found and paid by you, and a third party, which you\nhave made their head, is not able all at once to assume enough authority\nto injure you. In conclusion, in mercenaries dastardy is most dangerous;\nin auxiliaries, valour. The wise prince, therefore, has always avoided\nthese arms and turned to his own; and has been willing rather to lose\nwith them than to conquer with the others, not deeming that a real\nvictory which is gained with the arms of others.\n\nI shall never hesitate to cite Cesare Borgia and his actions. This duke\nentered the Romagna with auxiliaries, taking there only French soldiers,\nand with them he captured Imola and Forli; but afterwards, such forces\nnot appearing to him reliable, he turned to mercenaries, discerning less\ndanger in them, and enlisted the Orsini and Vitelli; whom presently,\non handling and finding them doubtful, unfaithful, and dangerous, he\ndestroyed and turned to his own men. And the difference between one\nand the other of these forces can easily be seen when one considers\nthe difference there was in the reputation of the duke, when he had the\nFrench, when he had the Orsini and Vitelli, and when he relied on his\nown soldiers, on whose fidelity he could always count and found it ever\nincreasing; he was never esteemed more highly than when every one saw\nthat he was complete master of his own forces.\n\nI was not intending to go beyond Italian and recent examples, but I am\nunwilling to leave out Hiero, the Syracusan, he being one of those I\nhave named above. This man, as I have said, made head of the army by the\nSyracusans, soon found out that a mercenary soldiery, constituted like\nour Italian condottieri, was of no use; and it appearing to him that he\ncould neither keep them not let them go, he had them all cut to pieces,\nand afterwards made war with his own forces and not with aliens.\n\nI wish also to recall to memory an instance from the Old Testament\napplicable to this subject. David offered himself to Saul to fight with\nGoliath, the Philistine champion, and, to give him courage, Saul armed\nhim with his own weapons; which David rejected as soon as he had them\non his back, saying he could make no use of them, and that he wished to\nmeet the enemy with his sling and his knife. In conclusion, the arms of\nothers either fall from your back, or they weigh you down, or they bind\nyou fast.\n\nCharles the Seventh,(*) the father of King Louis the Eleventh,(+) having\nby good fortune and valour liberated France from the English, recognized\nthe necessity of being armed with forces of his own, and he established\nin his kingdom ordinances concerning men-at-arms and infantry.\nAfterwards his son, King Louis, abolished the infantry and began to\nenlist the Switzers, which mistake, followed by others, is, as is now\nseen, a source of peril to that kingdom; because, having raised the\nreputation of the Switzers, he has entirely diminished the value of\nhis own arms, for he has destroyed the infantry altogether; and his\nmen-at-arms he has subordinated to others, for, being as they are so\naccustomed to fight along with Switzers, it does not appear that they\ncan now conquer without them. Hence it arises that the French cannot\nstand against the Switzers, and without the Switzers they do not come\noff well against others. The armies of the French have thus become\nmixed, partly mercenary and partly national, both of which arms together\nare much better than mercenaries alone or auxiliaries alone, but much\ninferior to one's own forces. And this example proves it, for the\nkingdom of France would be unconquerable if the ordinance of Charles had\nbeen enlarged or maintained.\n\nBut the scanty wisdom of man, on entering into an affair which looks\nwell at first, cannot discern the poison that is hidden in it, as I have\nsaid above of hectic fevers. Therefore, if he who rules a principality\ncannot recognize evils until they are upon him, he is not truly wise;\nand this insight is given to few. And if the first disaster to the Roman\nEmpire(*) should be examined, it will be found to have commenced only\nwith the enlisting of the Goths; because from that time the vigour of\nthe Roman Empire began to decline, and all that valour which had raised\nit passed away to others.\n\n     (*) \"Many speakers to the House the other night in the\n     debate on the reduction of armaments seemed to show a most\n     lamentable ignorance of the conditions under which the\n     British Empire maintains its existence. When Mr Balfour\n     replied to the allegations that the Roman Empire sank under\n     the weight of its military obligations, he said that this\n     was 'wholly unhistorical.' He might well have added that the\n     Roman power was at its zenith when every citizen\n     acknowledged his liability to fight for the State, but that\n     it began to decline as soon as this obligation was no longer\n     recognized.\"--Pall Mall Gazette, 15th May 1906.\n\nI conclude, therefore, that no principality is secure without having its\nown forces; on the contrary, it is entirely dependent on good fortune,\nnot having the valour which in adversity would defend it. And it has\nalways been the opinion and judgment of wise men that nothing can be so\nuncertain or unstable as fame or power not founded on its own strength.\nAnd one's own forces are those which are composed either of subjects,\ncitizens, or dependents; all others are mercenaries or auxiliaries. And\nthe way to make ready one's own forces will be easily found if the rules\nsuggested by me shall be reflected upon, and if one will consider\nhow Philip, the father of Alexander the Great, and many republics and\nprinces have armed and organized themselves, to which rules I entirely\ncommit myself.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nMrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her\nmother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.\nAs such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by\nher husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody\nbeyond himself, his wife, and their child.  He really pressed them,\nwith some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no\nplan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she\ncould accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his\ninvitation was accepted.\n\nA continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former\ndelight, was exactly what suited her mind.  In seasons of cheerfulness,\nno temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater\ndegree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness\nitself.  But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,\nand as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.\n\nMrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended\nto do for his sisters.  To take three thousand pounds from the fortune\nof their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most\ndreadful degree.  She begged him to think again on the subject.  How\ncould he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too,\nof so large a sum?  And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,\nwho were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no\nrelationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount.  It\nwas very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist\nbetween the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he\nto ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his\nmoney to his half sisters?\n\n\"It was my father's last request to me,\" replied her husband, \"that I\nshould assist his widow and daughters.\"\n\n\"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he\nwas light-headed at the time.  Had he been in his right senses, he\ncould not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half\nyour fortune from your own child.\"\n\n\"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only\nrequested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their\nsituation more comfortable than it was in his power to do.  Perhaps it\nwould have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself.  He could\nhardly suppose I should neglect them.  But as he required the promise,\nI could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.\nThe promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.  Something\nmust be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new\nhome.\"\n\n\"Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need\nnot be three thousand pounds.  Consider,\" she added, \"that when the\nmoney is once parted with, it never can return.  Your sisters will\nmarry, and it will be gone for ever.  If, indeed, it could be restored\nto our poor little boy--\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said her husband, very gravely, \"that would make\ngreat difference.  The time may come when Harry will regret that so\nlarge a sum was parted with.  If he should have a numerous family, for\ninstance, it would be a very convenient addition.\"\n\n\"To be sure it would.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were\ndiminished one half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious\nincrease to their fortunes!\"\n\n\"Oh! beyond anything great!  What brother on earth would do half so\nmuch for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters!  And as it is--only\nhalf blood!--But you have such a generous spirit!\"\n\n\"I would not wish to do any thing mean,\" he replied.  \"One had rather,\non such occasions, do too much than too little.  No one, at least, can\nthink I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly\nexpect more.\"\n\n\"There is no knowing what THEY may expect,\" said the lady, \"but we are\nnot to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can\nafford to do.\"\n\n\"Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds\na-piece.  As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have\nabout three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable\nfortune for any young woman.\"\n\n\"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no\naddition at all.  They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst\nthem.  If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do\nnot, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten\nthousand pounds.\"\n\n\"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the\nwhole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother\nwhile she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I\nmean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.\nA hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.\"\n\nHis wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this\nplan.\n\n\"To be sure,\" said she, \"it is better than parting with fifteen hundred\npounds at once.  But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years\nwe shall be completely taken in.\"\n\n\"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that\npurchase.\"\n\n\"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when\nthere is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,\nand hardly forty.  An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over\nand over every year, and there is no getting rid of it.  You are not\naware of what you are doing.  I have known a great deal of the trouble\nof annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to\nold superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how\ndisagreeable she found it.  Twice every year these annuities were to be\npaid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then\none of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be\nno such thing.  My mother was quite sick of it.  Her income was not her\nown, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more\nunkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been\nentirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever.  It\nhas given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would\nnot pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world.\"\n\n\"It is certainly an unpleasant thing,\" replied Mr. Dashwood, \"to have\nthose kind of yearly drains on one's income.  One's fortune, as your\nmother justly says, is NOT one's own.  To be tied down to the regular\npayment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it\ntakes away one's independence.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it.  They think\nthemselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises\nno gratitude at all.  If I were you, whatever I did should be done at\nmy own discretion entirely.  I would not bind myself to allow them any\nthing yearly.  It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a\nhundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should\nbe no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will\nbe of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they\nwould only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger\nincome, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the\nyear.  It will certainly be much the best way.  A present of fifty\npounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for\nmoney, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father.\"\n\n\"To be sure it will.  Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within\nmyself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at\nall.  The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might\nbe reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a\ncomfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,\nand sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they\nare in season.  I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed,\nit would be very strange and unreasonable if he did.  Do but consider,\nmy dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law\nand her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,\nbesides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which\nbrings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will\npay their mother for their board out of it.  Altogether, they will have\nfive hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want\nfor more than that?--They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will\nbe nothing at all.  They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly\nany servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of\nany kind!  Only conceive how comfortable they will be!  Five hundred a\nyear! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as\nto your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it.  They will\nbe much more able to give YOU something.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said Mr. Dashwood, \"I believe you are perfectly right.\nMy father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than\nwhat you say.  I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil\nmy engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you\nhave described.  When my mother removes into another house my services\nshall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can.  Some little\npresent of furniture too may be acceptable then.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" returned Mrs. John Dashwood.  \"But, however, ONE thing\nmust be considered.  When your father and mother moved to Norland,\nthough the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and\nlinen was saved, and is now left to your mother.  Her house will\ntherefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.\"\n\n\"That is a material consideration undoubtedly.  A valuable legacy\nindeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant\naddition to our own stock here.\"\n\n\"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what\nbelongs to this house.  A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for\nany place THEY can ever afford to live in.  But, however, so it is.\nYour father thought only of THEM.  And I must say this: that you owe no\nparticular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very\nwell know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the\nworld to THEM.\"\n\nThis argument was irresistible.  It gave to his intentions whatever of\ndecision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be\nabsolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the\nwidow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as\nhis own wife pointed out.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\n\"What a pity it is, Elinor,\" said Marianne, \"that Edward should have no\ntaste for drawing.\"\n\n\"No taste for drawing!\" replied Elinor, \"why should you think so? He\ndoes not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the\nperformances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means\ndeficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of\nimproving it.  Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he\nwould have drawn very well.  He distrusts his own judgment in such\nmatters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any\npicture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which\nin general direct him perfectly right.\"\n\nMarianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but\nthe kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the\ndrawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight,\nwhich, in her opinion, could alone be called taste.  Yet, though\nsmiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that\nblind partiality to Edward which produced it.\n\n\"I hope, Marianne,\" continued Elinor, \"you do not consider him as\ndeficient in general taste.  Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,\nfor your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were your\nopinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.\"\n\nMarianne hardly knew what to say.  She would not wound the feelings of\nher sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was\nimpossible.  At length she replied:\n\n\"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing\nequal to your sense of his merits.  I have not had so many\nopportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his\ninclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in\nthe world of his goodness and sense.  I think him every thing that is\nworthy and amiable.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" replied Elinor, with a smile, \"that his dearest friends\ncould not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that.  I do not\nperceive how you could express yourself more warmly.\"\n\nMarianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.\n\n\"Of his sense and his goodness,\" continued Elinor, \"no one can, I\nthink, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in\nunreserved conversation.  The excellence of his understanding and his\nprinciples can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps\nhim silent.  You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.\nBut of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from\npeculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself.  He and I\nhave been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been\nwholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother.  I\nhave seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard\nhis opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I\nventure to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books\nexceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and\ncorrect, and his taste delicate and pure.  His abilities in every\nrespect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.\nAt first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person\ncan hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which\nare uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is\nperceived.  At present, I know him so well, that I think him really\nhandsome; or at least, almost so.  What say you, Marianne?\"\n\n\"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now.  When\nyou tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection\nin his face, than I now do in his heart.\"\n\nElinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she\nhad been betrayed into, in speaking of him.  She felt that Edward stood\nvery high in her opinion.  She believed the regard to be mutual; but\nshe required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of\ntheir attachment agreeable to her.  She knew that what Marianne and her\nmother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them,\nto wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.  She tried to explain\nthe real state of the case to her sister.\n\n\"I do not attempt to deny,\" said she, \"that I think very highly of\nhim--that I greatly esteem, that I like him.\"\n\nMarianne here burst forth with indignation--\n\n\"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh!  worse than\ncold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise.  Use those words again, and I\nwill leave the room this moment.\"\n\nElinor could not help laughing.  \"Excuse me,\" said she; \"and be assured\nthat I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my\nown feelings.  Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;\nbelieve them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the\nhope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.\nBut farther than this you must not believe.  I am by no means assured\nof his regard for me.  There are moments when the extent of it seems\ndoubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at\nmy wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by\nbelieving or calling it more than it is.  In my heart I feel\nlittle--scarcely any doubt of his preference.  But there are other\npoints to be considered besides his inclination.  He is very far from\nbeing independent.  What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from\nFanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never\nbeen disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if\nEdward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in\nhis way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great\nfortune or high rank.\"\n\nMarianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother\nand herself had outstripped the truth.\n\n\"And you really are not engaged to him!\" said she.  \"Yet it certainly\nsoon will happen.  But two advantages will proceed from this delay.  I\nshall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of\nimproving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be\nso indispensably necessary to your future felicity.  Oh! if he should\nbe so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how\ndelightful it would be!\"\n\nElinor had given her real opinion to her sister.  She could not\nconsider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne\nhad believed it.  There was, at times, a want of spirits about him\nwhich, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as\nunpromising.  A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not\ngive him more than inquietude.  It would not be likely to produce that\ndejection of mind which frequently attended him.  A more reasonable\ncause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the\nindulgence of his affection.  She knew that his mother neither behaved\nto him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him\nany assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly\nattending to her views for his aggrandizement.  With such a knowledge\nas this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject.  She\nwas far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which\nher mother and sister still considered as certain.  Nay, the longer\nthey were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard;\nand sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more\nthan friendship.\n\nBut, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived\nby his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was\nstill more common,) to make her uncivil.  She took the first\nopportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to\nher so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.\nFerrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the\ndanger attending any young woman who attempted to DRAW HIM IN; that\nMrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to\nbe calm.  She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and\ninstantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the\ninconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor\nshould not be exposed another week to such insinuations.\n\nIn this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the\npost, which contained a proposal particularly well timed.  It was the\noffer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of\nher own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire.  The\nletter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit\nof friendly accommodation.  He understood that she was in need of a\ndwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,\nhe assured her that everything should be done to it which she might\nthink necessary, if the situation pleased her.  He earnestly pressed\nher, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with\nher daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from\nwhence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses\nwere in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable\nto her.  He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of\nhis letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of\ngiving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was\nsuffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer\nconnections.  She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry.  Her\nresolution was formed as she read.  The situation of Barton, in a\ncounty so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours\nbefore, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every\npossible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first\nrecommendation.  To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an\nevil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of\nthe misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for\never from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or\nvisit it while such a woman was its mistress.  She instantly wrote Sir\nJohn Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance\nof his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her\ndaughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her\nanswer were sent.\n\nElinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle\nat some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present\nacquaintance.  On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose\nher mother's intention of removing into Devonshire.  The house, too, as\ndescribed by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so\nuncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either\npoint; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm\nto her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland\nbeyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from\nsending a letter of acquiescence.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nNo sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself\nin the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she\nwas provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till\nevery thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with\nsurprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped\nthat she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great\nsatisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.--Edward\nturned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise\nand concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,\n\"Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to\nwhat part of it?\" She explained the situation. It was within four miles\nnorthward of Exeter.\n\n\"It is but a cottage,\" she continued, \"but I hope to see many of my\nfriends in it.  A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends\nfind no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will\nfind none in accommodating them.\"\n\nShe concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood\nto visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater\naffection.  Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had\nmade her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was\nunavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that\npoint to which it principally tended.  To separate Edward and Elinor\nwas as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally\nshe disregarded her disapprobation of the match.\n\nMr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry\nhe was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to\nprevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture.  He\nreally felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very\nexertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his\nfather was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-- The furniture\nwas all sent around by water.  It chiefly consisted of household linen,\nplate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's.\nMrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not\nhelp feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so\ntrifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome\narticle of furniture.\n\nMrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,\nand she might have immediate possession.  No difficulty arose on either\nside in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her\neffects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she\nset off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the\nperformance of everything that interested her, was soon done.--The\nhorses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his\ndeath, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage,\nshe agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest\ndaughter.  For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her\nown wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor\nprevailed.  HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to\nthree; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from\namongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.\n\nThe man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,\nto prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady\nMiddleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going\ndirectly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she\nrelied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to\nfeel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.\nHer eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by\nthe evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her\nremoval; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed\nunder a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.  Now was the\ntime when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular\npropriety be fulfilled.  Since he had neglected to do it on first\ncoming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as\nthe most suitable period for its accomplishment.  But Mrs. Dashwood\nbegan shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced,\nfrom the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended\nno farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland.  He so\nfrequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of\nthe perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in\nthe world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to\nstand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving\nmoney away.\n\nIn a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's\nfirst letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future\nabode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their\njourney.\n\nMany were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so\nmuch beloved.  \"Dear, dear Norland!\" said Marianne, as she wandered\nalone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; \"when\nshall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere!--Oh!\nhappy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this\nspot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!--And you, ye\nwell-known trees!--but you will continue the same.--No leaf will decay\nbecause we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we\ncan observe you no longer!--No; you will continue the same; unconscious\nof the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any\nchange in those who walk under your shade!--But who will remain to\nenjoy you?\"\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nLittle had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came\ninto Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their\ntime as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such\nfrequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little\nleisure for serious employment.  Yet such was the case.  When Marianne\nwas recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir\nJohn had been previously forming, were put into execution.  The private\nballs at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and\naccomplished as often as a showery October would allow.  In every\nmeeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and\nfamiliarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly\ncalculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the\nDashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of\nMarianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,\nin her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her\naffection.\n\nElinor could not be surprised at their attachment.  She only wished\nthat it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to\nsuggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.  But Marianne\nabhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve;\nand to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves\nillaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a\ndisgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions.\nWilloughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an\nillustration of their opinions.\n\nWhen he was present she had no eyes for any one else.  Every thing he\ndid, was right.  Every thing he said, was clever.  If their evenings at\nthe park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest\nof the party to get her a good hand.  If dancing formed the amusement\nof the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to\nseparate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and\nscarcely spoke a word to any body else.  Such conduct made them of\ncourse most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and\nseemed hardly to provoke them.\n\nMrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left\nher no inclination for checking this excessive display of them.  To her\nit was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and\nardent mind.\n\nThis was the season of happiness to Marianne.  Her heart was devoted to\nWilloughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with\nher from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it\npossible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her\npresent home.\n\nElinor's happiness was not so great.  Her heart was not so much at\nease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure.  They afforded\nher no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,\nnor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than\never.  Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the\nconversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker,\nand from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a\nlarge share of her discourse.  She had already repeated her own history\nto Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to\nher means of improvement, she might have known very early in their\nacquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and\nwhat he said to his wife a few minutes before he died.  Lady Middleton\nwas more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.  Elinor\nneeded little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere\ncalmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.  Towards her\nhusband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was\ntherefore neither to be looked for nor desired.  She had nothing to say\none day that she had not said the day before.  Her insipidity was\ninvariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she\ndid not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every\nthing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her,\nshe never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might\nhave experienced in sitting at home;--and so little did her presence\nadd to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation,\nthat they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her\nsolicitude about her troublesome boys.\n\nIn Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find\na person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite\nthe interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.\nWilloughby was out of the question.  Her admiration and regard, even\nher sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his\nattentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might\nhave been more generally pleasing.  Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for\nhimself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in\nconversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the\nindifference of her sister.\n\nElinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect\nthat the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.\nThis suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from\nhim one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by\nmutual consent, while the others were dancing.  His eyes were fixed on\nMarianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint\nsmile, \"Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second\nattachments.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Elinor, \"her opinions are all romantic.\"\n\n\"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.\"\n\n\"I believe she does.  But how she contrives it without reflecting on\nthe character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not.\nA few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of\ncommon sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define\nand to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.\"\n\n\"This will probably be the case,\" he replied; \"and yet there is\nsomething so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is\nsorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.\"\n\n\"I cannot agree with you there,\" said Elinor.  \"There are\ninconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the\ncharms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.  Her\nsystems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at\nnought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward\nto as her greatest possible advantage.\"\n\nAfter a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,--\n\n\"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a\nsecond attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body?  Are those\nwho have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the\ninconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be\nequally indifferent during the rest of their lives?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.\nI only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second\nattachment's being pardonable.\"\n\n\"This,\" said he, \"cannot hold; but a change, a total change of\nsentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements\nof a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they\nsucceeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous!  I\nspeak from experience.  I once knew a lady who in temper and mind\ngreatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who\nfrom an inforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances\"--\nHere he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,\nand by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not\notherwise have entered Elinor's head.  The lady would probably have\npassed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what\nconcerned her ought not to escape his lips.  As it was, it required but\na slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender\nrecollection of past regard.  Elinor attempted no more.  But Marianne,\nin her place, would not have done so little.  The whole story would\nhave been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing\nestablished in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nTheir intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from\nwhat Elinor had expected.  She was prepared to be wet through,\nfatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for\nthey did not go at all.\n\nBy ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they\nwere to breakfast.  The morning was rather favourable, though it had\nrained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,\nand the sun frequently appeared.  They were all in high spirits and\ngood humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the\ngreatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.\n\nWhile they were at breakfast the letters were brought in.  Among the\nrest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the\ndirection, changed colour, and immediately left the room.\n\n\"What is the matter with Brandon?\" said Sir John.\n\nNobody could tell.\n\n\"I hope he has had no bad news,\" said Lady Middleton.  \"It must be\nsomething extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my\nbreakfast table so suddenly.\"\n\nIn about five minutes he returned.\n\n\"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;\" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he\nentered the room.\n\n\"None at all, ma'am, I thank you.\"\n\n\"Was it from Avignon?  I hope it is not to say that your sister is\nworse.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business.\"\n\n\"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a\nletter of business?  Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear\nthe truth of it.\"\n\n\"My dear madam,\" said Lady Middleton, \"recollect what you are saying.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?\" said\nMrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.\n\n\"No, indeed, it is not.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel.  And I hope she is well.\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean, ma'am?\" said he, colouring a little.\n\n\"Oh! you know who I mean.\"\n\n\"I am particularly sorry, ma'am,\" said he, addressing Lady Middleton,\n\"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which\nrequires my immediate attendance in town.\"\n\n\"In town!\" cried Mrs. Jennings.  \"What can you have to do in town at\nthis time of year?\"\n\n\"My own loss is great,\" he continued, \"in being obliged to leave so\nagreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence\nis necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell.\"\n\nWhat a blow upon them all was this!\n\n\"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,\" said\nMarianne, eagerly, \"will it not be sufficient?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"We must go,\" said Sir John.--\"It shall not be put off when we are so\nnear it.  You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all.\"\n\n\"I wish it could be so easily settled.  But it is not in my power to\ndelay my journey for one day!\"\n\n\"If you would but let us know what your business is,\" said Mrs.\nJennings, \"we might see whether it could be put off or not.\"\n\n\"You would not be six hours later,\" said Willoughby, \"if you were to\ndefer your journey till our return.\"\n\n\"I cannot afford to lose ONE hour.\"--\n\nElinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, \"There\nare some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure.  Brandon is one of\nthem.  He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this\ntrick for getting out of it.  I would lay fifty guineas the letter was\nof his own writing.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of it,\" replied Marianne.\n\n\"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of\nold,\" said Sir John, \"when once you are determined on anything.  But,\nhowever, I hope you will think better of it.  Consider, here are the\ntwo Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked\nup from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his\nusual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell.\"\n\nColonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of\ndisappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be\nunavoidable.\n\n\"Well, then, when will you come back again?\"\n\n\"I hope we shall see you at Barton,\" added her ladyship, \"as soon as\nyou can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to\nWhitwell till you return.\"\n\n\"You are very obliging.  But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in\nmy power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all.\"\n\n\"Oh! he must and shall come back,\" cried Sir John.  \"If he is not here\nby the end of the week, I shall go after him.\"\n\n\"Ay, so do, Sir John,\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"and then perhaps you may\nfind out what his business is.\"\n\n\"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns.  I suppose it is\nsomething he is ashamed of.\"\n\nColonel Brandon's horses were announced.\n\n\"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?\" added Sir John.\n\n\"No. Only to Honiton.  I shall then go post.\"\n\n\"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey.  But you\nhad better change your mind.\"\n\n\"I assure you it is not in my power.\"\n\nHe then took leave of the whole party.\n\n\"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this\nwinter, Miss Dashwood?\"\n\n\"I am afraid, none at all.\"\n\n\"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to\ndo.\"\n\nTo Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.\n\n\"Come Colonel,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"before you go, do let us know what\nyou are going about.\"\n\nHe wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.\n\nThe complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto\nrestrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and\nagain how provoking it was to be so disappointed.\n\n\"I can guess what his business is, however,\" said Mrs. Jennings\nexultingly.\n\n\"Can you, ma'am?\" said almost every body.\n\n\"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure.\"\n\n\"And who is Miss Williams?\" asked Marianne.\n\n\"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have\nheard of her before.  She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a\nvery near relation.  We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the\nyoung ladies.\" Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,\n\"She is his natural daughter.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare.  I dare say the Colonel\nwill leave her all his fortune.\"\n\nWhen Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret\non so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as\nthey were all got together, they must do something by way of being\nhappy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although\nhappiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a\ntolerable composure of mind by driving about the country.  The\ncarriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never\nlooked happier than when she got into it.  He drove through the park\nvery fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them\nwas seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return\nof all the rest.  They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said\nonly in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others\nwent on the downs.\n\nIt was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that\nevery body should be extremely merry all day long.  Some more of the\nCareys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly\ntwenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.\nWilloughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.\nMrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long\nseated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to\nMarianne, loud enough for them both to hear, \"I have found you out in\nspite of all your tricks.  I know where you spent the morning.\"\n\nMarianne coloured, and replied very hastily, \"Where, pray?\"--\n\n\"Did not you know,\" said Willoughby, \"that we had been out in my\ncurricle?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined\nto find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss\nMarianne.  It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,\nI hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when\nI was there six years ago.\"\n\nMarianne turned away in great confusion.  Mrs. Jennings laughed\nheartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they\nhad been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.\nWilloughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that\nthey had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in\nwalking about the garden and going all over the house.\n\nElinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely\nthat Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house\nwhile Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest\nacquaintance.\n\nAs soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;\nand great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance\nrelated by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true.  Marianne was quite angry\nwith her for doubting it.\n\n\"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we\ndid not see the house?  Is not it what you have often wished to do\nyourself?\"\n\n\"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with\nno other companion than Mr. Willoughby.\"\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew\nthat house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to\nhave any other companion.  I never spent a pleasanter morning in my\nlife.\"\n\n\"I am afraid,\" replied Elinor, \"that the pleasantness of an employment\ndoes not always evince its propriety.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if\nthere had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been\nsensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting\nwrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure.\"\n\n\"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very\nimpertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of\nyour own conduct?\"\n\n\"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of\nimpropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.\nI value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation.  I\nam not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs.\nSmith's grounds, or in seeing her house.  They will one day be Mr.\nWilloughby's, and--\"\n\n\"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be\njustified in what you have done.\"\n\nShe blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;\nand after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her\nsister again, and said with great good humour, \"Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS\nrather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted\nparticularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure\nyou.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice\ncomfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would\nbe delightful.  It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.  On\none side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a\nbeautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church\nand village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so\noften admired.  I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be\nmore forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a\ncouple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the\npleasantest summer-rooms in England.\"\n\nCould Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others,\nshe would have described every room in the house with equal delight.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nThe sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his\nsteadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the\nwonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great\nwonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all\nthe comings and goings of all their acquaintance.  She wondered, with\nlittle intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must\nbe some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could\nhave befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape\nthem all.\n\n\"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,\" said she.\n\"I could see it in his face.  Poor man!  I am afraid his circumstances\nmay be bad.  The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two\nthousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved.  I do\nthink he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can\nit be?  I wonder whether it is so.  I would give anything to know the\ntruth of it.  Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare\nsay it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.  May be\nshe is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a\nnotion she is always rather sickly.  I would lay any wager it is about\nMiss Williams.  It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his\ncircumstances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must\nhave cleared the estate by this time.  I wonder what it can be!  May be\nhis sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.  His setting\noff in such a hurry seems very like it.  Well, I wish him out of all\nhis trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain.\"\n\nSo wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings.  Her opinion varying with every\nfresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.\nElinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel\nBrandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away,\nwhich Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the\ncircumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or\nvariety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of.  It was\nengrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on\nthe subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them\nall.  As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange\nand more incompatible with the disposition of both.  Why they should\nnot openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant\nbehaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not\nimagine.\n\nShe could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in\ntheir power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason\nto believe him rich.  His estate had been rated by Sir John at about\nsix or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that\nincome could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of\nhis poverty.  But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them\nrelative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all,\nshe could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their\ngeneral opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind\nof their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her\nmaking any inquiry of Marianne.\n\nNothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than\nWilloughby's behaviour.  To Marianne it had all the distinguishing\ntenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the\nfamily it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother.  The\ncottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more\nof his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general\nengagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him\nout in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest\nof the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his\nfavourite pointer at her feet.\n\nOne evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the\ncountry, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of\nattachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening\nto mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly\nopposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as\nperfect with him.\n\n\"What!\" he exclaimed--\"Improve this dear cottage!  No. THAT I will\nnever consent to.  Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch\nto its size, if my feelings are regarded.\"\n\n\"Do not be alarmed,\" said Miss Dashwood, \"nothing of the kind will be\ndone; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it.\"\n\n\"I am heartily glad of it,\" he cried.  \"May she always be poor, if she\ncan employ her riches no better.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Willoughby.  But you may be assured that I would not\nsacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one\nwhom I loved, for all the improvements in the world.  Depend upon it\nthat whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in\nthe spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it\nin a manner so painful to you.  But are you really so attached to this\nplace as to see no defect in it?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said he.  \"To me it is faultless.  Nay, more, I consider it as\nthe only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I\nrich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in\nthe exact plan of this cottage.\"\n\n\"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"Yes,\" cried he in the same eager tone, \"with all and every thing\nbelonging to it;--in no one convenience or INconvenience about it,\nshould the least variation be perceptible.  Then, and then only, under\nsuch a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at\nBarton.\"\n\n\"I flatter myself,\" replied Elinor, \"that even under the disadvantage\nof better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your\nown house as faultless as you now do this.\"\n\n\"There certainly are circumstances,\" said Willoughby, \"which might\ngreatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of\nmy affection, which no other can possibly share.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were\nfixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she\nunderstood him.\n\n\"How often did I wish,\" added he, \"when I was at Allenham this time\ntwelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited!  I never passed within\nview of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one\nshould live in it.  How little did I then think that the very first\nnews I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country,\nwould be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate\nsatisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of\nprescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account\nfor.  Must it not have been so, Marianne?\" speaking to her in a lowered\nvoice.  Then continuing his former tone, he said, \"And yet this house\nyou would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood?  You would rob it of its simplicity by\nimaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance\nfirst began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by\nus together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,\nand every body would be eager to pass through the room which has\nhitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort\nthan any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world\ncould possibly afford.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should\nbe attempted.\n\n\"You are a good woman,\" he warmly replied.  \"Your promise makes me\neasy.  Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy.  Tell me\nthat not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever\nfind you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will\nalways consider me with the kindness which has made everything\nbelonging to you so dear to me.\"\n\nThe promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the\nwhole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.\n\n\"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?\" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was\nleaving them.  \"I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must\nwalk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton.\"\n\nHe engaged to be with them by four o'clock.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nMarianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able\nto sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.  She\nwould have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next\nmorning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than\nwhen she lay down in it.  But the feelings which made such composure a\ndisgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.  She was awake the\nwhole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.  She got up with a\nheadache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;\ngiving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all\nattempt at consolation from either.  Her sensibility was potent enough!\n\nWhen breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about\nthe village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment\nand crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.\n\nThe evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.  She played\nover every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,\nevery air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at\nthe instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out\nfor her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be\ngained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.  She spent\nwhole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice\noften totally suspended by her tears.  In books too, as well as in\nmusic, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and\npresent was certain of giving.  She read nothing but what they had been\nused to read together.\n\nSuch violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it\nsunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,\nto which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,\nstill produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.\n\nNo letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.\nHer mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy.  But Mrs.\nDashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at\nleast satisfied herself.\n\n\"Remember, Elinor,\" said she, \"how very often Sir John fetches our\nletters himself from the post, and carries them to it.  We have already\nagreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it\ncould not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through\nSir John's hands.\"\n\nElinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a\nmotive sufficient for their silence.  But there was one method so\ndirect, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real\nstate of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she\ncould not help suggesting it to her mother.\n\n\"Why do you not ask Marianne at once,\" said she, \"whether she is or she\nis not engaged to Willoughby?  From you, her mother, and so kind, so\nindulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.  It would be\nthe natural result of your affection for her.  She used to be all\nunreserve, and to you more especially.\"\n\n\"I would not ask such a question for the world.  Supposing it possible\nthat they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry\ninflict!  At any rate it would be most ungenerous.  I should never\ndeserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of\nwhat is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.  I know\nMarianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not\nbe the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make\nthe revealment of it eligible.  I would not attempt to force the\nconfidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty\nwould prevent the denial which her wishes might direct.\"\n\nElinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's\nyouth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common\ncare, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic\ndelicacy.\n\nIt was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before\nMarianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were\nnot so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;--but\none evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of\nShakespeare, exclaimed,\n\n\"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away\nbefore we could get through it.  We will put it by, that when he comes\nagain...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens.\"\n\n\"Months!\" cried Marianne, with strong surprise.  \"No--nor many weeks.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor\npleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of\nconfidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.\n\nOne morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was\nprevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of\nwandering away by herself.  Hitherto she had carefully avoided every\ncompanion in her rambles.  If her sisters intended to walk on the\ndowns, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the\nvalley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be\nfound when the others set off.  But at length she was secured by the\nexertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.\nThey walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,\nfor Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with\ngaining one point, would not then attempt more.  Beyond the entrance of\nthe valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and\nmore open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first\ncoming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they\nstopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the\ndistance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had\nnever happened to reach in any of their walks before.\n\nAmongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;\nit was a man on horseback riding towards them.  In a few minutes they\ncould distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards\nMarianne rapturously exclaimed,\n\n\"It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is!\"--and was hastening to meet\nhim, when Elinor cried out,\n\n\"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken.  It is not Willoughby.\nThe person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air.\"\n\n\"He has, he has,\" cried Marianne, \"I am sure he has.  His air, his\ncoat, his horse.  I knew how soon he would come.\"\n\nShe walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from\nparticularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,\nquickened her pace and kept up with her.  They were soon within thirty\nyards of the gentleman.  Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within\nher; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices\nof both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well\nknown as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she\nturned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.\n\nHe was the only person in the world who could at that moment be\nforgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a\nsmile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her\nsister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.\n\nHe dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with\nthem to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.\n\nHe was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by\nMarianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than\neven Elinor herself.  To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward\nand her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness\nwhich she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.  On\nEdward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a\nlover ought to look and say on such an occasion.  He was confused,\nseemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither\nrapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by\nquestions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.  Marianne\nsaw and listened with increasing surprise.  She began almost to feel a\ndislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by\ncarrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a\ncontrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.\n\nAfter a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries\nof meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.  No,\nhe had been in Devonshire a fortnight.\n\n\"A fortnight!\" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same\ncounty with Elinor without seeing her before.\n\nHe looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with\nsome friends near Plymouth.\n\n\"Have you been lately in Sussex?\" said Elinor.\n\n\"I was at Norland about a month ago.\"\n\n\"And how does dear, dear Norland look?\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"Dear, dear Norland,\" said Elinor, \"probably looks much as it always\ndoes at this time of the year.  The woods and walks thickly covered\nwith dead leaves.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Marianne, \"with what transporting sensation have I formerly\nseen them fall!  How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven\nin showers about me by the wind!  What feelings have they, the season,\nthe air altogether inspired!  Now there is no one to regard them.  They\nare seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as\npossible from the sight.\"\n\n\"It is not every one,\" said Elinor, \"who has your passion for dead\nleaves.\"\n\n\"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood.  But\nSOMETIMES they are.\"--As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a\nfew moments;--but rousing herself again, \"Now, Edward,\" said she,\ncalling his attention to the prospect, \"here is Barton valley.  Look up\nto it, and be tranquil if you can.  Look at those hills!  Did you ever\nsee their equals?  To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and\nplantations.  You may see the end of the house.  And there, beneath\nthat farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.\"\n\n\"It is a beautiful country,\" he replied; \"but these bottoms must be\ndirty in winter.\"\n\n\"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?\"\n\n\"Because,\" replied he, smiling, \"among the rest of the objects before\nme, I see a very dirty lane.\"\n\n\"How strange!\" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.\n\n\"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here?  Are the Middletons pleasant\npeople?\"\n\n\"No, not all,\" answered Marianne; \"we could not be more unfortunately\nsituated.\"\n\n\"Marianne,\" cried her sister, \"how can you say so? How can you be so\nunjust?  They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards\nus have behaved in the friendliest manner.  Have you forgot, Marianne,\nhow many pleasant days we have owed to them?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Marianne, in a low voice, \"nor how many painful moments.\"\n\nElinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their\nvisitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by\ntalking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting\nfrom him occasional questions and remarks.  His coldness and reserve\nmortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to\nregulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she\navoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him\nas she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nMrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his\ncoming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.\nHer joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.  He received\nthe kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not\nstand against such a reception.  They had begun to fail him before he\nentered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating\nmanners of Mrs. Dashwood.  Indeed a man could not very well be in love\nwith either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and\nElinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like\nhimself.  His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his\ninterest in their welfare again became perceptible.  He was not in\nspirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was\nattentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.  The whole family\nperceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of\nliberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all\nselfish parents.\n\n\"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?\" said she,\nwhen dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; \"are you still\nto be a great orator in spite of yourself?\"\n\n\"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than\ninclination for a public life!\"\n\n\"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to\nsatisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no\naffection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find\nit a difficult matter.\"\n\n\"I shall not attempt it.  I have no wish to be distinguished; and have\nevery reason to hope I never shall.  Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced\ninto genius and eloquence.\"\n\n\"You have no ambition, I well know.  Your wishes are all moderate.\"\n\n\"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe.  I wish as\nwell as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body\nelse it must be in my own way.  Greatness will not make me so.\"\n\n\"Strange that it would!\" cried Marianne.  \"What have wealth or grandeur\nto do with happiness?\"\n\n\"Grandeur has but little,\" said Elinor, \"but wealth has much to do with\nit.\"\n\n\"Elinor, for shame!\" said Marianne, \"money can only give happiness\nwhere there is nothing else to give it.  Beyond a competence, it can\nafford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Elinor, smiling, \"we may come to the same point.  YOUR\ncompetence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without\nthem, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of\nexternal comfort must be wanting.  Your ideas are only more noble than\nmine.  Come, what is your competence?\"\n\n\"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than THAT.\"\n\nElinor laughed.  \"TWO thousand a year! ONE is my wealth! I guessed how\nit would end.\"\n\n\"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,\" said Marianne.\n\"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller.  I am sure I am not\nextravagant in my demands.  A proper establishment of servants, a\ncarriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less.\"\n\nElinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their\nfuture expenses at Combe Magna.\n\n\"Hunters!\" repeated Edward--\"but why must you have hunters?  Every body\ndoes not hunt.\"\n\nMarianne coloured as she replied, \"But most people do.\"\n\n\"I wish,\" said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, \"that somebody\nwould give us all a large fortune apiece!\"\n\n\"Oh that they would!\" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with\nanimation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary\nhappiness.\n\n\"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,\" said Elinor, \"in spite\nof the insufficiency of wealth.\"\n\n\"Oh dear!\" cried Margaret, \"how happy I should be!  I wonder what I\nshould do with it!\"\n\nMarianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.\n\n\"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,\" said Mrs.\nDashwood, \"if my children were all to be rich without my help.\"\n\n\"You must begin your improvements on this house,\" observed Elinor, \"and\nyour difficulties will soon vanish.\"\n\n\"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,\" said\nEdward, \"in such an event!  What a happy day for booksellers,\nmusic-sellers, and print-shops!  You, Miss Dashwood, would give a\ngeneral commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as\nfor Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music\nenough in London to content her.  And books!--Thomson, Cowper,\nScott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up\nevery copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;\nand she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old\ntwisted tree.  Should not you, Marianne?  Forgive me, if I am very\nsaucy.  But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old\ndisputes.\"\n\n\"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy or\ngay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking of\nformer times.  You are very right in supposing how my money would be\nspent--some of it, at least--my loose cash would certainly be employed\nin improving my collection of music and books.\"\n\n\"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the\nauthors or their heirs.\"\n\n\"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who\nwrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever\nbe in love more than once in their life--your opinion on that point is\nunchanged, I presume?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.  It is\nnot likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.\"\n\n\"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,\" said Elinor, \"she is not\nat all altered.\"\n\n\"She is only grown a little more grave than she was.\"\n\n\"Nay, Edward,\" said Marianne, \"you need not reproach me.  You are not\nvery gay yourself.\"\n\n\"Why should you think so!\" replied he, with a sigh.  \"But gaiety never\nwas a part of MY character.\"\n\n\"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's,\" said Elinor; \"I should hardly\ncall her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all she\ndoes--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but she\nis not often really merry.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" he replied, \"and yet I have always set her\ndown as a lively girl.\"\n\n\"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,\" said\nElinor, \"in a total misapprehension of character in some point or\nother: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or\nstupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the\ndeception originated.  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of\nthemselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,\nwithout giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.\"\n\n\"But I thought it was right, Elinor,\" said Marianne, \"to be guided\nwholly by the opinion of other people.  I thought our judgments were\ngiven us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.  This has\nalways been your doctrine, I am sure.\"\n\n\"No, Marianne, never.  My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of\nthe understanding.  All I have ever attempted to influence has been the\nbehaviour.  You must not confound my meaning.  I am guilty, I confess,\nof having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with\ngreater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their\nsentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?\"\n\n\"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of\ngeneral civility,\" said Edward to Elinor.  \"Do you gain no ground?\"\n\n\"Quite the contrary,\" replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.\n\n\"My judgment,\" he returned, \"is all on your side of the question; but I\nam afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.  I never wish to\noffend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I\nam only kept back by my natural awkwardness.  I have frequently thought\nthat I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I\nam so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!\"\n\n\"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"She knows her own worth too well for false shame,\" replied Edward.\n\"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or\nother.  If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy\nand graceful, I should not be shy.\"\n\n\"But you would still be reserved,\" said Marianne, \"and that is worse.\"\n\nEdward started--\"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?\"\n\n\"Yes, very.\"\n\n\"I do not understand you,\" replied he, colouring.  \"Reserved!--how, in\nwhat manner?  What am I to tell you?  What can you suppose?\"\n\nElinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the\nsubject, she said to him, \"Do not you know my sister well enough to\nunderstand what she means?  Do not you know she calls every one\nreserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as\nrapturously as herself?\"\n\nEdward made no answer.  His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him\nin their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nElinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.  His\nvisit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own\nenjoyment in it appeared so imperfect.  It was evident that he was\nunhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished\nher by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of\ninspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very\nuncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted\none moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.\n\nHe joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning\nbefore the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to\npromote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to\nthemselves.  But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour\ndoor open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself\ncome out.\n\n\"I am going into the village to see my horses,\" said he, \"as you are\nnot yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.\"\n\n                    ***\n\nEdward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding\ncountry; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the\nvalley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation\nthan the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had\nexceedingly pleased him.  This was a subject which ensured Marianne's\nattention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of\nthese scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had\nparticularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, \"You\nmust not enquire too far, Marianne--remember I have no knowledge in the\npicturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste\nif we come to particulars.  I shall call hills steep, which ought to be\nbold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and\nrugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be\nindistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.  You must be\nsatisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give.  I call it a\nvery fine country--the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine\ntimber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug--with rich meadows\nand several neat farm houses scattered here and there.  It exactly\nanswers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with\nutility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire\nit; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey\nmoss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.  I know nothing of\nthe picturesque.\"\n\n\"I am afraid it is but too true,\" said Marianne; \"but why should you\nboast of it?\"\n\n\"I suspect,\" said Elinor, \"that to avoid one kind of affectation,\nEdward here falls into another.  Because he believes many people\npretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really\nfeel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater\nindifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he\npossesses.  He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own.\"\n\n\"It is very true,\" said Marianne, \"that admiration of landscape scenery\nis become a mere jargon.  Every body pretends to feel and tries to\ndescribe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what\npicturesque beauty was.  I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I\nhave kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to\ndescribe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and\nmeaning.\"\n\n\"I am convinced,\" said Edward, \"that you really feel all the delight in\na fine prospect which you profess to feel.  But, in return, your sister\nmust allow me to feel no more than I profess.  I like a fine prospect,\nbut not on picturesque principles.  I do not like crooked, twisted,\nblasted trees.  I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and\nflourishing.  I do not like ruined, tattered cottages.  I am not fond\nof nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms.  I have more pleasure in a\nsnug farm-house than a watch-tower--and a troop of tidy, happy villages\nplease me better than the finest banditti in the world.\"\n\nMarianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her\nsister.  Elinor only laughed.\n\nThe subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained\nthoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.\nShe was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,\nhis hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait\nof hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.\n\n\"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,\" she cried.  \"Is that\nFanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some.  But I should\nhave thought her hair had been darker.\"\n\nMarianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt--but when she saw\nhow much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought\ncould not be surpassed by his.  He coloured very deeply, and giving a\nmomentary glance at Elinor, replied, \"Yes; it is my sister's hair.  The\nsetting always casts a different shade on it, you know.\"\n\nElinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise.  That the hair\nwas her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;\nthe only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne\nconsidered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must\nhave been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.\nShe was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and\naffecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of\nsomething else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every\nopportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all\ndoubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.\n\nEdward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of\nmind still more settled.  He was particularly grave the whole morning.\nMarianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own\nforgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little\noffence it had given her sister.\n\nBefore the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.\nJennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the\ncottage, came to take a survey of the guest.  With the assistance of\nhis mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name\nof Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery\nagainst the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their\nacquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately\nsprung.  But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant\nlooks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions,\nextended.\n\nSir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to\ndine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.\nOn the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor,\ntowards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished\nto engage them for both.\n\n\"You MUST drink tea with us to night,\" said he, \"for we shall be quite\nalone--and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a\nlarge party.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings enforced the necessity.  \"And who knows but you may raise\na dance,\" said she.  \"And that will tempt YOU, Miss Marianne.\"\n\n\"A dance!\" cried Marianne.  \"Impossible! Who is to dance?\"\n\n\"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.--What!\nyou thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be\nnameless is gone!\"\n\n\"I wish with all my soul,\" cried Sir John, \"that Willoughby were among\nus again.\"\n\nThis, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.  \"And who\nis Willoughby?\" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he\nwas sitting.\n\nShe gave him a brief reply.  Marianne's countenance was more\ncommunicative.  Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning\nof others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him\nbefore; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round\nher, and said, in a whisper, \"I have been guessing.  Shall I tell you\nmy guess?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you.\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.\"\n\nMarianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at\nthe quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,\n\n\"Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope...I am sure\nyou will like him.\"\n\n\"I do not doubt it,\" replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness\nand warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her\nacquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing\nbetween Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to\nmention it.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nIn a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.\n\n\"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,\nif I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its\nsubject.  I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" cried Lucy warmly, \"for breaking the ice; you have set my\nheart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended\nyou by what I told you that Monday.\"\n\n\"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,\" and Elinor spoke\nit with the truest sincerity, \"nothing could be farther from my\nintention than to give you such an idea.  Could you have a motive for\nthe trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?\"\n\n\"And yet I do assure you,\" replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of\nmeaning, \"there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your\nmanner that made me quite uncomfortable.  I felt sure that you was\nangry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for\nhaving took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs.  But I am\nvery glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not\nblame me.  If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my\nheart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of\nmy life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am\nsure.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,\nto acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall\nnever have reason to repent it.  Your case is a very unfortunate one;\nyou seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have\nneed of all your mutual affection to support you under them.  Mr.\nFerrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother.\"\n\n\"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to\nmarry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect\nof more without a sigh.  I have been always used to a very small\nincome, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too\nwell to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his\nmother might give him if he married to please her.  We must wait, it\nmay be for many years.  With almost every other man in the world, it\nwould be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy\nnothing can deprive me of I know.\"\n\n\"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly\nsupported by the same trust in your's.  If the strength of your\nreciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under\nmany circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement,\nyour situation would have been pitiable, indeed.\"\n\nLucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance\nfrom every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.\n\n\"Edward's love for me,\" said Lucy, \"has been pretty well put to the\ntest, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and\nit has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt\nit now.  I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm\non that account from the first.\"\n\nElinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.\n\nLucy went on.  \"I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from\nour different situations in life, from his being so much more in the\nworld than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for\nsuspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been\nthe slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any\nlowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked\nmore of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at\nLongstaple than he used to be.  I do not mean to say that I am\nparticularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case\nI am sure I could not be deceived.\"\n\n\"All this,\" thought Elinor, \"is very pretty; but it can impose upon\nneither of us.\"\n\n\"But what,\" said she after a short silence, \"are your views? or have\nyou none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a\nmelancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to\nthis, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which\nit may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a\nwhile by owning the truth?\"\n\n\"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while!  But Mrs.\nFerrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger\nupon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and\nthe idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination\nfor hasty measures.\"\n\n\"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness\nbeyond reason.\"\n\nLucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.\n\n\"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?\" asked Elinor.\n\n\"Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his\nbrother--silly and a great coxcomb.\"\n\n\"A great coxcomb!\" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those\nwords by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.-- \"Oh, they are talking of\ntheir favourite beaux, I dare say.\"\n\n\"No sister,\" cried Lucy, \"you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux\nare NOT great coxcombs.\"\n\n\"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not,\" said Mrs. Jennings,\nlaughing heartily; \"for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved\nyoung men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little\ncreature, there is no finding out who SHE likes.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, \"I dare\nsay Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss\nDashwood's.\"\n\nElinor blushed in spite of herself.  Lucy bit her lip, and looked\nangrily at her sister.  A mutual silence took place for some time.\nLucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne\nwas then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent\nconcerto--\n\n\"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my\nhead, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into\nthe secret, for you are a party concerned.  I dare say you have seen\nenough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other\nprofession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he\ncan, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind\nenough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard\nto me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living;\nwhich I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not\nlikely to live a great while.  That would be enough for us to marry\nupon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.\"\n\n\"I should always be happy,\" replied Elinor, \"to show any mark of my\nesteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my\ninterest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary?  He is\nbrother to Mrs. John Dashwood--THAT must be recommendation enough to\nher husband.\"\n\n\"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into\norders.\"\n\n\"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little.\"\n\nThey were again silent for many minutes.  At length Lucy exclaimed with\na deep sigh,\n\n\"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at\nonce by dissolving the engagement.  We seem so beset with difficulties\non every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we\nshould be happier perhaps in the end.  But you will not give me your\nadvice, Miss Dashwood?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated\nfeelings, \"on such a subject I certainly will not.  You know very well\nthat my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the\nside of your wishes.\"\n\n\"Indeed you wrong me,\" replied Lucy, with great solemnity; \"I know\nnobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do\nreally believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all\nmeans to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be\nmore for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it\nimmediately.\"\n\nElinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and\nreplied, \"This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any\nopinion on the subject had I formed one.  It raises my influence much\ntoo high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too\nmuch for an indifferent person.\"\n\n\"'Tis because you are an indifferent person,\" said Lucy, with some\npique, and laying a particular stress on those words, \"that your\njudgment might justly have such weight with me.  If you could be\nsupposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion\nwould not be worth having.\"\n\nElinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might\nprovoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and\nwas even partly determined never to mention the subject again.  Another\npause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and\nLucy was still the first to end it.\n\n\"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?\" said she with all\nher accustomary complacency.\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for that,\" returned the other, while her eyes brightened at\nthe information, \"it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you\nthere!  But I dare say you will go for all that.  To be sure, your\nbrother and sister will ask you to come to them.\"\n\n\"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do.\"\n\n\"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.\nAnne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who\nhave been wanting us to visit them these several years!  But I only go\nfor the sake of seeing Edward.  He will be there in February, otherwise\nLondon would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it.\"\n\nElinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first\nrubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore\nat an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for\nnothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other\nless than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table\nwith the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without\naffection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not\neven the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere\naffection on HER side would have given, for self-interest alone could\ninduce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so\nthoroughly aware that he was weary.\n\nFrom this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when\nentered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it,\nand was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness\nwhenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the\nformer with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility\nwould allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which\nLucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.\n\nThe visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond\nwhat the first invitation implied.  Their favour increased; they could\nnot be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of\ntheir numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the\nabsolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was\nin full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay\nnearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of\nthat festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private\nballs and large dinners to proclaim its importance.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nThough Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of\nthe year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without\na settled habitation of her own.  Since the death of her husband, who\nhad traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had\nresided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman\nSquare.  Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to\nturn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very\nunexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her.\nElinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the\nanimated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave\na grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself\nto be speaking their united inclinations.  The reason alleged was their\ndetermined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the\nyear.  Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and\nrepeated her invitation immediately.\n\n\"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg\nyou will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon\nit.  Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't\nput myself at all out of my way for you.  It will only be sending Betty\nby the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT.  We three shall be able to\ngo very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like\nto go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my\ndaughters.  I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had\nsuch good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will\nthink me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't\nget one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it\nshall not be my fault.  I shall speak a good word for you to all the\nyoung men, you may depend upon it.\"\n\n\"I have a notion,\" said Sir John, \"that Miss Marianne would not object\nto such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it.  It is very\nhard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss\nDashwood does not wish it.  So I would advise you two, to set off for\ntown, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss\nDashwood about it.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of\nMiss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the\nmore the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for\nthem to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk\nto one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back.  But one or\nthe other, if not both of them, I must have.  Lord bless me! how do you\nthink I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till\nthis winter to have Charlotte with me.  Come, Miss Marianne, let us\nstrike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her\nmind by and bye, why so much the better.\"\n\n\"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you,\" said Marianne, with warmth:\n\"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give\nme such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,\nto be able to accept it.  But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I\nfeel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made\nless happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should\ntempt me to leave her.  It should not, must not be a struggle.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare\nthem perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw\nto what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her\neagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct\nopposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's\ndecision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any\nsupport in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not\napprove of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had\nparticular reasons to avoid.  Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her\nmother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the\nlatter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had\nnever been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain\nthe motive of her own disinclination for going to London.  That\nMarianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.\nJennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook\nevery inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be\nmost wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,\nwas such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object\nto her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to\nwitness.\n\nOn being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such\nan excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her\ndaughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to\nherself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of\ntheir declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both\naccepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual\ncheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,\nfrom this separation.\n\n\"I am delighted with the plan,\" she cried, \"it is exactly what I could\nwish.  Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.\nWhen you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and\nhappily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret\nso improved when you come back again!  I have a little plan of\nalteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without\nany inconvenience to any one.  It is very right that you SHOULD go to\ntown; I would have every young woman of your condition in life\nacquainted with the manners and amusements of London.  You will be\nunder the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to\nyou I can have no doubt.  And in all probability you will see your\nbrother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,\nwhen I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly\nestranged from each other.\"\n\n\"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,\" said Elinor, \"you\nhave been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which\noccurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,\ncannot be so easily removed.\"\n\nMarianne's countenance sunk.\n\n\"And what,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, \"is my dear prudent Elinor going to\nsuggest?  What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward?  Do let\nme hear a word about the expense of it.\"\n\n\"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's\nheart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or\nwhose protection will give us consequence.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" replied her mother, \"but of her society,\nseparately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing\nat all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady\nMiddleton.\"\n\n\"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,\" said\nMarianne, \"at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation.  I\nhave no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every\nunpleasantness of that kind with very little effort.\"\n\nElinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards\nthe manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in\npersuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved\nwithin herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go\nlikewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left\nto the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should\nbe abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her\ndomestic hours.  To this determination she was the more easily\nreconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was\nnot to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any\nunreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.\n\n\"I will have you BOTH go,\" said Mrs. Dashwood; \"these objections are\nnonsensical.  You will have much pleasure in being in London, and\nespecially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to\nanticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of\nsources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her\nacquaintance with her sister-in-law's family.\"\n\nElinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her\nmother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the\nshock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this\nattack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin\nher design by saying, as calmly as she could, \"I like Edward Ferrars\nvery much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of\nthe family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am\never known to them or not.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing.  Marianne lifted up her eyes in\nastonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held\nher tongue.\n\nAfter very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the\ninvitation should be fully accepted.  Mrs. Jennings received the\ninformation with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness\nand care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her.  Sir John was\ndelighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of\nbeing alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in\nLondon, was something.  Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being\ndelighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for\nthe Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in\ntheir lives as this intelligence made them.\n\nElinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with\nless reluctance than she had expected to feel.  With regard to herself,\nit was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and\nwhen she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her\nsister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all\nher usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she\ncould not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow\nherself to distrust the consequence.\n\nMarianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the\nperturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone.  Her\nunwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;\nand at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.\nHer mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of\nthe three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of\neternal.\n\nTheir departure took place in the first week in January.  The\nMiddletons were to follow in about a week.  The Miss Steeles kept their\nstation at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the\nfamily.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nThe family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.  Their estate\nwas large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of\ntheir property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so\nrespectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their\nsurrounding acquaintance.  The late owner of this estate was a single\nman, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his\nlife, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister.  But her\ndeath, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great\nalteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received\ninto his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal\ninheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to\nbequeath it.  In the society of his nephew and niece, and their\nchildren, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent.  His\nattachment to them all increased.  The constant attention of Mr. and\nMrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from\ninterest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid\ncomfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the\nchildren added a relish to his existence.\n\nBy a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present\nlady, three daughters.  The son, a steady respectable young man, was\namply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,\nand half of which devolved on him on his coming of age.  By his own\nmarriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his\nwealth.  To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not\nso really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent\nof what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that\nproperty, could be but small.  Their mother had nothing, and their\nfather only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the\nremaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her\nchild, and he had only a life-interest in it.\n\nThe old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other\nwill, gave as much disappointment as pleasure.  He was neither so\nunjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;--but\nhe left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the\nbequest.  Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife\nand daughters than for himself or his son;--but to his son, and his\nson's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as\nto leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear\nto him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or\nby any sale of its valuable woods.  The whole was tied up for the\nbenefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and\nmother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by\nsuch attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three\nyears old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his\nown way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh\nall the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received\nfrom his niece and her daughters.  He meant not to be unkind, however,\nand, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a\nthousand pounds a-piece.\n\nMr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was\ncheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years,\nand by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce\nof an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate\nimprovement.  But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was\nhis only one twelvemonth.  He survived his uncle no longer; and ten\nthousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for\nhis widow and daughters.\n\nHis son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.\nDashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness\ncould command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.\n\nMr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the\nfamily; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at\nsuch a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make\nthem comfortable.  His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,\nand Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might\nprudently be in his power to do for them.\n\nHe was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted\nand rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well\nrespected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of\nhis ordinary duties.  Had he married a more amiable woman, he might\nhave been made still more respectable than he was:--he might even have\nbeen made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and\nvery fond of his wife.  But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature\nof himself;--more narrow-minded and selfish.\n\nWhen he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to\nincrease the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand\npounds a-piece.  He then really thought himself equal to it.  The\nprospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,\nbesides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his\nheart, and made him feel capable of generosity.-- \"Yes, he would give\nthem three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would\nbe enough to make them completely easy.  Three thousand pounds! he\ncould spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.\"-- He\nthought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did\nnot repent.\n\nNo sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,\nwithout sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,\narrived with her child and their attendants.  No one could dispute her\nright to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his\nfather's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the\ngreater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common\nfeelings, must have been highly unpleasing;--but in HER mind there was\na sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of\nthe kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of\nimmovable disgust.  Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with\nany of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the\npresent, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of\nother people she could act when occasion required it.\n\nSo acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so\nearnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the\narrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had\nnot the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the\npropriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children\ndetermined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach\nwith their brother.\n\nElinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed\na strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified\nher, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and\nenabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,\nthat eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led\nto imprudence.  She had an excellent heart;--her disposition was\naffectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern\nthem: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which\none of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.\n\nMarianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.\nShe was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her\njoys, could have no moderation.  She was generous, amiable,\ninteresting: she was everything but prudent.  The resemblance between\nher and her mother was strikingly great.\n\nElinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but\nby Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished.  They encouraged each\nother now in the violence of their affliction.  The agony of grief\nwhich overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought\nfor, was created again and again.  They gave themselves up wholly to\ntheir sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that\ncould afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in\nfuture.  Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could\nstruggle, she could exert herself.  She could consult with her brother,\ncould receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with\nproper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar\nexertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.\n\nMargaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but\nas she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without\nhaving much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal\nher sisters at a more advanced period of life.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nMrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any\ndisinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased\nto raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when\nher spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other\nexertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy\nremembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her\ninquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for\nto remove far from that beloved spot was impossible.  But she could\nhear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and\nease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier\njudgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which\nher mother would have approved.\n\nMrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on\nthe part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last\nearthly reflections.  She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no\nmore than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her\ndaughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was\npersuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in\naffluence.  For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own\nheart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his\nmerit before, in believing him incapable of generosity.  His attentive\nbehaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare\nwas dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the\nliberality of his intentions.\n\nThe contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for\nher daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge\nof her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded;\nand perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal\naffection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it\nimpossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular\ncircumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to\nthe opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.\n\nThis circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and\nthe brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young\nman, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's\nestablishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of\nhis time there.\n\nSome mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of\ninterest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died\nvery rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,\nfor, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the\nwill of his mother.  But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either\nconsideration.  It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,\nthat he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.\nIt was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune\nshould keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of\ndisposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by\nevery one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.\n\nEdward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any\npeculiar graces of person or address.  He was not handsome, and his\nmanners required intimacy to make them pleasing.  He was too diffident\nto do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,\nhis behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.\nHis understanding was good, and his education had given it solid\nimprovement.  But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to\nanswer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him\ndistinguished--as--they hardly knew what.  They wanted him to make a\nfine figure in the world in some manner or other.  His mother wished to\ninterest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to\nsee him connected with some of the great men of the day.  Mrs. John\nDashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these\nsuperior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her\nambition to see him driving a barouche.  But Edward had no turn for\ngreat men or barouches.  All his wishes centered in domestic comfort\nand the quiet of private life.  Fortunately he had a younger brother\nwho was more promising.\n\nEdward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged\nmuch of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such\naffliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects.  She saw\nonly that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it.  He\ndid not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.\nShe was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a\nreflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference\nbetween him and his sister.  It was a contrast which recommended him\nmost forcibly to her mother.\n\n\"It is enough,\" said she; \"to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.\nIt implies everything amiable.  I love him already.\"\n\n\"I think you will like him,\" said Elinor, \"when you know more of him.\"\n\n\"Like him!\" replied her mother with a smile.  \"I feel no sentiment of\napprobation inferior to love.\"\n\n\"You may esteem him.\"\n\n\"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him.  Her manners\nwere attaching, and soon banished his reserve.  She speedily\ncomprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor\nperhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his\nworth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all\nher established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no\nlonger uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper\naffectionate.\n\nNo sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to\nElinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and\nlooked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.\n\n\"In a few months, my dear Marianne.\" said she, \"Elinor will, in all\nprobability be settled for life.  We shall miss her; but SHE will be\nhappy.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?\"\n\n\"My love, it will be scarcely a separation.  We shall live within a few\nmiles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives.  You will\ngain a brother, a real, affectionate brother.  I have the highest\nopinion in the world of Edward's heart.  But you look grave, Marianne;\ndo you disapprove your sister's choice?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Marianne, \"I may consider it with some surprise.\nEdward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly.  But yet--he is not\nthe kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not\nstriking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man\nwho could seriously attach my sister.  His eyes want all that spirit,\nthat fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence.  And besides\nall this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste.  Music seems\nscarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very\nmuch, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their\nworth.  It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while\nshe draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter.  He admires as\na lover, not as a connoisseur.  To satisfy me, those characters must be\nunited.  I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every\npoint coincide with my own.  He must enter into all my feelings; the\nsame books, the same music must charm us both.  Oh! mama, how\nspiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!\nI felt for my sister most severely.  Yet she bore it with so much\ncomposure, she seemed scarcely to notice it.  I could hardly keep my\nseat.  To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost\ndriven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such\ndreadful indifference!\"\n\n\"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.\nI thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow\nfor difference of taste.  Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she\nmay overlook it, and be happy with him.  But it would have broke MY\nheart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.\nMama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I\nshall never see a man whom I can really love.  I require so much!  He\nmust have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must\nornament his goodness with every possible charm.\"\n\n\"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen.  It is yet too early in\nlife to despair of such a happiness.  Why should you be less fortunate\nthan your mother?  In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your\ndestiny be different from hers!\"\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nThe first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a\ndisposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant.  But as they\ndrew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a\ncountry which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view\nof Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness.  It was a\npleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.  After winding\nalong it for more than a mile, they reached their own house.  A small\ngreen court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket\ngate admitted them into it.\n\nAs a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;\nbut as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the\nroof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were\nthe walls covered with honeysuckles.  A narrow passage led directly\nthrough the house into the garden behind.  On each side of the entrance\nwas a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the\noffices and the stairs.  Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest\nof the house.  It had not been built many years and was in good repair.\nIn comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears\nwhich recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon\ndried away.  They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their\narrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.\nIt was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first\nseeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an\nimpression in its favour which was of material service in recommending\nit to their lasting approbation.\n\nThe situation of the house was good.  High hills rose immediately\nbehind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open\ndowns, the others cultivated and woody.  The village of Barton was\nchiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the\ncottage windows.  The prospect in front was more extensive; it\ncommanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond.\nThe hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that\ndirection; under another name, and in another course, it branched out\nagain between two of the steepest of them.\n\nWith the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the\nwhole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many\nadditions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a\ndelight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply\nall that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.  \"As for the\nhouse itself, to be sure,\" said she, \"it is too small for our family,\nbut we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it\nis too late in the year for improvements.  Perhaps in the spring, if I\nhave plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about\nbuilding.  These parlors are both too small for such parties of our\nfriends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts\nof throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the\nother, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this,\nwith a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber\nand garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage.  I could\nwish the stairs were handsome.  But one must not expect every thing;\nthough I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them.  I\nshall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and\nwe will plan our improvements accordingly.\"\n\nIn the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the\nsavings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved\nin her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it\nwas; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns,\nand endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to\nform themselves a home.  Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and\nproperly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls\nof their sitting room.\n\nIn such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast\nthe next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome\nthem to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own\nhouse and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient.  Sir\nJohn Middleton was a good looking man about forty.  He had formerly\nvisited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to\nremember him.  His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his\nmanners were as friendly as the style of his letter.  Their arrival\nseemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an\nobject of real solicitude to him.  He said much of his earnest desire\nof their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed\nthem so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were\nbetter settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a\npoint of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence.\nHis kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he\nleft them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from\nthe park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of\ngame.  He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and\nfrom the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of\nsending them his newspaper every day.\n\nLady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her\nintention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured\nthat her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was\nanswered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced\nto them the next day.\n\nThey were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of\ntheir comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance\nwas favourable to their wishes.  Lady Middleton was not more than six\nor seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and\nstriking, and her address graceful.  Her manners had all the elegance\nwhich her husband's wanted.  But they would have been improved by some\nshare of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to\ndetract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though\nperfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for\nherself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.\n\nConversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and\nLady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their\neldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means\nthere was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of\nextremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,\nand ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung\nabout her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her\nladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could\nmake noise enough at home.  On every formal visit a child ought to be\nof the party, by way of provision for discourse.  In the present case\nit took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his\nfather or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of\ncourse every body differed, and every body was astonished at the\nopinion of the others.\n\nAn opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the\nrest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without\nsecuring their promise of dining at the park the next day.\n\n\n", "summary": "After a gloomy journey, the Dashwoods arrive at Barton Cottage, their new home. It turns out to be a pretty nice place - it's not that impressive after their former grand abode at Norland, nor is it the romantic, picturesque story-book cottage they'd imagined, but it'll do. The Dashwood servants, who'd arrived earlier to set up the house, manage to cheer up the girls, and everyone actually feels OK about their new living situation. The family goes about its business settling in to the house and making plans for improvements . The next day, the girls meet their landlord/cousin, Sir John Middleton. He's a nice guy - maybe not the most graceful or elegant, but definitely a kind and good-natured man. Sir John's wife, Lady Middleton, is certainly elegant and lovely to look at, but she's not as personable as her husband; she's kind of a cold fish. Fortunately, Lady Middleton brings along the couple's oldest son on their visit to the cottage - and when you've got a bunch of women cooing over a little kid, there's always something to talk about. The Middletons leave, after asking the Dashwoods to dinner at their house, Barton Park, the next day."}, {"": "33", "document": "\n\nThe Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,\nand Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day.  She sighed\nfor the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if\nany place could give her ease, Barton must do it.  Elinor was hardly\nless anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent\non its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the\ndifficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought\nto acknowledge.  She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts\ntowards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to\ntheir kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her\ngood-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from\nhome yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more\neligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about\nthe end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both\nher friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with\nthem.  This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy\nof Miss Dashwood;--but it was inforced with so much real politeness by\nMr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his\nmanners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy,\ninduced her to accept it with pleasure.\n\nWhen she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was\nnot very auspicious.\n\n\"Cleveland!\"--she cried, with great agitation.  \"No, I cannot go to\nCleveland.\"--\n\n\"You forget,\" said Elinor gently, \"that its situation is not...that it\nis not in the neighbourhood of...\"\n\n\"But it is in Somersetshire.--I cannot go into Somersetshire.--There,\nwhere I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to\ngo there.\"\n\nElinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such\nfeelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on\nothers;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the\ntime of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to\nsee, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan\ncould do, and perhaps without any greater delay.  From Cleveland, which\nwas within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not\nbeyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant\nmight easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no\noccasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be\nat home in little more than three weeks' time.  As Marianne's affection\nfor her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty,\nover the imaginary evils she had started.\n\nMrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she\npressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.\nElinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her\ndesign; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every\nthing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;--and\nMarianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that\nwere yet to divide her from Barton.\n\n\"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss\nDashwoods;\"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on\nher, after their leaving her was settled--\"for they are quite resolved\nupon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when I\ncome back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two\ncats.\"\n\nPerhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their\nfuture ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give\nhimself an escape from it;--and if so, she had soon afterwards good\nreason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the\nwindow to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she\nwas going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of\nparticular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.\nThe effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her\nobservation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even\nchanged her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by\nthe piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep\nherself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with\nagitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her\nemployment.-- Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the\ninterval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words\nof the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be\napologising for the badness of his house.  This set the matter beyond a\ndoubt.  She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so;\nbut supposed it to be the proper etiquette.  What Elinor said in reply\nshe could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that\nshe did not think THAT any material objection;--and Mrs. Jennings\ncommended her in her heart for being so honest.  They then talked on\nfor a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another\nlucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the\nColonel's calm voice,--\n\n\"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.\"\n\nAstonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost\nready to cry out, \"Lord! what should hinder it?\"--but checking her\ndesire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.\n\n\"This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older.\"\n\nThis delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or\nmortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the\nconference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings\nvery plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to\nfeel what she said,\n\n\"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that\nafter hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave\nof them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away\nwithout making her any reply!--She had not thought her old friend could\nhave made so indifferent a suitor.\n\nWhat had really passed between them was to this effect.\n\n\"I have heard,\" said he, with great compassion, \"of the injustice your\nfriend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand\nthe matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering\nin his engagement with a very deserving young woman.-- Have I been\nrightly informed?--Is it so?--\"\n\nElinor told him that it was.\n\n\"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,\"--he replied, with great\nfeeling,--\"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long\nattached to each other, is terrible.-- Mrs. Ferrars does not know what\nshe may be doing--what she may drive her son to.  I have seen Mr.\nFerrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with\nhim.  He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted\nin a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his\nown sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more.  I understand\nthat he intends to take orders.  Will you be so good as to tell him\nthat the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this\nday's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but THAT,\nperhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be\nnonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more  valuable.-- It\nis a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not\nmake more than 200 L per annum, and though it is certainly capable of\nimprovement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very\ncomfortable income.  Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting\nit to him, will be very great.  Pray assure him of it.\"\n\nElinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been\ngreater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.\nThe preferment, which only two days before she had considered as\nhopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and\nSHE, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her\nemotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different\ncause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might\nhave a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence,\nand her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together\nprompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly\nexpressed.  She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of\nEdward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew\nthem to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with\npleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office\nto another.  But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no\none could so well perform it as himself.  It was an office in short,\nfrom which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an\nobligation from HER, she would have been very glad to be spared\nherself;-- but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining\nit likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her\nmeans, that she would not on any account make farther opposition.\nEdward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard\nhis address from Miss Steele.  She could undertake therefore to inform\nhim of it, in the course of the day.  After this had been settled,\nColonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so\nrespectable and agreeable a neighbour, and THEN it was that he\nmentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent;--an\nevil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very\nlight of, at least as far as regarded its size.\n\n\"The smallness of the house,\" said she, \"I cannot imagine any\ninconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and\nincome.\"\n\nBy which the Colonel was surprised to find that SHE was considering Mr.\nFerrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for\nhe did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such\nan income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle\non--and he said so.\n\n\"This little rectory CAN do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable\nas a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry.  I am sorry to say that\nmy patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive.\nIf, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve\nhim farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do,\nif I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I\ncould be at present.  What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all,\nsince it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal,\nhis only object of happiness.  His marriage must still be a distant\ngood;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.--\"\n\nSuch was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the\ndelicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what\nreally passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at\nthe window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may\nperhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less\nproperly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nElinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the\nsound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a\ncrowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness\nwas the general result, to think even of her sister.\n\nWilloughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most\nworthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a\ndegree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made\nher think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a\ntenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged\nwithin herself--to his wishes than to his merits.  She felt that his\ninfluence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not\nin reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that\nopen, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;\nand by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even\ninnocent to indulge.  But she felt that it was so, long, long before\nshe could feel his influence less.\n\nWhen at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her\njust awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of\nher hopes.  Elinor's heart was full.  The past, the present, the\nfuture, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's\nexpected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits\nwhich kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful\nof betraying herself to her sister.  Short was the time, however, in\nwhich that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after\nWilloughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the\nsound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every\nunnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the\nhall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support\nher as she entered it.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced\nalmost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to\ninquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither\nfor salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her\nmother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much\novercome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears.  She\nwas supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her\nfriend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to\nspeak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals\nto press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her\ngratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss\nof the moment.  He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than\nher own.\n\nAs soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her\nfirst desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,\nrendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.\nElinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only\nchecked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther\nsleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when\nthe life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing\nher mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for\nconversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by\nevery nurse around her.  Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night;\nand Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed.  But\nthe rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the\nmost wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by\nirritation of spirits.  Willoughby, \"poor Willoughby,\" as she now\nallowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would\nnot but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now\nacquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.  But her\npromise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.  She\ndreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne\nmight be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be\nhappy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.\nThen, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS\nsufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward\nof her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.\nWilloughby's death.\n\nThe shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened\nto Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her\nuneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out\nfor Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further\nintelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,\nthat the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,\nas her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.\n\nMarianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of\nMrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly\ndeclared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.  Elinor could\nnot hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes\nwondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward.  But Mrs.\nDashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment\nwhich Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to\nthink only of what would increase it.  Marianne was restored to her\nfrom a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken\njudgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had\ncontributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another\nsource of joy unthought of by Elinor.  It was thus imparted to her, as\nsoon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.\n\n\"At last we are alone.  My Elinor, you do not yet know all my\nhappiness.  Colonel Brandon loves Marianne.  He has told me so himself.\"\n\nHer daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and\nnot surprised, was all silent attention.\n\n\"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your\ncomposure now.  Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my\nfamily, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as\nthe object most desirable.  And I believe Marianne will be the most\nhappy with him of the two.\"\n\nElinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because\nsatisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,\ncharacters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be\ncarried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and\ntherefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.\n\n\"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled.  It came\nout quite unawares, quite undesignedly.  I, you may well believe, could\ntalk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw\nthat it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship,\nas the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather,\nnot thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings,\nmade me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for\nMarianne.  He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of\nseeing her.\"\n\nHere, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions\nof Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's\nactive fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.\n\n\"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby\never felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or\nconstant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the\nknowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless\nyoung man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could\nhe have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!--such openness,\nsuch sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM.\"\n\n\"Colonel Brandon's character,\" said Elinor, \"as an excellent man, is\nwell established.\"\n\n\"I know it is,\"--replied her mother seriously, \"or after such a warning,\nI should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased\nby it.  But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready\nfriendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men.\"\n\n\"His character, however,\" answered Elinor, \"does not rest on ONE act of\nkindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the\ncase, would have prompted him.  To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he\nhas been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him;\nand even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very\nconsiderable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne\ncan be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our\nconnection the greatest blessing to us in the world.  What answer did\nyou give him?--Did you allow him to hope?\"\n\n\"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.\nMarianne might at that moment be dying.  But he did not ask for hope or\nencouragement.  His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible\neffusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent.  Yet\nafter a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she\nlived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in\npromoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful\nsecurity, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every\nencouragement in my power.  Time, a very little time, I tell him, will\ndo everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a\nman as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it.\"\n\n\"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made\nhim equally sanguine.\"\n\n\"No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change\nin it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again\nfree, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a\ndifference of age and disposition he could ever attach her.  There,\nhowever, he is quite mistaken.  His age is only so much beyond hers as\nto be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and\nhis disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make\nyour sister happy.  And his person, his manners too, are all in his\nfavour.  My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so\nhandsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much\nmore pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if\nyou remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like.\"\n\nElinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her\nassent, continued,\n\n\"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to\nme than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to\nbe more solidly attaching to Marianne.  Their gentleness, their genuine\nattention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much\nmore accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often\nartificial, and often ill-timed of the other.  I am very sure myself,\nthat had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved\nhimself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with\nHIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon.\"\n\nShe paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her\ndissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.\n\n\"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,\" added Mrs.\nDashwood, \"even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I\nhear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small\nhouse or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our\npresent situation.\"\n\nPoor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but\nher spirit was stubborn.\n\n\"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares\nabout THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it\nreally is, I am sure it must be a good one.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and\nElinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her\nfriend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nMrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure.  She had only two\ndaughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and\nshe had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the\nworld.  In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as\nfar as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting\nweddings among all the young people of her acquaintance.  She was\nremarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the\nadvantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by\ninsinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of\ndiscernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to\npronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne\nDashwood.  She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening\nof their being together, from his listening so attentively while she\nsang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining\nat the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.\nIt must be so.  She was perfectly convinced of it.  It would be an\nexcellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome.  Mrs. Jennings\nhad been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her\nconnection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she\nwas always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.\n\nThe immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for\nit supplied her with endless jokes against them both.  At the park she\nlaughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne.  To the former\nher raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,\nperfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first\nincomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew\nwhether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,\nfor she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's\nadvanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than\nherself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of\nher daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of\nwishing to throw ridicule on his age.\n\n\"But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,\nthough you may not think it intentionally ill-natured.  Colonel Brandon\nis certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY\nfather; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have\nlong outlived every sensation of the kind.  It is too ridiculous!  When\nis a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not\nprotect him?\"\n\n\"Infirmity!\" said Elinor, \"do you call Colonel Brandon infirm?  I can\neasily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my\nmother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of\nhis limbs!\"\n\n\"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism?  and is not that the\ncommonest infirmity of declining life?\"\n\n\"My dearest child,\" said her mother, laughing, \"at this rate you must\nbe in continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle\nthat my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.\"\n\n\"Mama, you are not doing me justice.  I know very well that Colonel\nBrandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of\nlosing him in the course of nature.  He may live twenty years longer.\nBut thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Elinor, \"thirty-five and seventeen had better not have\nany thing to do with matrimony together.  But if there should by any\nchance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should\nnot think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his\nmarrying HER.\"\n\n\"A woman of seven and twenty,\" said Marianne, after pausing a moment,\n\"can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be\nuncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring\nherself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the\nprovision and security of a wife.  In his marrying such a woman\ntherefore there would be nothing unsuitable.  It would be a compact of\nconvenience, and the world would be satisfied.  In my eyes it would be\nno marriage at all, but that would be nothing.  To me it would seem\nonly a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the\nexpense of the other.\"\n\n\"It would be impossible, I know,\" replied Elinor, \"to convince you that\na woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five\nanything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her.\nBut I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the\nconstant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to\ncomplain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in\none of his shoulders.\"\n\n\"But he talked of flannel waistcoats,\" said Marianne; \"and with me a\nflannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,\nrheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and\nthe feeble.\"\n\n\"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him\nhalf so much.  Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to\nyou in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?\"\n\nSoon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, \"Mama,\" said\nMarianne, \"I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot\nconceal from you.  I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well.  We have now\nbeen here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come.  Nothing but\nreal indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay.  What else\ncan detain him at Norland?\"\n\n\"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?\" said Mrs. Dashwood.  \"I had\nnone.  On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the\nsubject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of\npleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his\ncoming to Barton.  Does Elinor expect him already?\"\n\n\"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.\"\n\n\"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her\nyesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed\nthat there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the\nroom would be wanted for some time.\"\n\n\"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it!  But the whole of\ntheir behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how\ncomposed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the\nlast evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no\ndistinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an\naffectionate brother to both.  Twice did I leave them purposely\ntogether in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most\nunaccountably follow me out of the room.  And Elinor, in quitting\nNorland and Edward, cried not as I did.  Even now her self-command is\ninvariable.  When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to\navoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?\"\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nAs Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the\nlatter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of\nall that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,\nsurprised her by its extravagant testimony of both.  Marianne told her,\nwith the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one\nthat he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was\nexactly calculated to carry a woman.  Without considering that it was\nnot in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter\nher resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the\nservant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable\nto receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and\ntold her sister of it in raptures.\n\n\"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,\"\nshe added, \"and when it arrives we will ride every day.  You shall\nshare its use with me.  Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the\ndelight of a gallop on some of these downs.\"\n\nMost unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to\ncomprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for\nsome time she refused to submit to them.  As to an additional servant,\nthe expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to\nit; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the\npark; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient.  Elinor then\nventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a\nman so little, or at least so lately known to her.  This was too much.\n\n\"You are mistaken, Elinor,\" said she warmly, \"in supposing I know very\nlittle of Willoughby.  I have not known him long indeed, but I am much\nbetter acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the\nworld, except yourself and mama.  It is not time or opportunity that is\nto determine intimacy;--it is disposition alone.  Seven years would be\ninsufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven\ndays are more than enough for others.  I should hold myself guilty of\ngreater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from\nWilloughby.  Of John I know very little, though we have lived together\nfor years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.\"\n\nElinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more.  She knew her\nsister's temper.  Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach\nher the more to her own opinion.  But by an appeal to her affection for\nher mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent\nmother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she\nconsented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly\nsubdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent\nkindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw\nhim next, that it must be declined.\n\nShe was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the\ncottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to\nhim in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his\npresent.  The reasons for this alteration were at the same time\nrelated, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side\nimpossible.  His concern however was very apparent; and after\nexpressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,--\"But,\nMarianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now.  I\nshall keep it only till you can claim it.  When you leave Barton to\nform your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall\nreceive you.\"\n\nThis was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the\nsentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her\nsister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so\ndecided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between\nthem.  From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each\nother; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or\nany of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover\nit by accident.\n\nMargaret related something to her the next day, which placed this\nmatter in a still clearer light.  Willoughby had spent the preceding\nevening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour\nwith only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,\nwhich, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest\nsister, when they were next by themselves.\n\n\"Oh, Elinor!\" she cried, \"I have such a secret to tell you about\nMarianne.  I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon.\"\n\n\"You have said so,\" replied Elinor, \"almost every day since they first\nmet on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I\nbelieve, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round\nher neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great\nuncle.\"\n\n\"But indeed this is quite another thing.  I am sure they will be\nmarried very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.\"\n\n\"Take care, Margaret.  It may be only the hair of some great uncle of\nHIS.\"\n\n\"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I\nsaw him cut it off.  Last night after tea, when you and mama went out\nof the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could\nbe, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took\nup her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all\ntumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of\nwhite paper; and put it into his pocket-book.\"\n\nFor such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not\nwithhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance\nwas in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.\n\nMargaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory\nto her sister.  When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the\npark, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular\nfavourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,\nMargaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, \"I must not\ntell, may I, Elinor?\"\n\nThis of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.\nBut the effort was painful.  She was convinced that Margaret had fixed\non a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a\nstanding joke with Mrs. Jennings.\n\nMarianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good\nto the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to\nMargaret,\n\n\"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to\nrepeat them.\"\n\n\"I never had any conjectures about it,\" replied Margaret; \"it was you\nwho told me of it yourself.\"\n\nThis increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly\npressed to say something more.\n\n\"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,\" said Mrs.\nJennings.  \"What is the gentleman's name?\"\n\n\"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know\nwhere he is too.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be\nsure.  He is the curate of the parish I dare say.\"\n\n\"No, THAT he is not.  He is of no profession at all.\"\n\n\"Margaret,\" said Marianne with great warmth, \"you know that all this is\nan invention of your own, and that there is no such person in\nexistence.\"\n\n\"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such\na man once, and his name begins with an F.\"\n\nMost grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this\nmoment, \"that it rained very hard,\" though she believed the\ninterruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her\nladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as\ndelighted her husband and mother.  The idea however started by her, was\nimmediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion\nmindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of\nrain by both of them.  Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked\nMarianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of\ndifferent people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground.  But not so\neasily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.\n\nA party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a\nvery fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a\nbrother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not\nbe seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders\non that head.  The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and\nSir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed\nto be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at\nleast, twice every summer for the last ten years.  They contained a\nnoble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the\nmorning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages\nonly to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a\ncomplete party of pleasure.\n\nTo some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,\nconsidering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the\nlast fortnight;--and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was\npersuaded by Elinor to stay at home.\n\n\n", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters are busy attending parties and balls. Marianne is in her element. She is overjoyed in the company of Willoughby, who showers much affection and attention on her. Elinor even feels left out at times. Deprived of friends of her own age, she is often thrown in the company of Mrs. Jennings and Lady Middleton. At such times she welcomes the presence of Colonel Brandon. Brandon often talks of Marianne and asks Elinor about her sister's preferences."}, {"": "37", "document": "\n\nNothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor\nregret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby\nneither came nor wrote.  They were engaged about the end of that time\nto attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept\naway by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party,\nMarianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming\nequally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one\nlook of hope or one expression of pleasure.  She sat by the\ndrawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's\narrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude,\nlost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and\nwhen at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the\ndoor, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.\n\nThey arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as\nthe string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the\nstairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another\nin an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full\nof company, and insufferably hot.  When they had paid their tribute of\npoliteness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted\nto mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and\ninconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.  After some\ntime spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to\nCassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and\nElinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great\ndistance from the table.\n\nThey had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived\nWilloughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest\nconversation with a very fashionable looking young woman.  She soon\ncaught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to\nspeak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her;\nand then continued his discourse with the same lady.  Elinor turned\ninvoluntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by\nher.  At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance\nglowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him\ninstantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" she exclaimed, \"he is there--he is there--Oh! why does\nhe not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?\"\n\n\"Pray, pray be composed,\" cried Elinor, \"and do not betray what you\nfeel to every body present.  Perhaps he has not observed you yet.\"\n\nThis however was more than she could believe herself; and to be\ncomposed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it\nwas beyond her wish.  She sat in an agony of impatience which affected\nevery feature.\n\nAt last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,\nand pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to\nhim.  He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than\nMarianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe\nher attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and\nasked how long they had been in town.  Elinor was robbed of all\npresence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word.  But\nthe feelings of her sister were instantly expressed.  Her face was\ncrimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion,\n\"Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this?  Have you not\nreceived my letters?  Will you not shake hands with me?\"\n\nHe could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he\nheld her hand only for a moment.  During all this time he was evidently\nstruggling for composure.  Elinor watched his countenance and saw its\nexpression becoming more tranquil.  After a moment's pause, he spoke\nwith calmness.\n\n\"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,\nand very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find\nyourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home.  My card was not lost, I hope.\"\n\n\"But have you not received my notes?\" cried Marianne in the wildest\nanxiety.  \"Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake.  What\ncan be the meaning of it?  Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell\nme, what is the matter?\"\n\nHe made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment\nreturned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he\nhad been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,\nhe recovered himself again, and after saying, \"Yes, I had the pleasure\nof receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so\ngood as to send me,\" turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined\nhis friend.\n\nMarianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into\nher chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried\nto screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with\nlavender water.\n\n\"Go to him, Elinor,\" she cried, as soon as she could speak, \"and force\nhim to come to me.  Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him\ninstantly.-- I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this\nis explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other.-- Oh go to him\nthis moment.\"\n\n\"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait.  This is\nnot the place for explanations.  Wait only till tomorrow.\"\n\nWith difficulty however could she prevent her from following him\nherself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least,\nwith the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more\nprivacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued\nincessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings,\nby exclamations of wretchedness.  In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby\nquit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne\nthat he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that\nevening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm.  She instantly begged\nher sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was\ntoo miserable to stay a minute longer.\n\nLady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed\nthat Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her\nwish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they\ndeparted as soon the carriage could be found.  Scarcely a word was\nspoken during their return to Berkeley Street.  Marianne was in a\nsilent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings\nwas luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room,\nwhere hartshorn restored her a little to herself.  She was soon\nundressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her\nsister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings,\nhad leisure enough for thinking over the past.\n\nThat some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and\nMarianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,\nseemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own\nwishes, SHE could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or\nmisapprehension of any kind.  Nothing but a thorough change of\nsentiment could account for it.  Her indignation would have been still\nstronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which\nseemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented\nher from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with\nthe affections of her sister from the first, without any design that\nwould bear investigation.  Absence might have weakened his regard, and\nconvenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a\nregard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.\n\nAs for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already\nhave given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in\nits probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest\nconcern.  Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she\ncould ESTEEM Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in\nfuture, her mind might be always supported.  But every circumstance\nthat could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery\nof Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and\nirreconcilable rupture with him.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nDESCRIPTION OF FARMER OAK--AN INCIDENT\n\n\nWhen Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they\nwere within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were\nreduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them,\nextending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch\nof the rising sun.\n\nHis Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he was a young\nman of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good\ncharacter.  On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to\npostponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the\nwhole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space\nof Laodicean neutrality which lay between the Communion people of\nthe parish and the drunken section,--that is, he went to church, but\nyawned privately by the time the congregation reached the Nicene\ncreed, and thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to\nbe listening to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood\nin the scale of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in\ntantrums, he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased,\nhe was rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose\nmoral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture.\n\nSince he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak's\nappearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own--the mental\npicture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always\ndressed in that way.  He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at\nthe base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds,\nand a coat like Dr. Johnson's; his lower extremities being encased\nin ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording\nto each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might\nstand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp--their maker\nbeing a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any\nweakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity.\n\nMr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a\nsmall silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and\nintention, and a small clock as to size. This instrument being\nseveral years older than Oak's grandfather, had the peculiarity of\ngoing either too fast or not at all.  The smaller of its hands, too,\noccasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes\nwere told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour\nthey belonged to.  The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied\nby thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the\nother two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of\nthe sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his\nneighbours' windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the\ngreen-faced timekeepers within.  It may be mentioned that Oak's fob\nbeing difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation\nin the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height\nunder his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by\nthrowing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a\nmere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion required, and\ndrawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well.\n\nBut some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking across one\nof his fields on a certain December morning--sunny and exceedingly\nmild--might have regarded Gabriel Oak in other aspects than these.\nIn his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of\nyouth had tarried on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter\ncrannies some relics of the boy.  His height and breadth would\nhave been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been\nexhibited with due consideration.  But there is a way some men have,\nrural and urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than\nflesh and sinew: it is a way of curtailing their dimensions by their\nmanner of showing them.  And from a quiet modesty that would have\nbecome a vestal, which seemed continually to impress upon him that he\nhad no great claim on the world's room, Oak walked unassumingly and\nwith a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct from a bowing of the\nshoulders.  This may be said to be a defect in an individual if he\ndepends for his valuation more upon his appearance than upon his\ncapacity to wear well, which Oak did not.\n\nHe had just reached the time of life at which \"young\" is ceasing to\nbe the prefix of \"man\" in speaking of one.  He was at the brightest\nperiod of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were\nclearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence\nof youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse,\nand he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united\nagain, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and\nfamily.  In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor.\n\nThe field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called Norcombe\nHill.  Through a spur of this hill ran the highway between Emminster\nand Chalk-Newton.  Casually glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming\ndown the incline before him an ornamental spring waggon, painted\nyellow and gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a waggoner walking\nalongside bearing a whip perpendicularly.  The waggon was laden with\nhousehold goods and window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat\na woman, young and attractive.  Gabriel had not beheld the sight for\nmore than half a minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill\njust beneath his eyes.\n\n\"The tailboard of the waggon is gone, Miss,\" said the waggoner.\n\n\"Then I heard it fall,\" said the girl, in a soft, though not\nparticularly low voice.  \"I heard a noise I could not account for\nwhen we were coming up the hill.\"\n\n\"I'll run back.\"\n\n\"Do,\" she answered.\n\nThe sensible horses stood--perfectly still, and the waggoner's steps\nsank fainter and fainter in the distance.\n\nThe girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded by\ntables and chairs with their legs upwards, backed by an oak settle,\nand ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses,\ntogether with a caged canary--all probably from the windows of the\nhouse just vacated.  There was also a cat in a willow basket, from\nthe partly-opened lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and\naffectionately surveyed the small birds around.\n\nThe handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, and the\nonly sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the canary up\nand down the perches of its prison.  Then she looked attentively\ndownwards.  It was not at the bird, nor at the cat; it was at an\noblong package tied in paper, and lying between them.  She turned her\nhead to learn if the waggoner were coming.  He was not yet in sight;\nand her eyes crept back to the package, her thoughts seeming to run\nupon what was inside it.  At length she drew the article into her\nlap, and untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was\ndisclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively.  She\nparted her lips and smiled.\n\nIt was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet glow the\ncrimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre upon her bright\nface and dark hair.  The myrtles, geraniums, and cactuses packed\naround her were fresh and green, and at such a leafless season they\ninvested the whole concern of horses, waggon, furniture, and girl\nwith a peculiar vernal charm.  What possessed her to indulge in\nsuch a performance in the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and\nunperceived farmer who were alone its spectators,--whether the smile\nbegan as a factitious one, to test her capacity in that art,--nobody\nknows; it ended certainly in a real smile.  She blushed at herself,\nand seeing her reflection blush, blushed the more.\n\nThe change from the customary spot and necessary occasion of such an\nact--from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a time of travelling out\nof doors--lent to the idle deed a novelty it did not intrinsically\npossess.  The picture was a delicate one.  Woman's prescriptive\ninfirmity had stalked into the sunlight, which had clothed it in the\nfreshness of an originality.  A cynical inference was irresistible by\nGabriel Oak as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would\nhave been.  There was no necessity whatever for her looking in the\nglass.  She did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or press a\ndimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any such intention\nhad been her motive in taking up the glass.  She simply observed\nherself as a fair product of Nature in the feminine kind, her\nthoughts seeming to glide into far-off though likely dramas in which\nmen would play a part--vistas of probable triumphs--the smiles being\nof a phase suggesting that hearts were imagined as lost and won.\nStill, this was but conjecture, and the whole series of actions was\nso idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any\npart in them at all.\n\nThe waggoner's steps were heard returning.  She put the glass in the\npaper, and the whole again into its place.\n\nWhen the waggon had passed on, Gabriel withdrew from his point of\nespial, and descending into the road, followed the vehicle to the\nturnpike-gate some way beyond the bottom of the hill, where the\nobject of his contemplation now halted for the payment of toll.\nAbout twenty steps still remained between him and the gate, when he\nheard a dispute.  It was a difference concerning twopence between the\npersons with the waggon and the man at the toll-bar.\n\n\"Mis'ess's niece is upon the top of the things, and she says that's\nenough that I've offered ye, you great miser, and she won't pay any\nmore.\"  These were the waggoner's words.\n\n\"Very well; then mis'ess's niece can't pass,\" said the turnpike-keeper,\nclosing the gate.\n\nOak looked from one to the other of the disputants, and fell into\na reverie.  There was something in the tone of twopence remarkably\ninsignificant.  Threepence had a definite value as money--it was an\nappreciable infringement on a day's wages, and, as such, a higgling\nmatter; but twopence--\"Here,\" he said, stepping forward and handing\ntwopence to the gatekeeper; \"let the young woman pass.\"  He looked up\nat her then; she heard his words, and looked down.\n\nGabriel's features adhered throughout their form so exactly to the\nmiddle line between the beauty of St. John and the ugliness of Judas\nIscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended, that\nnot a single lineament could be selected and called worthy either of\ndistinction or notoriety.  The red-jacketed and dark-haired maiden\nseemed to think so too, for she carelessly glanced over him, and told\nher man to drive on.  She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on\na minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably she felt\nnone, for in gaining her a passage he had lost her her point, and we\nknow how women take a favour of that kind.\n\nThe gatekeeper surveyed the retreating vehicle.  \"That's a\nhandsome maid,\" he said to Oak.\n\n\"But she has her faults,\" said Gabriel.\n\n\"True, farmer.\"\n\n\"And the greatest of them is--well, what it is always.\"\n\n\"Beating people down? ay, 'tis so.\"\n\n\"O no.\"\n\n\"What, then?\"\n\nGabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveller's\nindifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her performance\nover the hedge, and said, \"Vanity.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nRECOGNITION--A TIMID GIRL\n\n\nBathsheba withdrew into the shade.  She scarcely knew whether most to\nbe amused at the singularity of the meeting, or to be concerned at\nits awkwardness.  There was room for a little pity, also for a very\nlittle exultation: the former at his position, the latter at her own.\nEmbarrassed she was not, and she remembered Gabriel's declaration of\nlove to her at Norcombe only to think she had nearly forgotten it.\n\n\"Yes,\" she murmured, putting on an air of dignity, and turning again\nto him with a little warmth of cheek; \"I do want a shepherd.  But--\"\n\n\"He's the very man, ma'am,\" said one of the villagers, quietly.\n\nConviction breeds conviction.  \"Ay, that 'a is,\" said a second,\ndecisively.\n\n\"The man, truly!\" said a third, with heartiness.\n\n\"He's all there!\" said number four, fervidly.\n\n\"Then will you tell him to speak to the bailiff,\" said Bathsheba.\n\nAll was practical again now.  A summer eve and loneliness would have\nbeen necessary to give the meeting its proper fulness of romance.\n\nThe bailiff was pointed out to Gabriel, who, checking the palpitation\nwithin his breast at discovering that this Ashtoreth of strange\nreport was only a modification of Venus the well-known and admired,\nretired with him to talk over the necessary preliminaries of hiring.\n\nThe fire before them wasted away.  \"Men,\" said Bathsheba, \"you shall\ntake a little refreshment after this extra work.  Will you come to\nthe house?\"\n\n\"We could knock in a bit and a drop a good deal freer, Miss, if so be\nye'd send it to Warren's Malthouse,\" replied the spokesman.\n\nBathsheba then rode off into the darkness, and the men straggled on\nto the village in twos and threes--Oak and the bailiff being left by\nthe rick alone.\n\n\"And now,\" said the bailiff, finally, \"all is settled, I think, about\nyour coming, and I am going home-along.  Good-night to ye, shepherd.\"\n\n\"Can you get me a lodging?\" inquired Gabriel.\n\n\"That I can't, indeed,\" he said, moving past Oak as a Christian edges\npast an offertory-plate when he does not mean to contribute.  \"If you\nfollow on the road till you come to Warren's Malthouse, where they\nare all gone to have their snap of victuals, I daresay some of 'em\nwill tell you of a place.  Good-night to ye, shepherd.\"\n\nThe bailiff who showed this nervous dread of loving his neighbour as\nhimself, went up the hill, and Oak walked on to the village, still\nastonished at the reencounter with Bathsheba, glad of his nearness to\nher, and perplexed at the rapidity with which the unpractised girl of\nNorcombe had developed into the supervising and cool woman here.  But\nsome women only require an emergency to make them fit for one.\n\nObliged, to some extent, to forgo dreaming in order to find the way,\nhe reached the churchyard, and passed round it under the wall where\nseveral ancient trees grew.  There was a wide margin of grass along\nhere, and Gabriel's footsteps were deadened by its softness, even at\nthis indurating period of the year.  When abreast of a trunk which\nappeared to be the oldest of the old, he became aware that a figure\nwas standing behind it.  Gabriel did not pause in his walk, and in\nanother moment he accidentally kicked a loose stone. The noise was\nenough to disturb the motionless stranger, who started and assumed\na careless position.\n\nIt was a slim girl, rather thinly clad.\n\n\"Good-night to you,\" said Gabriel, heartily.\n\n\"Good-night,\" said the girl to Gabriel.\n\nThe voice was unexpectedly attractive; it was the low and dulcet note\nsuggestive of romance; common in descriptions, rare in experience.\n\n\"I'll thank you to tell me if I'm in the way for Warren's Malthouse?\"\nGabriel resumed, primarily to gain the information, indirectly to get\nmore of the music.\n\n\"Quite right.  It's at the bottom of the hill.  And do you know--\"\nThe girl hesitated and then went on again.  \"Do you know how late\nthey keep open the Buck's Head Inn?\"  She seemed to be won by\nGabriel's heartiness, as Gabriel had been won by her modulations.\n\n\"I don't know where the Buck's Head is, or anything about it.  Do you\nthink of going there to-night?\"\n\n\"Yes--\"  The woman again paused.  There was no necessity for any\ncontinuance of speech, and the fact that she did add more seemed to\nproceed from an unconscious desire to show unconcern by making a\nremark, which is noticeable in the ingenuous when they are acting by\nstealth.  \"You are not a Weatherbury man?\" she said, timorously.\n\n\"I am not.  I am the new shepherd--just arrived.\"\n\n\"Only a shepherd--and you seem almost a farmer by your ways.\"\n\n\"Only a shepherd,\" Gabriel repeated, in a dull cadence of finality.\nHis thoughts were directed to the past, his eyes to the feet of the\ngirl; and for the first time he saw lying there a bundle of some\nsort.  She may have perceived the direction of his face, for she said\ncoaxingly,--\n\n\"You won't say anything in the parish about having seen me here, will\nyou--at least, not for a day or two?\"\n\n\"I won't if you wish me not to,\" said Oak.\n\n\"Thank you, indeed,\" the other replied.  \"I am rather poor, and I\ndon't want people to know anything about me.\"  Then she was silent\nand shivered.\n\n\"You ought to have a cloak on such a cold night,\" Gabriel observed.\n\"I would advise 'ee to get indoors.\"\n\n\"O no!  Would you mind going on and leaving me?  I thank you much for\nwhat you have told me.\"\n\n\"I will go on,\" he said; adding hesitatingly,--\"Since you are not\nvery well off, perhaps you would accept this trifle from me.  It is\nonly a shilling, but it is all I have to spare.\"\n\n\"Yes, I will take it,\" said the stranger gratefully.\n\nShe extended her hand; Gabriel his.  In feeling for each other's palm\nin the gloom before the money could be passed, a minute incident\noccurred which told much.  Gabriel's fingers alighted on the young\nwoman's wrist.  It was beating with a throb of tragic intensity.  He\nhad frequently felt the same quick, hard beat in the femoral artery\nof his lambs when overdriven.  It suggested a consumption too great\nof a vitality which, to judge from her figure and stature, was\nalready too little.\n\n\"What is the matter?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"But there is?\"\n\n\"No, no, no!  Let your having seen me be a secret!\"\n\n\"Very well; I will.  Good-night, again.\"\n\n\"Good-night.\"\n\nThe young girl remained motionless by the tree, and Gabriel descended\ninto the village of Weatherbury, or Lower Longpuddle as it was\nsometimes called.  He fancied that he had felt himself in the\npenumbra of a very deep sadness when touching that slight and fragile\ncreature.  But wisdom lies in moderating mere impressions, and\nGabriel endeavoured to think little of this.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nOUTSIDE THE BARRACKS--SNOW--A MEETING\n\n\nFor dreariness nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts of a\ncertain town and military station, many miles north of Weatherbury,\nat a later hour on this same snowy evening--if that may be called a\nprospect of which the chief constituent was darkness.\n\nIt was a night when sorrow may come to the brightest without causing\nany great sense of incongruity: when, with impressible persons, love\nbecomes solicitousness, hope sinks to misgiving, and faith to hope:\nwhen the exercise of memory does not stir feelings of regret at\nopportunities for ambition that have been passed by, and anticipation\ndoes not prompt to enterprise.\n\nThe scene was a public path, bordered on the left hand by a river,\nbehind which rose a high wall.  On the right was a tract of land,\npartly meadow and partly moor, reaching, at its remote verge, to a\nwide undulating upland.\n\nThe changes of the seasons are less obtrusive on spots of this\nkind than amid woodland scenery.  Still, to a close observer, they\nare just as perceptible; the difference is that their media of\nmanifestation are less trite and familiar than such well-known ones\nas the bursting of the buds or the fall of the leaf.  Many are not\nso stealthy and gradual as we may be apt to imagine in considering\nthe general torpidity of a moor or waste.  Winter, in coming to the\ncountry hereabout, advanced in well-marked stages, wherein might\nhave been successively observed the retreat of the snakes, the\ntransformation of the ferns, the filling of the pools, a rising of\nfogs, the embrowning by frost, the collapse of the fungi, and an\nobliteration by snow.\n\nThis climax of the series had been reached to-night on the aforesaid\nmoor, and for the first time in the season its irregularities were\nforms without features; suggestive of anything, proclaiming nothing,\nand without more character than that of being the limit of something\nelse--the lowest layer of a firmament of snow.  From this chaotic\nskyful of crowding flakes the mead and moor momentarily received\nadditional clothing, only to appear momentarily more naked thereby.\nThe vast arch of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it were\nthe roof of a large dark cavern, gradually sinking in upon its floor;\nfor the instinctive thought was that the snow lining the heavens and\nthat encrusting the earth would soon unite into one mass without any\nintervening stratum of air at all.\n\nWe turn our attention to the left-hand characteristics; which were\nflatness in respect of the river, verticality in respect of the wall\nbehind it, and darkness as to both.  These features made up the mass.\nIf anything could be darker than the sky, it was the wall, and if any\nthing could be gloomier than the wall it was the river beneath.  The\nindistinct summit of the facade was notched and pronged by chimneys\nhere and there, and upon its face were faintly signified the oblong\nshapes of windows, though only in the upper part.  Below, down to the\nwater's edge, the flat was unbroken by hole or projection.\n\nAn indescribable succession of dull blows, perplexing in their\nregularity, sent their sound with difficulty through the fluffy\natmosphere.  It was a neighbouring clock striking ten.  The bell was\nin the open air, and being overlaid with several inches of muffling\nsnow, had lost its voice for the time.\n\nAbout this hour the snow abated: ten flakes fell where twenty had\nfallen, then one had the room of ten.  Not long after a form moved\nby the brink of the river.\n\nBy its outline upon the colourless background, a close observer\nmight have seen that it was small.  This was all that was positively\ndiscoverable, though it seemed human.\n\nThe shape went slowly along, but without much exertion, for the snow,\nthough sudden, was not as yet more than two inches deep.  At this\ntime some words were spoken aloud:--\n\n\"One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.\"\n\nBetween each utterance the little shape advanced about half a dozen\nyards.  It was evident now that the windows high in the wall were\nbeing counted.  The word \"Five\" represented the fifth window from the\nend of the wall.\n\nHere the spot stopped, and dwindled smaller.  The figure was\nstooping.  Then a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the\nfifth window.  It smacked against the wall at a point several yards\nfrom its mark.  The throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the\nexecution of a woman.  No man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or\nsquirrel in his childhood, could possibly have thrown with such utter\nimbecility as was shown here.\n\nAnother attempt, and another; till by degrees the wall must have\nbecome pimpled with the adhering lumps of snow.  At last one fragment\nstruck the fifth window.\n\nThe river would have been seen by day to be of that deep smooth sort\nwhich races middle and sides with the same gliding precision, any\nirregularities of speed being immediately corrected by a small\nwhirlpool.  Nothing was heard in reply to the signal but the gurgle\nand cluck of one of these invisible wheels--together with a few small\nsounds which a sad man would have called moans, and a happy man\nlaughter--caused by the flapping of the waters against trifling\nobjects in other parts of the stream.\n\nThe window was struck again in the same manner.\n\nThen a noise was heard, apparently produced by the opening of the\nwindow.  This was followed by a voice from the same quarter.\n\n\"Who's there?\"\n\nThe tones were masculine, and not those of surprise.  The high\nwall being that of a barrack, and marriage being looked upon with\ndisfavour in the army, assignations and communications had probably\nbeen made across the river before to-night.\n\n\"Is it Sergeant Troy?\" said the blurred spot in the snow,\ntremulously.\n\nThis person was so much like a mere shade upon the earth, and the\nother speaker so much a part of the building, that one would have\nsaid the wall was holding a conversation with the snow.\n\n\"Yes,\" came suspiciously from the shadow. \"What girl are you?\"\n\n\"Oh, Frank--don't you know me?\" said the spot.  \"Your wife, Fanny\nRobin.\"\n\n\"Fanny!\" said the wall, in utter astonishment.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the girl, with a half-suppressed gasp of emotion.\n\nThere was something in the woman's tone which is not that of the\nwife, and there was a manner in the man which is rarely a husband's.\nThe dialogue went on:\n\n\"How did you come here?\"\n\n\"I asked which was your window.  Forgive me!\"\n\n\"I did not expect you to-night.  Indeed, I did not think you would\ncome at all.  It was a wonder you found me here.  I am orderly\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"You said I was to come.\"\n\n\"Well--I said that you might.\"\n\n\"Yes, I mean that I might.  You are glad to see me, Frank?\"\n\n\"Oh yes--of course.\"\n\n\"Can you--come to me!\"\n\n\"My dear Fan, no!  The bugle has sounded, the barrack gates are\nclosed, and I have no leave.  We are all of us as good as in the\ncounty gaol till to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"Then I shan't see you till then!\"  The words were in a faltering\ntone of disappointment.\n\n\"How did you get here from Weatherbury?\"\n\n\"I walked--some part of the way--the rest by the carriers.\"\n\n\"I am surprised.\"\n\n\"Yes--so am I.  And Frank, when will it be?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"That you promised.\"\n\n\"I don't quite recollect.\"\n\n\"O you do!  Don't speak like that.  It weighs me to the earth.  It\nmakes me say what ought to be said first by you.\"\n\n\"Never mind--say it.\"\n\n\"O, must I?--it is, when shall we be married, Frank?\"\n\n\"Oh, I see.  Well--you have to get proper clothes.\"\n\n\"I have money.  Will it be by banns or license?\"\n\n\"Banns, I should think.\"\n\n\"And we live in two parishes.\"\n\n\"Do we?  What then?\"\n\n\"My lodgings are in St. Mary's, and this is not.  So they will have\nto be published in both.\"\n\n\"Is that the law?\"\n\n\"Yes.  O Frank--you think me forward, I am afraid!  Don't, dear\nFrank--will you--for I love you so.  And you said lots of times you\nwould marry me, and--and--I--I--I--\"\n\n\"Don't cry, now!  It is foolish.  If I said so, of course I will.\"\n\n\"And shall I put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours?\"\n\n\"Yes\"\n\n\"To-morrow?\"\n\n\"Not to-morrow.  We'll settle in a few days.\"\n\n\"You have the permission of the officers?\"\n\n\"No, not yet.\"\n\n\"O--how is it?  You said you almost had before you left\nCasterbridge.\"\n\n\"The fact is, I forgot to ask.  Your coming like this is so sudden\nand unexpected.\"\n\n\"Yes--yes--it is.  It was wrong of me to worry you.  I'll go away\nnow.  Will you come and see me to-morrow, at Mrs. Twills's, in North\nStreet?  I don't like to come to the Barracks.  There are bad women\nabout, and they think me one.\"\n\n\"Quite, so.  I'll come to you, my dear.  Good-night.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Frank--good-night!\"\n\nAnd the noise was again heard of a window closing.  The little spot\nmoved away.  When she passed the corner a subdued exclamation was\nheard inside the wall.\n\n\"Ho--ho--Sergeant--ho--ho!\" An  expostulation followed, but it was\nindistinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which was\nhardly distinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpools\noutside.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nFARMERS--A RULE--AN EXCEPTION\n\n\nThe first public evidence of Bathsheba's decision to be a farmer in\nher own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the following\nmarket-day in the cornmarket at Casterbridge.\n\nThe low though extensive hall, supported by beams and pillars,\nand latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thronged\nwith hot men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the\nspeaker of the minute looking sideways into his auditor's face and\nconcentrating his argument by a contraction of one eyelid during\ndelivery.  The greater number carried in their hands ground-ash\nsaplings, using them partly as walking-sticks and partly for poking\nup pigs, sheep, neighbours with their backs turned, and restful\nthings in general, which seemed to require such treatment in the\ncourse of their peregrinations.  During conversations each subjected\nhis sapling to great varieties of usage--bending it round his back,\nforming an arch of it between his two hands, overweighting it on the\nground till it reached nearly a semicircle; or perhaps it was hastily\ntucked under the arm whilst the sample-bag was pulled forth and a\nhandful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was\nflung upon the floor, an issue of events perfectly well known to\nhalf-a-dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as usual crept into the\nbuilding unobserved, and waited the fulfilment of their anticipations\nwith a high-stretched neck and oblique eye.\n\nAmong these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single one of\nher sex that the room contained.  She was prettily and even daintily\ndressed.  She moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard\nafter them as a romance after sermons, was felt among them like a\nbreeze among furnaces.  It had required a little determination--far\nmore than she had at first imagined--to take up a position here, for\nat her first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every\nface had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned\nrigidly fixed there.\n\nTwo or three only of the farmers were personally known to Bathsheba,\nand to these she had made her way.  But if she was to be the\npractical woman she had intended to show herself, business must\nbe carried on, introductions or none, and she ultimately acquired\nconfidence enough to speak and reply boldly to men merely known to\nher by hearsay.  Bathsheba too had her sample-bags, and by degrees\nadopted the professional pour into the hand--holding up the grains\nin her narrow palm for inspection, in perfect Casterbridge manner.\n\nSomething in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth, and\nin the keenly pointed corners of her red mouth when, with parted\nlips, she somewhat defiantly turned up her face to argue a point with\na tall man, suggested that there was potentiality enough in that\nlithe slip of humanity for alarming exploits of sex, and daring\nenough to carry them out.  But her eyes had a softness--invariably a\nsoftness--which, had they not been dark, would have seemed mistiness;\nas they were, it lowered an expression that might have been piercing\nto simple clearness.\n\nStrange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigor, she always allowed\nher interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with\nhers.  In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was\nnatural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was\ninevitable in a woman.  But there was an elasticity in her firmness\nwhich removed it from obstinacy, as there was a _naivete_ in her\ncheapening which saved it from meanness.\n\nThose of the farmers with whom she had no dealings (by far the\ngreater part) were continually asking each other, \"Who is she?\"\nThe reply would be--\n\n\"Farmer Everdene's niece; took on Weatherbury Upper Farm; turned away\nthe baily, and swears she'll do everything herself.\"\n\nThe other man would then shake his head.\n\n\"Yes, 'tis a pity she's so headstrong,\" the first would say.  \"But we\nought to be proud of her here--she lightens up the old place.  'Tis\nsuch a shapely maid, however, that she'll soon get picked up.\"\n\nIt would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement\nin such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism\nas had the beauty of her face and movements.  However, the interest\nwas general, and this Saturday's _debut_ in the forum, whatever it\nmay have been to Bathsheba as the buying and selling farmer, was\nunquestionably a triumph to her as the maiden.  Indeed, the sensation\nwas so pronounced that her instinct on two or three occasions was\nmerely to walk as a queen among these gods of the fallow, like a\nlittle sister of a little Jove, and to neglect closing prices\naltogether.\n\nThe numerous evidences of her power to attract were only thrown into\ngreater relief by a marked exception.  Women seem to have eyes in\ntheir ribbons for such matters as these.  Bathsheba, without looking\nwithin a right angle of him, was conscious of a black sheep among the\nflock.\n\nIt perplexed her first.  If there had been a respectable minority on\neither side, the case would have been most natural.  If nobody had\nregarded her, she would have taken the matter indifferently--such\ncases had occurred.  If everybody, this man included, she would have\ntaken it as a matter of course--people had done so before.  But the\nsmallness of the exception made the mystery.\n\nShe soon knew thus much of the recusant's appearance.  He was a\ngentlemanly man, with full and distinctly outlined Roman features,\nthe prominences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze-like\nrichness of tone.  He was erect in attitude, and quiet in demeanour.\nOne characteristic pre-eminently marked him--dignity.\n\nApparently he had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age\nat which a man's aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of\na dozen years or so; and, artificially, a woman's does likewise.\nThirty-five and fifty were his limits of variation--he might have\nbeen either, or anywhere between the two.\n\nIt may be said that married men of forty are usually ready and\ngenerous enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate\nbeauty they may discern by the way.  Probably, as with persons\nplaying whist for love, the consciousness of a certain immunity under\nany circumstances from that worst possible ultimate, the having to\npay, makes them unduly speculative.  Bathsheba was convinced that\nthis unmoved person was not a married man.\n\nWhen marketing was over, she rushed off to Liddy, who was waiting\nfor her beside the yellow gig in which they had driven to town.\nThe horse was put in, and on they trotted--Bathsheba's sugar, tea,\nand drapery parcels being packed behind, and expressing in some\nindescribable manner, by their colour, shape, and general lineaments,\nthat they were that young lady-farmer's property, and the grocer's\nand draper's no more.\n\n\"I've been through it, Liddy, and it is over.  I shan't mind it\nagain, for they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there;\nbut this morning it was as bad as being married--eyes everywhere!\"\n\n\"I knowed it would be,\" Liddy said.  \"Men be such a terrible class of\nsociety to look at a body.\"\n\n\"But there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time upon\nme.\"  The information was put in this form that Liddy might not for a\nmoment suppose her mistress was at all piqued.  \"A very good-looking\nman,\" she continued, \"upright; about forty, I should think.  Do you\nknow at all who he could be?\"\n\nLiddy couldn't think.\n\n\"Can't you guess at all?\" said Bathsheba with some disappointment.\n\n\"I haven't a notion; besides, 'tis no difference, since he took less\nnotice of you than any of the rest.  Now, if he'd taken more, it\nwould have mattered a great deal.\"\n\nBathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and they\nbowled along in silence.  A low carriage, bowling along still more\nrapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed\nthem.\n\n\"Why, there he is!\" she said.\n\nLiddy looked.  \"That!  That's Farmer Boldwood--of course 'tis--the\nman you couldn't see the other day when he called.\"\n\n\"Oh, Farmer Boldwood,\" murmured Bathsheba, and looked at him as he\noutstripped them.  The farmer had never turned his head once, but\nwith eyes fixed on the most advanced point along the road, passed as\nunconsciously and abstractedly as if Bathsheba and her charms were\nthin air.\n\n\"He's an interesting man--don't you think so?\" she remarked.\n\n\"O yes, very.  Everybody owns it,\" replied Liddy.\n\n\"I wonder why he is so wrapt up and indifferent, and seemingly so far\naway from all he sees around him.\"\n\n\"It is said--but not known for certain--that he met with some bitter\ndisappointment when he was a young man and merry.  A woman jilted\nhim, they say.\"\n\n\"People always say that--and we know very well women scarcely ever\njilt men; 'tis the men who jilt us.  I expect it is simply his nature\nto be so reserved.\"\n\n\"Simply his nature--I expect so, miss--nothing else in the world.\"\n\n\"Still, 'tis more romantic to think he has been served cruelly, poor\nthing'!  Perhaps, after all, he has!\"\n\n\"Depend upon it he has.  Oh yes, miss, he has!  I feel he must have.\"\n\n\"However, we are very apt to think extremes of people.  I shouldn't\nwonder after all if it wasn't a little of both--just between the\ntwo--rather cruelly used and rather reserved.\"\n\n\"Oh dear no, miss--I can't think it between the two!\"\n\n\"That's most likely.\"\n\n\"Well, yes, so it is.  I am convinced it is most likely. You may take\nmy word, miss, that that's what's the matter with him.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nALL SAINTS' AND ALL SOULS'\n\n\nOn a week-day morning a small congregation, consisting mainly of\nwomen and girls, rose from its knees in the mouldy nave of a church\ncalled All Saints', in the distant barrack-town before-mentioned, at\nthe end of a service without a sermon.  They were about to disperse,\nwhen a smart footstep, entering the porch and coming up the central\npassage, arrested their attention.  The step echoed with a ring\nunusual in a church; it was the clink of spurs.  Everybody looked.  A\nyoung cavalry soldier in a red uniform, with the three chevrons of a\nsergeant upon his sleeve, strode up the aisle, with an embarrassment\nwhich was only the more marked by the intense vigour of his step, and\nby the determination upon his face to show none.  A slight flush had\nmounted his cheek by the time he had run the gauntlet between these\nwomen; but, passing on through the chancel arch, he never paused till\nhe came close to the altar railing.  Here for a moment he stood\nalone.\n\nThe officiating curate, who had not yet doffed his surplice,\nperceived the new-comer, and followed him to the communion-space.  He\nwhispered to the soldier, and then beckoned to the clerk, who in his\nturn whispered to an elderly woman, apparently his wife, and they\nalso went up the chancel steps.\n\n\"'Tis a wedding!\" murmured some of the women, brightening.  \"Let's\nwait!\"\n\nThe majority again sat down.\n\nThere was a creaking of machinery behind, and some of the young ones\nturned their heads.  From the interior face of the west wall of the\ntower projected a little canopy with a quarter-jack and small bell\nbeneath it, the automaton being driven by the same clock machinery\nthat struck the large bell in the tower.  Between the tower and the\nchurch was a close screen, the door of which was kept shut during\nservices, hiding this grotesque clockwork from sight.  At present,\nhowever, the door was open, and the egress of the jack, the blows on\nthe bell, and the mannikin's retreat into the nook again, were\nvisible to many, and audible throughout the church.\n\nThe jack had struck half-past eleven.\n\n\"Where's the woman?\" whispered some of the spectators.\n\nThe young sergeant stood still with the abnormal rigidity of the old\npillars around.  He faced the south-east, and was as silent as he was\nstill.\n\nThe silence grew to be a noticeable thing as the minutes went on,\nand nobody else appeared, and not a soul moved.  The rattle of the\nquarter-jack again from its niche, its blows for three-quarters, its\nfussy retreat, were almost painfully abrupt, and caused many of the\ncongregation to start palpably.\n\n\"I wonder where the woman is!\" a voice whispered again.\n\nThere began now that slight shifting of feet, that artificial\ncoughing among several, which betrays a nervous suspense.  At length\nthere was a titter.  But the soldier never moved.  There he stood,\nhis face to the south-east, upright as a column, his cap in his hand.\n\nThe clock ticked on.  The women threw off their nervousness, and\ntitters and giggling became more frequent.  Then came a dead silence.\nEvery one was waiting for the end.  Some persons may have noticed how\nextraordinarily the striking of quarters seems to quicken the flight\nof time.  It was hardly credible that the jack had not got wrong with\nthe minutes when the rattle began again, the puppet emerged, and the\nfour quarters were struck fitfully as before.  One could almost be\npositive that there was a malicious leer upon the hideous creature's\nface, and a mischievous delight in its twitchings.  Then followed the\ndull and remote resonance of the twelve heavy strokes in the tower\nabove.  The women were impressed, and there was no giggle this time.\n\nThe clergyman glided into the vestry, and the clerk vanished.  The\nsergeant had not yet turned; every woman in the church was waiting to\nsee his face, and he appeared to know it.  At last he did turn, and\nstalked resolutely down the nave, braving them all, with a compressed\nlip.  Two bowed and toothless old almsmen then looked at each other\nand chuckled, innocently enough; but the sound had a strange weird\neffect in that place.\n\nOpposite to the church was a paved square, around which several\noverhanging wood buildings of old time cast a picturesque shade.  The\nyoung man on leaving the door went to cross the square, when, in the\nmiddle, he met a little woman.  The expression of her face, which had\nbeen one of intense anxiety, sank at the sight of his nearly to\nterror.\n\n\"Well?\" he said, in a suppressed passion, fixedly looking at her.\n\n\"Oh, Frank--I made a mistake!--I thought that church with the spire\nwas All Saints', and I was at the door at half-past eleven to a\nminute as you said.  I waited till a quarter to twelve, and found\nthen that I was in All Souls'.  But I wasn't much frightened, for\nI thought it could be to-morrow as well.\"\n\n\"You fool, for so fooling me!  But say no more.\"\n\n\"Shall it be to-morrow, Frank?\" she asked blankly.\n\n\"To-morrow!\" and he gave vent to a hoarse laugh.  \"I don't go through\nthat experience again for some time, I warrant you!\"\n\n\"But after all,\" she expostulated in a trembling voice, \"the mistake\nwas not such a terrible thing!  Now, dear Frank, when shall it be?\"\n\n\"Ah, when?  God knows!\" he said, with a light irony, and turning from\nher walked rapidly away.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nIN THE MARKET-PLACE\n\n\nOn Saturday Boldwood was in Casterbridge market house as usual, when\nthe disturber of his dreams entered and became visible to him.  Adam\nhad awakened from his deep sleep, and behold! there was Eve.  The\nfarmer took courage, and for the first time really looked at her.\n\nMaterial causes and emotional effects are not to be arranged in\nregular equation.  The result from capital employed in the production\nof any movement of a mental nature is sometimes as tremendous as the\ncause itself is absurdly minute.  When women are in a freakish mood,\ntheir usual intuition, either from carelessness or inherent defect,\nseemingly fails to teach them this, and hence it was that Bathsheba\nwas fated to be astonished to-day.\n\nBoldwood looked at her--not slily, critically, or understandingly,\nbut blankly at gaze, in the way a reaper looks up at a passing\ntrain--as something foreign to his element, and but dimly understood.\nTo Boldwood women had been remote phenomena rather than necessary\ncomplements--comets of such uncertain aspect, movement, and\npermanence, that whether their orbits were as geometrical,\nunchangeable, and as subject to laws as his own, or as absolutely\nerratic as they superficially appeared, he had not deemed it his duty\nto consider.\n\nHe saw her black hair, her correct facial curves and profile, and\nthe roundness of her chin and throat.  He saw then the side of her\neyelids, eyes, and lashes, and the shape of her ear.  Next he noticed\nher figure, her skirt, and the very soles of her shoes.\n\nBoldwood thought her beautiful, but wondered whether he was right in\nhis thought, for it seemed impossible that this romance in the flesh,\nif so sweet as he imagined, could have been going on long without\ncreating a commotion of delight among men, and provoking more inquiry\nthan Bathsheba had done, even though that was not a little.  To the\nbest of his judgement neither nature nor art could improve this\nperfect one of an imperfect many.  His heart began to move within\nhim.  Boldwood, it must be remembered, though forty years of age, had\nnever before inspected a woman with the very centre and force of his\nglance; they had struck upon all his senses at wide angles.\n\nWas she really beautiful?  He could not assure himself that his\nopinion was true even now.  He furtively said to a neighbour, \"Is\nMiss Everdene considered handsome?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; she was a good deal noticed the first time she came, if you\nremember.  A very handsome girl indeed.\"\n\nA man is never more credulous than in receiving favourable opinions\non the beauty of a woman he is half, or quite, in love with; a mere\nchild's word on the point has the weight of an R.A.'s.  Boldwood was\nsatisfied now.\n\nAnd this charming woman had in effect said to him, \"Marry me.\"  Why\nshould she have done that strange thing?  Boldwood's blindness to\nthe difference between approving of what circumstances suggest, and\noriginating what they do not suggest, was well matched by Bathsheba's\ninsensibility to the possibly great issues of little beginnings.\n\nShe was at this moment coolly dealing with a dashing young farmer,\nadding up accounts with him as indifferently as if his face had been\nthe pages of a ledger.  It was evident that such a nature as his had\nno attraction for a woman of Bathsheba's taste.  But Boldwood grew\nhot down to his hands with an incipient jealousy; he trod for the\nfirst time the threshold of \"the injured lover's hell.\"  His first\nimpulse was to go and thrust himself between them.  This could be\ndone, but only in one way--by asking to see a sample of her corn.\nBoldwood renounced the idea.  He could not make the request; it was\ndebasing loveliness to ask it to buy and sell, and jarred with his\nconceptions of her.\n\nAll this time Bathsheba was conscious of having broken into that\ndignified stronghold at last.  His eyes, she knew, were following her\neverywhere.  This was a triumph; and had it come naturally, such a\ntriumph would have been the sweeter to her for this piquing delay.\nBut it had been brought about by misdirected ingenuity, and she\nvalued it only as she valued an artificial flower or a wax fruit.\n\nBeing a woman with some good sense in reasoning on subjects wherein\nher heart was not involved, Bathsheba genuinely repented that a freak\nwhich had owed its existence as much to Liddy as to herself, should\never have been undertaken, to disturb the placidity of a man she\nrespected too highly to deliberately tease.\n\nShe that day nearly formed the intention of begging his pardon on\nthe very next occasion of their meeting.  The worst features of this\narrangement were that, if he thought she ridiculed him, an apology\nwould increase the offence by being disbelieved; and if he thought\nshe wanted him to woo her, it would read like additional evidence of\nher forwardness.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nPERPLEXITY--GRINDING THE SHEARS--A QUARREL\n\n\n\"He is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that I can desire,\"\nBathsheba mused.\n\nYet Farmer Boldwood, whether by nature kind or the reverse to kind,\ndid not exercise kindness, here.  The rarest offerings of the purest\nloves are but a self-indulgence, and no generosity at all.\n\nBathsheba, not being the least in love with him, was eventually able\nto look calmly at his offer.  It was one which many women of her own\nstation in the neighbourhood, and not a few of higher rank, would\nhave been wild to accept and proud to publish.  In every point of\nview, ranging from politic to passionate, it was desirable that she,\na lonely girl, should marry, and marry this earnest, well-to-do,\nand respected man.  He was close to her doors: his standing was\nsufficient: his qualities were even supererogatory.  Had she felt,\nwhich she did not, any wish whatever for the married state in the\nabstract, she could not reasonably have rejected him, being a woman\nwho frequently appealed to her understanding for deliverance from\nher whims.  Boldwood as a means to marriage was unexceptionable: she\nesteemed and liked him, yet she did not want him.  It appears that\nordinary men take wives because possession is not possible without\nmarriage, and that ordinary women accept husbands because marriage\nis not possible without possession; with totally differing aims the\nmethod is the same on both sides.  But the understood incentive on\nthe woman's part was wanting here.  Besides, Bathsheba's position\nas absolute mistress of a farm and house was a novel one, and the\nnovelty had not yet begun to wear off.\n\nBut a disquiet filled her which was somewhat to her credit, for it\nwould have affected few.  Beyond the mentioned reasons with which\nshe combated her objections, she had a strong feeling that, having\nbeen the one who began the game, she ought in honesty to accept the\nconsequences.  Still the reluctance remained.  She said in the same\nbreath that it would be ungenerous not to marry Boldwood, and that\nshe couldn't do it to save her life.\n\nBathsheba's was an impulsive nature under a deliberative aspect.  An\nElizabeth in brain and a Mary Stuart in spirit, she often performed\nactions of the greatest temerity with a manner of extreme discretion.\nMany of her thoughts were perfect syllogisms; unluckily they always\nremained thoughts. Only a few were irrational assumptions; but,\nunfortunately, they were the ones which most frequently grew into\ndeeds.\n\nThe next day to that of the declaration she found Gabriel Oak at the\nbottom of her garden, grinding his shears for the sheep-shearing.\nAll the surrounding cottages were more or less scenes of the same\noperation; the scurr of whetting spread into the sky from all parts\nof the village as from an armoury previous to a campaign.  Peace and\nwar kiss each other at their hours of preparation--sickles, scythes,\nshears, and pruning-hooks, ranking with swords, bayonets, and lances,\nin their common necessity for point and edge.\n\nCainy Ball turned the handle of Gabriel's grindstone, his head\nperforming a melancholy see-saw up and down with each turn of the\nwheel.  Oak stood somewhat as Eros is represented when in the act of\nsharpening his arrows: his figure slightly bent, the weight of his\nbody thrown over on the shears, and his head balanced side-ways, with\na critical compression of the lips and contraction of the eyelids to\ncrown the attitude.\n\nHis mistress came up and looked upon them in silence for a minute or\ntwo; then she said--\n\n\"Cain, go to the lower mead and catch the bay mare.  I'll turn the\nwinch of the grindstone.  I want to speak to you, Gabriel.\"\n\nCain departed, and Bathsheba took the handle.  Gabriel had glanced up\nin intense surprise, quelled its expression, and looked down again.\nBathsheba turned the winch, and Gabriel applied the shears.\n\nThe peculiar motion involved in turning a wheel has a wonderful\ntendency to benumb the mind.  It is a sort of attenuated variety of\nIxion's punishment, and contributes a dismal chapter to the history\nof gaols.  The brain gets muddled, the head grows heavy, and the\nbody's centre of gravity seems to settle by degrees in a leaden lump\nsomewhere between the eyebrows and the crown.  Bathsheba felt the\nunpleasant symptoms after two or three dozen turns.\n\n\"Will you turn, Gabriel, and let me hold the shears?\" she said.  \"My\nhead is in a whirl, and I can't talk.\"\n\nGabriel turned.  Bathsheba then began, with some awkwardness,\nallowing her thoughts to stray occasionally from her story to attend\nto the shears, which required a little nicety in sharpening.\n\n\"I wanted to ask you if the men made any observations on my going\nbehind the sedge with Mr. Boldwood yesterday?\"\n\n\"Yes, they did,\" said Gabriel.  \"You don't hold the shears right,\nmiss--I knew you wouldn't know the way--hold like this.\"\n\nHe relinquished the winch, and inclosing her two hands completely in\nhis own (taking each as we sometimes slap a child's hand in teaching\nhim to write), grasped the shears with her.  \"Incline the edge so,\"\nhe said.\n\nHands and shears were inclined to suit the words, and held thus for a\npeculiarly long time by the instructor as he spoke.\n\n\"That will do,\" exclaimed Bathsheba.  \"Loose my hands.  I won't have\nthem held!  Turn the winch.\"\n\nGabriel freed her hands quietly, retired to his handle, and the\ngrinding went on.\n\n\"Did the men think it odd?\" she said again.\n\n\"Odd was not the idea, miss.\"\n\n\"What did they say?\"\n\n\"That Farmer Boldwood's name and your own were likely to be flung\nover pulpit together before the year was out.\"\n\n\"I thought so by the look of them!  Why, there's nothing in it.  A\nmore foolish remark was never made, and I want you to contradict it!\nthat's what I came for.\"\n\nGabriel looked incredulous and sad, but between his moments of\nincredulity, relieved.\n\n\"They must have heard our conversation,\" she continued.\n\n\"Well, then, Bathsheba!\" said Oak, stopping the handle, and gazing\ninto her face with astonishment.\n\n\"Miss Everdene, you mean,\" she said, with dignity.\n\n\"I mean this, that if Mr. Boldwood really spoke of marriage, I bain't\ngoing to tell a story and say he didn't to please you.  I have\nalready tried to please you too much for my own good!\"\n\nBathsheba regarded him with round-eyed perplexity.  She did not know\nwhether to pity him for disappointed love of her, or to be angry with\nhim for having got over it--his tone being ambiguous.\n\n\"I said I wanted you just to mention that it was not true I was going\nto be married to him,\" she murmured, with a slight decline in her\nassurance.\n\n\"I can say that to them if you wish, Miss Everdene.  And I could\nlikewise give an opinion to 'ee on what you have done.\"\n\n\"I daresay.  But I don't want your opinion.\"\n\n\"I suppose not,\" said Gabriel bitterly, and going on with his\nturning, his words rising and falling in a regular swell and cadence\nas he stooped or rose with the winch, which directed them, according\nto his position, perpendicularly into the earth, or horizontally\nalong the garden, his eyes being fixed on a leaf upon the ground.\n\nWith Bathsheba a hastened act was a rash act; but, as does not always\nhappen, time gained was prudence insured.  It must be added, however,\nthat time was very seldom gained.  At this period the single opinion\nin the parish on herself and her doings that she valued as sounder\nthan her own was Gabriel Oak's.  And the outspoken honesty of his\ncharacter was such that on any subject, even that of her love for,\nor marriage with, another man, the same disinterestedness of opinion\nmight be calculated on, and be had for the asking.  Thoroughly\nconvinced of the impossibility of his own suit, a high resolve\nconstrained him not to injure that of another.  This is a lover's\nmost stoical virtue, as the lack of it is a lover's most venial sin.\nKnowing he would reply truly she asked the question, painful as\nshe must have known the subject would be.  Such is the selfishness\nof some charming women.  Perhaps it was some excuse for her thus\ntorturing honesty to her own advantage, that she had absolutely no\nother sound judgment within easy reach.\n\n\"Well, what is your opinion of my conduct,\" she said, quietly.\n\n\"That it is unworthy of any thoughtful, and meek, and comely woman.\"\n\nIn an instant Bathsheba's face coloured with the angry crimson of\na Danby sunset.  But she forbore to utter this feeling, and the\nreticence of her tongue only made the loquacity of her face the more\nnoticeable.\n\nThe next thing Gabriel did was to make a mistake.\n\n\"Perhaps you don't like the rudeness of my reprimanding you, for I\nknow it is rudeness; but I thought it would do good.\"\n\nShe instantly replied sarcastically--\n\n\"On the contrary, my opinion of you is so low, that I see in your\nabuse the praise of discerning people!\"\n\n\"I am glad you don't mind it, for I said it honestly and with every\nserious meaning.\"\n\n\"I see.  But, unfortunately, when you try not to speak in jest you\nare amusing--just as when you wish to avoid seriousness you sometimes\nsay a sensible word.\"\n\nIt was a hard hit, but Bathsheba had unmistakably lost her temper,\nand on that account Gabriel had never in his life kept his own\nbetter.  He said nothing.  She then broke out--\n\n\"I may ask, I suppose, where in particular my unworthiness lies?  In\nmy not marrying you, perhaps!\"\n\n\"Not by any means,\" said Gabriel quietly.  \"I have long given up\nthinking of that matter.\"\n\n\"Or wishing it, I suppose,\" she said; and it was apparent that she\nexpected an unhesitating denial of this supposition.\n\nWhatever Gabriel felt, he coolly echoed her words--\n\n\"Or wishing it either.\"\n\nA woman may be treated with a bitterness which is sweet to her,\nand with a rudeness which is not offensive.  Bathsheba would have\nsubmitted to an indignant chastisement for her levity had Gabriel\nprotested that he was loving her at the same time; the impetuosity\nof passion unrequited is bearable, even if it stings and\nanathematizes--there is a triumph in the humiliation, and a\ntenderness in the strife.  This was what she had been expecting,\nand what she had not got.  To be lectured because the lecturer saw\nher in the cold morning light of open-shuttered disillusion was\nexasperating.  He had not finished, either.  He continued in a more\nagitated voice:--\n\n\"My opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to blame for\nplaying pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merely as a pastime.\nLeading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy action.\nAnd even, Miss Everdene, if you seriously inclined towards him, you\nmight have let him find it out in some way of true loving-kindness,\nand not by sending him a valentine's letter.\"\n\nBathsheba laid down the shears.\n\n\"I cannot allow any man to--to criticise my private conduct!\" she\nexclaimed.  \"Nor will I for a minute.  So you'll please leave the\nfarm at the end of the week!\"\n\nIt may have been a peculiarity--at any rate it was a fact--that when\nBathsheba was swayed by an emotion of an earthly sort her lower lip\ntrembled: when by a refined emotion, her upper or heavenward one.\nHer nether lip quivered now.\n\n\"Very well, so I will,\" said Gabriel calmly.  He had been held to\nher by a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by breaking,\nrather than by a chain he could not break.  \"I should be even better\npleased to go at once,\" he added.\n\n\"Go at once then, in Heaven's name!\" said she, her eyes flashing at\nhis, though never meeting them.  \"Don't let me see your face any\nmore.\"\n\n\"Very well, Miss Everdene--so it shall be.\"\n\nAnd he took his shears and went away from her in placid dignity, as\nMoses left the presence of Pharaoh.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Now we're with Bathsheba, who's sitting around and worrying about this whole thing she's started with Boldwood. She admits to herself that she likes him, but she doesn't like-like him. The day after Boldwood's proposal, Bathsheba visits Gabriel Oak at the bottom of her garden. She asks him whether the men are saying anything about her hanging out with Boldwood. He admits that people are talking about her and Boldwood marrying, and then holds her hands to show her how to hold shears to a grindstone. She tells Oak that she wants him to go around and set the record straight; she won't be marrying Boldwood. Oak says he has something to say about the way Bathsheba has led Boldwood on, but she says she doesn't want to hear it. When he persists, though, she snaps and orders him to leave her farm and never come back. So he does."}, {"": "45", "document": "\n\nHIVING THE BEES\n\n\nThe Weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year. It was in\nthe latter part of June, and the day after the interview with Troy in\nthe hayfield, that Bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a\nswarm in the air and guessing their probable settling place.  Not\nonly were they late this year, but unruly.  Sometimes throughout a\nwhole season all the swarms would alight on the lowest attainable\nbough--such as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-tree; next\nyear they would, with just the same unanimity, make straight off to\nthe uppermost member of some tall, gaunt costard, or quarrenden,\nand there defy all invaders who did not come armed with ladders and\nstaves to take them.\n\nThis was the case at present.  Bathsheba's eyes, shaded by one hand,\nwere following the ascending multitude against the unexplorable\nstretch of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy\ntrees spoken of.  A process somewhat analogous to that of alleged\nformations of the universe, time and times ago, was observable.  The\nbustling swarm had swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze,\nwhich now thickened to a nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough\nand grew still denser, till it formed a solid black spot upon the\nlight.\n\nThe men and women being all busily engaged in saving the hay--even\nLiddy had left the house for the purpose of lending a hand--Bathsheba\nresolved to hive the bees herself, if possible.  She had dressed the\nhive with herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made\nherself impregnable with armour of leather gloves, straw hat, and\nlarge gauze veil--once green but now faded to snuff colour--and\nascended a dozen rungs of the ladder.  At once she heard, not ten\nyards off, a voice that was beginning to have a strange power in\nagitating her.\n\n\"Miss Everdene, let me assist you; you should not attempt such a\nthing alone.\"\n\nTroy was just opening the garden gate.\n\nBathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and empty hive, pulled the\nskirt of her dress tightly round her ankles in a tremendous flurry,\nand as well as she could slid down the ladder.  By the time she\nreached the bottom Troy was there also, and he stooped to pick up\nthe hive.\n\n\"How fortunate I am to have dropped in at this moment!\" exclaimed the\nsergeant.\n\nShe found her voice in a minute.  \"What! and will you shake them in\nfor me?\" she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a faltering way;\nthough, for a timid girl, it would have seemed a brave way enough.\n\n\"Will I!\" said Troy.  \"Why, of course I will.  How blooming you are\nto-day!\"  Troy flung down his cane and put his foot on the ladder to\nascend.\n\n\"But you must have on the veil and gloves, or you'll be stung\nfearfully!\"\n\n\"Ah, yes.  I must put on the veil and gloves.  Will you kindly show\nme how to fix them properly?\"\n\n\"And you must have the broad-brimmed hat, too, for your cap has no\nbrim to keep the veil off, and they'd reach your face.\"\n\n\"The broad-brimmed hat, too, by all means.\"\n\nSo a whimsical fate ordered that her hat should be taken off--veil\nand all attached--and placed upon his head, Troy tossing his own into\na gooseberry bush.  Then the veil had to be tied at its lower edge\nround his collar and the gloves put on him.\n\nHe looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried\nas she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the removal\nof yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept\nhim off.\n\nBathsheba looked on from the ground whilst he was busy sweeping and\nshaking the bees from the tree, holding up the hive with the other\nhand for them to fall into.  She made use of an unobserved minute\nwhilst his attention was absorbed in the operation to arrange her\nplumes a little.  He came down holding the hive at arm's length,\nbehind which trailed a cloud of bees.\n\n\"Upon my life,\" said Troy, through the veil, \"holding up this hive\nmakes one's arm ache worse than a week of sword-exercise.\" When the\nmanoeuvre was complete he approached her.  \"Would you be good enough\nto untie me and let me out? I am nearly stifled inside this silk\ncage.\"\n\nTo hide her embarrassment during the unwonted process of untying the\nstring about his neck, she said:--\n\n\"I have never seen that you spoke of.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"The sword-exercise.\"\n\n\"Ah! would you like to?\" said Troy.\n\nBathsheba hesitated.  She had heard wondrous reports from time to\ntime by dwellers in Weatherbury, who had by chance sojourned awhile\nin Casterbridge, near the barracks, of this strange and glorious\nperformance, the sword-exercise.  Men and boys who had peeped through\nchinks or over walls into the barrack-yard returned with accounts of\nits being the most flashing affair conceivable; accoutrements and\nweapons glistening like stars--here, there, around--yet all by rule\nand compass.  So she said mildly what she felt strongly.\n\n\"Yes; I should like to see it very much.\"\n\n\"And so you shall; you shall see me go through it.\"\n\n\"No!  How?\"\n\n\"Let me consider.\"\n\n\"Not with a walking-stick--I don't care to see that.  It must be a\nreal sword.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know; and I have no sword here; but I think I could get one\nby the evening.  Now, will you do this?\"\n\nTroy bent over her and murmured some suggestion in a low voice.\n\n\"Oh no, indeed!\" said Bathsheba, blushing. \"Thank you very much, but\nI couldn't on any account.\"\n\n\"Surely you might?  Nobody would know.\"\n\nShe shook her head, but with a weakened negation.  \"If I were to,\"\nshe said, \"I must bring Liddy too.  Might I not?\"\n\nTroy looked far away.  \"I don't see why you want to bring her,\" he\nsaid coldly.\n\nAn unconscious look of assent in Bathsheba's eyes betrayed that\nsomething more than his coldness had made her also feel that Liddy\nwould be superfluous in the suggested scene.  She had felt it, even\nwhilst making the proposal.\n\n\"Well, I won't bring Liddy--and I'll come.  But only for a very short\ntime,\" she added; \"a very short time.\"\n\n\"It will not take five minutes,\" said Troy.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nTHE HOLLOW AMID THE FERNS\n\n\nThe hill opposite Bathsheba's dwelling extended, a mile off, into an\nuncultivated tract of land, dotted at this season with tall thickets\nof brake fern, plump and diaphanous from recent rapid growth, and\nradiant in hues of clear and untainted green.\n\nAt eight o'clock this midsummer evening, whilst the bristling ball\nof gold in the west still swept the tips of the ferns with its long,\nluxuriant rays, a soft brushing-by of garments might have been heard\namong them, and Bathsheba appeared in their midst, their soft,\nfeathery arms caressing her up to her shoulders.  She paused, turned,\nwent back over the hill and half-way to her own door, whence she cast\na farewell glance upon the spot she had just left, having resolved\nnot to remain near the place after all.\n\nShe saw a dim spot of artificial red moving round the shoulder of the\nrise.  It disappeared on the other side.\n\nShe waited one minute--two minutes--thought of Troy's disappointment\nat her non-fulfilment of a promised engagement, till she again ran\nalong the field, clambered over the bank, and followed the original\ndirection.  She was now literally trembling and panting at this her\ntemerity in such an errant undertaking; her breath came and went\nquickly, and her eyes shone with an infrequent light.  Yet go she\nmust.  She reached the verge of a pit in the middle of the ferns.\nTroy stood in the bottom, looking up towards her.\n\n\"I heard you rustling through the fern before I saw you,\" he said,\ncoming up and giving her his hand to help her down the slope.\n\nThe pit was a saucer-shaped concave, naturally formed, with a top\ndiameter of about thirty feet, and shallow enough to allow the\nsunshine to reach their heads.  Standing in the centre, the sky\noverhead was met by a circular horizon of fern: this grew nearly to\nthe bottom of the slope and then abruptly ceased.  The middle within\nthe belt of verdure was floored with a thick flossy carpet of moss\nand grass intermingled, so yielding that the foot was half-buried\nwithin it.\n\n\"Now,\" said Troy, producing the sword, which, as he raised it into\nthe sunlight, gleamed a sort of greeting, like a living thing,\n\"first, we have four right and four left cuts; four right and four\nleft thrusts.   Infantry cuts and guards are more interesting than\nours, to my mind; but they are not so swashing.  They have seven\ncuts and three thrusts.   So much as a preliminary.  Well, next, our\ncut one is as if you were sowing your corn--so.\"  Bathsheba saw a\nsort of rainbow, upside down in the air, and Troy's arm was still\nagain.  \"Cut two, as if you were hedging--so.  Three, as if you were\nreaping--so. Four, as if you were threshing--in that way.  Then the\nsame on the left.  The thrusts are these: one, two, three, four,\nright; one, two, three, four, left.\"  He repeated them.  \"Have 'em\nagain?\" he said.  \"One, two--\"\n\nShe hurriedly interrupted: \"I'd rather not; though I don't mind your\ntwos and fours; but your ones and threes are terrible!\"\n\n\"Very well.  I'll let you off the ones and threes.  Next, cuts,\npoints and guards altogether.\"  Troy duly exhibited them.  \"Then\nthere's pursuing practice, in this way.\"  He gave the movements as\nbefore.   \"There, those are the stereotyped forms.  The infantry have\ntwo most diabolical upward cuts, which we are too humane to use.\nLike this--three, four.\"\n\n\"How murderous and bloodthirsty!\"\n\n\"They are rather deathly.  Now I'll be more interesting, and let you\nsee some loose play--giving all the cuts and points, infantry and\ncavalry, quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously--with just\nenough rule to regulate instinct and yet not to fetter it.  You are\nmy antagonist, with this difference from real warfare, that I shall\nmiss you every time by one hair's breadth, or perhaps two.  Mind you\ndon't flinch, whatever you do.\"\n\n\"I'll be sure not to!\" she said invincibly.\n\nHe pointed to about a yard in front of him.\n\nBathsheba's adventurous spirit was beginning to find some grains of\nrelish in these highly novel proceedings.  She took up her position\nas directed, facing Troy.\n\n\"Now just to learn whether you have pluck enough to let me do what I\nwish, I'll give you a preliminary test.\"\n\nHe flourished the sword by way of introduction number two, and the\nnext thing of which she was conscious was that the point and blade of\nthe sword were darting with a gleam towards her left side, just above\nher hip; then of their reappearance on her right side, emerging as\nit were from between her ribs, having apparently passed through her\nbody.  The third item of consciousness was that of seeing the same\nsword, perfectly clean and free from blood held vertically in Troy's\nhand (in the position technically called \"recover swords\").  All was\nas quick as electricity.\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried out in affright, pressing her hand to her side. \"Have\nyou run me through?--no, you have not!  Whatever have you done!\"\n\n\"I have not touched you,\" said Troy, quietly.  \"It was mere sleight\nof hand.  The sword passed behind you.  Now you are not afraid, are\nyou?  Because if you are I can't perform.  I give my word that I will\nnot only not hurt you, but not once touch you.\"\n\n\"I don't think I am afraid.  You are quite sure you will not hurt\nme?\"\n\n\"Quite sure.\"\n\n\"Is the sword very sharp?\"\n\n\"O no--only stand as still as a statue.  Now!\"\n\nIn an instant the atmosphere was transformed to Bathsheba's eyes.\nBeams of light caught from the low sun's rays, above, around, in\nfront of her, well-nigh shut out earth and heaven--all emitted in\nthe marvellous evolutions of Troy's reflecting blade, which seemed\neverywhere at once, and yet nowhere specially.  These circling gleams\nwere accompanied by a keen rush that was almost a whistling--also\nspringing from all sides of her at once.  In short, she was enclosed\nin a firmament of light, and of sharp hisses, resembling a sky-full\nof meteors close at hand.\n\nNever since the broadsword became the national weapon had there been\nmore dexterity shown in its management than by the hands of Sergeant\nTroy, and never had he been in such splendid temper for the\nperformance as now in the evening sunshine among the ferns with\nBathsheba.  It may safely be asserted with respect to the closeness\nof his cuts, that had it been possible for the edge of the sword to\nleave in the air a permanent substance wherever it flew past, the\nspace left untouched would have been almost a mould of Bathsheba's\nfigure.\n\nBehind the luminous streams of this _aurora militaris_, she could see\nthe hue of Troy's sword arm, spread in a scarlet haze over the space\ncovered by its motions, like a twanged harpstring, and behind all\nTroy himself, mostly facing her; sometimes, to show the rear cuts,\nhalf turned away, his eye nevertheless always keenly measuring\nher breadth and outline, and his lips tightly closed in sustained\neffort.  Next, his movements lapsed slower, and she could see them\nindividually.  The hissing of the sword had ceased, and he stopped\nentirely.\n\n\"That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying,\" he said, before she\nhad moved or spoken.  \"Wait: I'll do it for you.\"\n\nAn arc of silver shone on her right side: the sword had descended.\nThe lock dropped to the ground.\n\n\"Bravely borne!\" said Troy.  \"You didn't flinch a shade's thickness.\nWonderful in a woman!\"\n\n\"It was because I didn't expect it.  Oh, you have spoilt my hair!\"\n\n\"Only once more.\"\n\n\"No--no!  I am afraid of you--indeed I am!\" she cried.\n\n\"I won't touch you at all--not even your hair.  I am only going to\nkill that caterpillar settling on you.  Now: still!\"\n\nIt appeared that a caterpillar had come from the fern and chosen the\nfront of her bodice as his resting place.  She saw the point glisten\ntowards her bosom, and seemingly enter it.  Bathsheba closed her eyes\nin the full persuasion that she was killed at last.  However, feeling\njust as usual, she opened them again.\n\n\"There it is, look,\" said the sergeant, holding his sword before her\neyes.\n\nThe caterpillar was spitted upon its point.\n\n\"Why, it is magic!\" said Bathsheba, amazed.\n\n\"Oh no--dexterity.  I merely gave point to your bosom where the\ncaterpillar was, and instead of running you through checked the\nextension a thousandth of an inch short of your surface.\"\n\n\"But how could you chop off a curl of my hair with a sword that has\nno edge?\"\n\n\"No edge!  This sword will shave like a razor.  Look here.\"\n\nHe touched the palm of his hand with the blade, and then, lifting it,\nshowed her a thin shaving of scarf-skin dangling therefrom.\n\n\"But you said before beginning that it was blunt and couldn't cut\nme!\"\n\n\"That was to get you to stand still, and so make sure of your safety.\nThe risk of injuring you through your moving was too great not to\nforce me to tell you a fib to escape it.\"\n\nShe shuddered.  \"I have been within an inch of my life, and didn't\nknow it!\"\n\n\"More precisely speaking, you have been within half an inch of being\npared alive two hundred and ninety-five times.\"\n\n\"Cruel, cruel, 'tis of you!\"\n\n\"You have been perfectly safe, nevertheless.  My sword never errs.\"\nAnd Troy returned the weapon to the scabbard.\n\nBathsheba, overcome by a hundred tumultuous feelings resulting from\nthe scene, abstractedly sat down on a tuft of heather.\n\n\"I must leave you now,\" said Troy, softly.  \"And I'll venture to take\nand keep this in remembrance of you.\"\n\nShe saw him stoop to the grass, pick up the winding lock which he\nhad severed from her manifold tresses, twist it round his fingers,\nunfasten a button in the breast of his coat, and carefully put\nit inside.  She felt powerless to withstand or deny him.  He was\naltogether too much for her, and Bathsheba seemed as one who, facing\na reviving wind, finds it blow so strongly that it stops the breath.\nHe drew near and said, \"I must be leaving you.\"\n\nHe drew nearer still.  A minute later and she saw his scarlet form\ndisappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand\nswiftly waved.\n\nThat minute's interval had brought the blood beating into her face,\nset her stinging as if aflame to the very hollows of her feet, and\nenlarged emotion to a compass which quite swamped thought.  It had\nbrought upon her a stroke resulting, as did that of Moses in Horeb,\nin a liquid stream--here a stream of tears.  She felt like one who\nhas sinned a great sin.\n\nThe circumstance had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth downwards\nupon her own.  He had kissed her.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nHOT CHEEKS AND TEARFUL EYES\n\n\nHalf an hour later Bathsheba entered her own house.  There burnt\nupon her face when she met the light of the candles the flush and\nexcitement which were little less than chronic with her now.  The\nfarewell words of Troy, who had accompanied her to the very door,\nstill lingered in her ears.  He had bidden her adieu for two days,\nwhich were, so he stated, to be spent at Bath in visiting some\nfriends.  He had also kissed her a second time.\n\nIt is only fair to Bathsheba to explain here a little fact which\ndid not come to light till a long time afterwards: that Troy's\npresentation of himself so aptly at the roadside this evening was\nnot by any distinctly preconcerted arrangement.  He had hinted--she\nhad forbidden; and it was only on the chance of his still coming\nthat she had dismissed Oak, fearing a meeting between them just\nthen.\n\nShe now sank down into a chair, wild and perturbed by all these\nnew and fevering sequences.  Then she jumped up with a manner of\ndecision, and fetched her desk from a side table.\n\nIn three minutes, without pause or modification, she had written a\nletter to Boldwood, at his address beyond Casterbridge, saying mildly\nbut firmly that she had well considered the whole subject he had\nbrought before her and kindly given her time to decide upon; that\nher final decision was that she could not marry him.  She had\nexpressed to Oak an intention to wait till Boldwood came home before\ncommunicating to him her conclusive reply.  But Bathsheba found that\nshe could not wait.\n\nIt was impossible to send this letter till the next day; yet to quell\nher uneasiness by getting it out of her hands, and so, as it were,\nsetting the act in motion at once, she arose to take it to any one of\nthe women who might be in the kitchen.\n\nShe paused in the passage.  A dialogue was going on in the kitchen,\nand Bathsheba and Troy were the subject of it.\n\n\"If he marry her, she'll gie up farming.\"\n\n\"'Twill be a gallant life, but may bring some trouble between the\nmirth--so say I.\"\n\n\"Well, I wish I had half such a husband.\"\n\nBathsheba had too much sense to mind seriously what her servitors\nsaid about her; but too much womanly redundance of speech to leave\nalone what was said till it died the natural death of unminded\nthings.  She burst in upon them.\n\n\"Who are you speaking of?\" she asked.\n\nThere was a pause before anybody replied.  At last Liddy said\nfrankly, \"What was passing was a bit of a word about yourself, miss.\"\n\n\"I thought so!  Maryann and Liddy and Temperance--now I forbid you\nto suppose such things.  You know I don't care the least for Mr.\nTroy--not I.   Everybody knows how much I hate him.--Yes,\" repeated\nthe froward young person, \"HATE him!\"\n\n\"We know you do, miss,\" said Liddy; \"and so do we all.\"\n\n\"I hate him too,\" said Maryann.\n\n\"Maryann--Oh you perjured woman!  How can you speak that wicked\nstory!\" said Bathsheba, excitedly.  \"You admired him from your heart\nonly this morning in the very world, you did.  Yes, Maryann, you know\nit!\"\n\n\"Yes, miss, but so did you.  He is a wild scamp now, and you are\nright to hate him.\"\n\n\"He's NOT a wild scamp!  How dare you to my face!  I have no right to\nhate him, nor you, nor anybody.  But I am a silly woman!  What is it\nto me what he is?  You know it is nothing.  I don't care for him; I\ndon't mean to defend his good name, not I.  Mind this, if any of you\nsay a word against him you'll be dismissed instantly!\"\n\nShe flung down the letter and surged back into the parlour, with a\nbig heart and tearful eyes, Liddy following her.\n\n\"Oh miss!\" said mild Liddy, looking pitifully into Bathsheba's face.\n\"I am sorry we mistook you so!  I did think you cared for him; but I\nsee you don't now.\"\n\n\"Shut the door, Liddy.\"\n\nLiddy closed the door, and went on: \"People always say such foolery,\nmiss.  I'll make answer hencefor'ard, 'Of course a lady like Miss\nEverdene can't love him'; I'll say it out in plain black and white.\"\n\nBathsheba burst out: \"O Liddy, are you such a simpleton?  Can't you\nread riddles?  Can't you see?  Are you a woman yourself?\"\n\nLiddy's clear eyes rounded with wonderment.\n\n\"Yes; you must be a blind thing, Liddy!\" she said, in reckless\nabandonment and grief.  \"Oh, I love him to very distraction and\nmisery and agony!  Don't be frightened at me, though perhaps I am\nenough to frighten any innocent woman.  Come closer--closer.\" She\nput her arms round Liddy's neck.  \"I must let it out to somebody; it\nis wearing me away!  Don't you yet know enough of me to see through\nthat miserable denial of mine?  O God, what a lie it was! Heaven and\nmy Love forgive me.  And don't you know that a woman who loves at\nall thinks nothing of perjury when it is balanced against her love?\nThere, go out of the room; I want to be quite alone.\"\n\nLiddy went towards the door.\n\n\"Liddy, come here.  Solemnly swear to me that he's not a fast man;\nthat it is all lies they say about him!\"\n\n\"But, miss, how can I say he is not if--\"\n\n\"You graceless girl!  How can you have the cruel heart to repeat what\nthey say?  Unfeeling thing that you are....  But I'LL see if you or\nanybody else in the village, or town either, dare do such a thing!\"\nShe started off, pacing from fireplace to door, and back again.\n\n\"No, miss.  I don't--I know it is not true!\" said Liddy, frightened\nat Bathsheba's unwonted vehemence.\n\n\"I suppose you only agree with me like that to please me.  But,\nLiddy, he CANNOT BE bad, as is said.  Do you hear?\"\n\n\"Yes, miss, yes.\"\n\n\"And you don't believe he is?\"\n\n\"I don't know what to say, miss,\" said Liddy, beginning to cry.  \"If\nI say No, you don't believe me; and if I say Yes, you rage at me!\"\n\n\"Say you don't believe it--say you don't!\"\n\n\"I don't believe him to be so bad as they make out.\"\n\n\"He is not bad at all....  My poor life and heart, how weak I\nam!\" she moaned, in a relaxed, desultory way, heedless of Liddy's\npresence.  \"Oh, how I wish I had never seen him!  Loving is misery\nfor women always.  I shall never forgive God for making me a woman,\nand dearly am I beginning to pay for the honour of owning a pretty\nface.\"  She freshened and turned to Liddy suddenly.  \"Mind this,\nLydia Smallbury, if you repeat anywhere a single word of what I have\nsaid to you inside this closed door, I'll never trust you, or love\nyou, or have you with me a moment longer--not a moment!\"\n\n\"I don't want to repeat anything,\" said Liddy, with womanly dignity\nof a diminutive order; \"but I don't wish to stay with you.  And,\nif you please, I'll go at the end of the harvest, or this week, or\nto-day....  I don't see that I deserve to be put upon and stormed at\nfor nothing!\" concluded the small woman, bigly.\n\n\"No, no, Liddy; you must stay!\" said Bathsheba, dropping from\nhaughtiness to entreaty with capricious inconsequence.  \"You must not\nnotice my being in a taking just now.  You are not as a servant--you\nare a companion to me.  Dear, dear--I don't know what I am doing\nsince this miserable ache of my heart has weighted and worn upon me\nso!  What shall I come to!  I suppose I shall get further and further\ninto troubles.  I wonder sometimes if I am doomed to die in the\nUnion.  I am friendless enough, God knows!\"\n\n\"I won't notice anything, nor will I leave you!\" sobbed Liddy,\nimpulsively putting up her lips to Bathsheba's, and kissing her.\n\nThen Bathsheba kissed Liddy, and all was smooth again.\n\n\"I don't often cry, do I, Lidd? but you have made tears come into my\neyes,\" she said, a smile shining through the moisture.  \"Try to think\nhim a good man, won't you, dear Liddy?\"\n\n\"I will, miss, indeed.\"\n\n\"He is a sort of steady man in a wild way, you know.  That's better\nthan to be as some are, wild in a steady way.  I am afraid that's\nhow I am.  And promise me to keep my secret--do, Liddy!  And do not\nlet them know that I have been crying about him, because it will be\ndreadful for me, and no good to him, poor thing!\"\n\n\"Death's head himself shan't wring it from me, mistress, if I've\na mind to keep anything; and I'll always be your friend,\" replied\nLiddy, emphatically, at the same time bringing a few more tears into\nher own eyes, not from any particular necessity, but from an artistic\nsense of making herself in keeping with the remainder of the picture,\nwhich seems to influence women at such times.  \"I think God likes us\nto be good friends, don't you?\"\n\n\"Indeed I do.\"\n\n\"And, dear miss, you won't harry me and storm at me, will you?\nbecause you seem to swell so tall as a lion then, and it frightens\nme!  Do you know, I fancy you would be a match for any man when you\nare in one o' your takings.\"\n\n\"Never! do you?\" said Bathsheba, slightly laughing, though somewhat\nseriously alarmed by this Amazonian picture of herself.  \"I hope I am\nnot a bold sort of maid--mannish?\" she continued with some anxiety.\n\n\"Oh no, not mannish; but so almighty womanish that 'tis getting on\nthat way sometimes.  Ah! miss,\" she said, after having drawn her\nbreath very sadly in and sent it very sadly out, \"I wish I had half\nyour failing that way.  'Tis a great protection to a poor maid in\nthese illegit'mate days!\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nAT AN UPPER WINDOW\n\n\nIt was very early the next morning--a time of sun and dew.  The\nconfused beginnings of many birds' songs spread into the healthy air,\nand the wan blue of the heaven was here and there coated with thin\nwebs of incorporeal cloud which were of no effect in obscuring day.\nAll the lights in the scene were yellow as to colour, and all the\nshadows were attenuated as to form.  The creeping plants about the\nold manor-house were bowed with rows of heavy water drops, which\nhad upon objects behind them the effect of minute lenses of high\nmagnifying power.\n\nJust before the clock struck five Gabriel Oak and Coggan passed the\nvillage cross, and went on together to the fields.  They were yet\nbarely in view of their mistress's house, when Oak fancied he saw the\nopening of a casement in one of the upper windows.  The two men were\nat this moment partially screened by an elder bush, now beginning\nto be enriched with black bunches of fruit, and they paused before\nemerging from its shade.\n\nA handsome man leaned idly from the lattice.  He looked east and then\nwest, in the manner of one who makes a first morning survey.  The\nman was Sergeant Troy.  His red jacket was loosely thrown on, but\nnot buttoned, and he had altogether the relaxed bearing of a soldier\ntaking his ease.\n\nCoggan spoke first, looking quietly at the window.\n\n\"She has married him!\" he said.\n\nGabriel had previously beheld the sight, and he now stood with his\nback turned, making no reply.\n\n\"I fancied we should know something to-day,\" continued Coggan.  \"I\nheard wheels pass my door just after dark--you were out somewhere.\"\nHe glanced round upon Gabriel.  \"Good heavens above us, Oak, how\nwhite your face is; you look like a corpse!\"\n\n\"Do I?\" said Oak, with a faint smile.\n\n\"Lean on the gate: I'll wait a bit.\"\n\n\"All right, all right.\"\n\nThey stood by the gate awhile, Gabriel listlessly staring at the\nground.  His mind sped into the future, and saw there enacted in\nyears of leisure the scenes of repentance that would ensue from this\nwork of haste.  That they were married he had instantly decided.  Why\nhad it been so mysteriously managed?  It had become known that she\nhad had a fearful journey to Bath, owing to her miscalculating the\ndistance: that the horse had broken down, and that she had been more\nthan two days getting there.  It was not Bathsheba's way to do things\nfurtively.  With all her faults, she was candour itself.  Could she\nhave been entrapped?  The union was not only an unutterable grief to\nhim: it amazed him, notwithstanding that he had passed the preceding\nweek in a suspicion that such might be the issue of Troy's meeting\nher away from home.  Her quiet return with Liddy had to some extent\ndispersed the dread.  Just as that imperceptible motion which appears\nlike stillness is infinitely divided in its properties from stillness\nitself, so had his hope undistinguishable from despair differed from\ndespair indeed.\n\nIn a few minutes they moved on again towards the house.  The sergeant\nstill looked from the window.\n\n\"Morning, comrades!\" he shouted, in a cheery voice, when they came\nup.\n\nCoggan replied to the greeting.  \"Bain't ye going to answer the man?\"\nhe then said to Gabriel.  \"I'd say good morning--you needn't spend a\nhapenny of meaning upon it, and yet keep the man civil.\"\n\nGabriel soon decided too that, since the deed was done, to put the\nbest face upon the matter would be the greatest kindness to her he\nloved.\n\n\"Good morning, Sergeant Troy,\" he returned, in a ghastly voice.\n\n\"A rambling, gloomy house this,\" said Troy, smiling.\n\n\"Why--they MAY not be married!\" suggested Coggan.  \"Perhaps she's not\nthere.\"\n\nGabriel shook his head.  The soldier turned a little towards the\neast, and the sun kindled his scarlet coat to an orange glow.\n\n\"But it is a nice old house,\" responded Gabriel.\n\n\"Yes--I suppose so; but I feel like new wine in an old bottle here.\nMy notion is that sash-windows should be put throughout, and these\nold wainscoted walls brightened up a bit; or the oak cleared quite\naway, and the walls papered.\"\n\n\"It would be a pity, I think.\"\n\n\"Well, no.  A philosopher once said in my hearing that the old\nbuilders, who worked when art was a living thing, had no respect\nfor the work of builders who went before them, but pulled down and\naltered as they thought fit; and why shouldn't we?  'Creation and\npreservation don't do well together,' says he, 'and a million of\nantiquarians can't invent a style.' My mind exactly.  I am for making\nthis place more modern, that we may be cheerful whilst we can.\"\n\nThe military man turned and surveyed the interior of the room, to\nassist his ideas of improvement in this direction.  Gabriel and\nCoggan began to move on.\n\n\"Oh, Coggan,\" said Troy, as if inspired by a recollection \"do you\nknow if insanity has ever appeared in Mr. Boldwood's family?\"\n\nJan reflected for a moment.\n\n\"I once heard that an uncle of his was queer in his head, but I don't\nknow the rights o't,\" he said.\n\n\"It is of no importance,\" said Troy, lightly.  \"Well, I shall be down\nin the fields with you some time this week; but I have a few matters\nto attend to first.  So good-day to you.  We shall, of course, keep\non just as friendly terms as usual.  I'm not a proud man: nobody is\never able to say that of Sergeant Troy.  However, what is must be,\nand here's half-a-crown to drink my health, men.\"\n\nTroy threw the coin dexterously across the front plot and over the\nfence towards Gabriel, who shunned it in its fall, his face turning\nto an angry red.  Coggan twirled his eye, edged forward, and caught\nthe money in its ricochet upon the road.\n\n\"Very well--you keep it, Coggan,\" said Gabriel with disdain and\nalmost fiercely.  \"As for me, I'll do without gifts from him!\"\n\n\"Don't show it too much,\" said Coggan, musingly.  \"For if he's\nmarried to her, mark my words, he'll buy his discharge and be our\nmaster here.  Therefore 'tis well to say 'Friend' outwardly, though\nyou say 'Troublehouse' within.\"\n\n\"Well--perhaps it is best to be silent; but I can't go further than\nthat.  I can't flatter, and if my place here is only to be kept by\nsmoothing him down, my place must be lost.\"\n\nA horseman, whom they had for some time seen in the distance, now\nappeared close beside them.\n\n\"There's Mr. Boldwood,\" said Oak.  \"I wonder what Troy meant by his\nquestion.\"\n\nCoggan and Oak nodded respectfully to the farmer, just checked their\npaces to discover if they were wanted, and finding they were not\nstood back to let him pass on.\n\nThe only signs of the terrible sorrow Boldwood had been combating\nthrough the night, and was combating now, were the want of colour\nin his well-defined face, the enlarged appearance of the veins in\nhis forehead and temples, and the sharper lines about his mouth.\nThe horse bore him away, and the very step of the animal seemed\nsignificant of dogged despair.  Gabriel, for a minute, rose above his\nown grief in noticing Boldwood's.  He saw the square figure sitting\nerect upon the horse, the head turned to neither side, the elbows\nsteady by the hips, the brim of the hat level and undisturbed in\nits onward glide, until the keen edges of Boldwood's shape sank by\ndegrees over the hill.  To one who knew the man and his story there\nwas something more striking in this immobility than in a collapse.\nThe clash of discord between mood and matter here was forced\npainfully home to the heart; and, as in laughter there are more\ndreadful phases than in tears, so was there in the steadiness of\nthis agonized man an expression deeper than a cry.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nRAIN--ONE SOLITARY MEETS ANOTHER\n\n\nIt was now five o'clock, and the dawn was promising to break in hues\nof drab and ash.\n\nThe air changed its temperature and stirred itself more vigorously.\nCool breezes coursed in transparent eddies round Oak's face.  The\nwind shifted yet a point or two and blew stronger.  In ten minutes\nevery wind of heaven seemed to be roaming at large.  Some of the\nthatching on the wheat-stacks was now whirled fantastically aloft,\nand had to be replaced and weighted with some rails that lay near at\nhand.  This done, Oak slaved away again at the barley.  A huge drop\nof rain smote his face, the wind snarled round every corner, the\ntrees rocked to the bases of their trunks, and the twigs clashed in\nstrife.  Driving in spars at any point and on any system, inch by\ninch he covered more and more safely from ruin this distracting\nimpersonation of seven hundred pounds.  The rain came on in earnest,\nand Oak soon felt the water to be tracking cold and clammy routes\ndown his back.  Ultimately he was reduced well-nigh to a homogeneous\nsop, and the dyes of his clothes trickled down and stood in a pool\nat the foot of the ladder.  The rain stretched obliquely through the\ndull atmosphere in liquid spines, unbroken in continuity between\ntheir beginnings in the clouds and their points in him.\n\nOak suddenly remembered that eight months before this time he had\nbeen fighting against fire in the same spot as desperately as he\nwas fighting against water now--and for a futile love of the same\nwoman.  As for her--But Oak was generous and true, and dismissed\nhis reflections.\n\nIt was about seven o'clock in the dark leaden morning when Gabriel\ncame down from the last stack, and thankfully exclaimed, \"It is\ndone!\"  He was drenched, weary, and sad, and yet not so sad as\ndrenched and weary, for he was cheered by a sense of success in a\ngood cause.\n\nFaint sounds came from the barn, and he looked that way.  Figures\nstepped singly and in pairs through the doors--all walking awkwardly,\nand abashed, save the foremost, who wore a red jacket, and advanced\nwith his hands in his pockets, whistling.  The others shambled after\nwith a conscience-stricken air: the whole procession was not unlike\nFlaxman's group of the suitors tottering on towards the infernal\nregions under the conduct of Mercury.  The gnarled shapes passed\ninto the village, Troy, their leader, entering the farmhouse.  Not a\nsingle one of them had turned his face to the ricks, or apparently\nbestowed one thought upon their condition.\n\nSoon Oak too went homeward, by a different route from theirs.  In\nfront of him against the wet glazed surface of the lane he saw a\nperson walking yet more slowly than himself under an umbrella.  The\nman turned and plainly started; he was Boldwood.\n\n\"How are you this morning, sir?\" said Oak.\n\n\"Yes, it is a wet day.--Oh, I am well, very well, I thank you; quite\nwell.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear it, sir.\"\n\nBoldwood seemed to awake to the present by degrees.  \"You look tired\nand ill, Oak,\" he said then, desultorily regarding his companion.\n\n\"I am tired.  You look strangely altered, sir.\"\n\n\"I?  Not a bit of it: I am well enough.  What put that into your\nhead?\"\n\n\"I thought you didn't look quite so topping as you used to, that was\nall.\"\n\n\"Indeed, then you are mistaken,\" said Boldwood, shortly.  \"Nothing\nhurts me.  My constitution is an iron one.\"\n\n\"I've been working hard to get our ricks covered, and was barely in\ntime.  Never had such a struggle in my life....  Yours of course are\nsafe, sir.\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" Boldwood added, after an interval of silence: \"What did you\nask, Oak?\"\n\n\"Your ricks are all covered before this time?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"At any rate, the large ones upon the stone staddles?\"\n\n\"They are not.\"\n\n\"Them under the hedge?\"\n\n\"No.  I forgot to tell the thatcher to set about it.\"\n\n\"Nor the little one by the stile?\"\n\n\"Nor the little one by the stile.  I overlooked the ricks this year.\"\n\n\"Then not a tenth of your corn will come to measure, sir.\"\n\n\"Possibly not.\"\n\n\"Overlooked them,\" repeated Gabriel slowly to himself.  It is\ndifficult to describe the intensely dramatic effect that announcement\nhad upon Oak at such a moment.  All the night he had been feeling\nthat the neglect he was labouring to repair was abnormal and\nisolated--the only instance of the kind within the circuit of the\ncounty.  Yet at this very time, within the same parish, a greater\nwaste had been going on, uncomplained of and disregarded.  A few\nmonths earlier Boldwood's forgetting his husbandry would have been as\npreposterous an idea as a sailor forgetting he was in a ship.  Oak\nwas just thinking that whatever he himself might have suffered from\nBathsheba's marriage, here was a man who had suffered more, when\nBoldwood spoke in a changed voice--that of one who yearned to make\na confidence and relieve his heart by an outpouring.\n\n\"Oak, you know as well as I that things have gone wrong with me\nlately.  I may as well own it.  I was going to get a little settled\nin life; but in some way my plan has come to nothing.\"\n\n\"I thought my mistress would have married you,\" said Gabriel, not\nknowing enough of the full depths of Boldwood's love to keep silence\non the farmer's account, and determined not to evade discipline by\ndoing so on his own.  \"However, it is so sometimes, and nothing\nhappens that we expect,\" he added, with the repose of a man whom\nmisfortune had inured rather than subdued.\n\n\"I daresay I am a joke about the parish,\" said Boldwood, as if\nthe subject came irresistibly to his tongue, and with a miserable\nlightness meant to express his indifference.\n\n\"Oh no--I don't think that.\"\n\n\"--But the real truth of the matter is that there was not, as some\nfancy, any jilting on--her part.  No engagement ever existed between\nme and Miss Everdene.  People say so, but it is untrue: she never\npromised me!\"  Boldwood stood still now and turned his wild face to\nOak.  \"Oh, Gabriel,\" he continued, \"I am weak and foolish, and I\ndon't know what, and I can't fend off my miserable grief! ...  I had\nsome faint belief in the mercy of God till I lost that woman.  Yes,\nHe prepared a gourd to shade me, and like the prophet I thanked Him\nand was glad.  But the next day He prepared a worm to smite the gourd\nand wither it; and I feel it is better to die than to live!\"\n\nA silence followed.  Boldwood aroused himself from the momentary\nmood of confidence into which he had drifted, and walked on again,\nresuming his usual reserve.\n\n\"No, Gabriel,\" he resumed, with a carelessness which was like\nthe smile on the countenance of a skull: \"it was made more of by\nother people than ever it was by us.  I do feel a little regret\noccasionally, but no woman ever had power over me for any length of\ntime.  Well, good morning; I can trust you not to mention to others\nwhat has passed between us two here.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nCOMING HOME--A CRY\n\n\nOn the turnpike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury, and about\nthree miles from the former place, is Yalbury Hill, one of those\nsteep long ascents which pervade the highways of this undulating\npart of South Wessex.  In returning from market it is usual for the\nfarmers and other gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up.\n\nOne Saturday evening in the month of October Bathsheba's vehicle was\nduly creeping up this incline.  She was sitting listlessly in the\nsecond seat of the gig, whilst walking beside her in a farmer's\nmarketing suit of unusually fashionable cut was an erect, well-made\nyoung man.  Though on foot, he held the reins and whip, and\noccasionally aimed light cuts at the horse's ear with the end of the\nlash, as a recreation.  This man was her husband, formerly Sergeant\nTroy, who, having bought his discharge with Bathsheba's money, was\ngradually transforming himself into a farmer of a spirited and very\nmodern school.  People of unalterable ideas still insisted upon\ncalling him \"Sergeant\" when they met him, which was in some degree\nowing to his having still retained the well-shaped moustache of his\nmilitary days, and the soldierly bearing inseparable from his form\nand training.\n\n\"Yes, if it hadn't been for that wretched rain I should have cleared\ntwo hundred as easy as looking, my love,\" he was saying.  \"Don't you\nsee, it altered all the chances?  To speak like a book I once read,\nwet weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our\ncountry's history; now, isn't that true?\"\n\n\"But the time of year is come for changeable weather.\"\n\n\"Well, yes.  The fact is, these autumn races are the ruin of\neverybody.  Never did I see such a day as 'twas!  'Tis a wild open\nplace, just out of Budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like\nliquid misery.  Wind and rain--good Lord!  Dark?  Why, 'twas as black\nas my hat before the last race was run.  'Twas five o'clock, and\nyou couldn't see the horses till they were almost in, leave alone\ncolours.  The ground was as heavy as lead, and all judgment from a\nfellow's experience went for nothing.  Horses, riders, people, were\nall blown about like ships at sea.  Three booths were blown over,\nand the wretched folk inside crawled out upon their hands and knees;\nand in the next field were as many as a dozen hats at one time.  Ay,\nPimpernel regularly stuck fast, when about sixty yards off, and when\nI saw Policy stepping on, it did knock my heart against the lining\nof my ribs, I assure you, my love!\"\n\n\"And you mean, Frank,\" said Bathsheba, sadly--her voice was painfully\nlowered from the fulness and vivacity of the previous summer--\"that\nyou have lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by this dreadful\nhorse-racing?  O, Frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take\naway my money so.  We shall have to leave the farm; that will be the\nend of it!\"\n\n\"Humbug about cruel.  Now, there 'tis again--turn on the waterworks;\nthat's just like you.\"\n\n\"But you'll promise me not to go to Budmouth second meeting, won't\nyou?\" she implored.  Bathsheba was at the full depth for tears, but\nshe maintained a dry eye.\n\n\"I don't see why I should; in fact, if it turns out to be a fine day,\nI was thinking of taking you.\"\n\n\"Never, never!  I'll go a hundred miles the other way first. I hate\nthe sound of the very word!\"\n\n\"But the question of going to see the race or staying at home has\nvery little to do with the matter.  Bets are all booked safely enough\nbefore the race begins, you may depend.  Whether it is a bad race for\nme or a good one, will have very little to do with our going there\nnext Monday.\"\n\n\"But you don't mean to say that you have risked anything on this one\ntoo!\" she exclaimed, with an agonized look.\n\n\"There now, don't you be a little fool.  Wait till you are told.\nWhy, Bathsheba, you have lost all the pluck and sauciness you\nformerly had, and upon my life if I had known what a chicken-hearted\ncreature you were under all your boldness, I'd never have--I know\nwhat.\"\n\nA flash of indignation might have been seen in Bathsheba's dark eyes\nas she looked resolutely ahead after this reply.  They moved on\nwithout further speech, some early-withered leaves from the trees\nwhich hooded the road at this spot occasionally spinning downward\nacross their path to the earth.\n\nA woman appeared on the brow of the hill.  The ridge was in a\ncutting, so that she was very near the husband and wife before she\nbecame visible.  Troy had turned towards the gig to remount, and\nwhilst putting his foot on the step the woman passed behind him.\n\nThough the overshadowing trees and the approach of eventide enveloped\nthem in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough to discern the\nextreme poverty of the woman's garb, and the sadness of her face.\n\n\"Please, sir, do you know at what time Casterbridge Union-house\ncloses at night?\"\n\nThe woman said these words to Troy over his shoulder.\n\nTroy started visibly at the sound of the voice; yet he seemed to\nrecover presence of mind sufficient to prevent himself from giving\nway to his impulse to suddenly turn and face her.  He said, slowly--\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nThe woman, on hearing him speak, quickly looked up, examined the side\nof his face, and recognized the soldier under the yeoman's garb.  Her\nface was drawn into an expression which had gladness and agony both\namong its elements.  She uttered an hysterical cry, and fell down.\n\n\"Oh, poor thing!\" exclaimed Bathsheba, instantly preparing to alight.\n\n\"Stay where you are, and attend to the horse!\" said Troy,\nperemptorily throwing her the reins and the whip.  \"Walk the horse\nto the top: I'll see to the woman.\"\n\n\"But I--\"\n\n\"Do you hear?  Clk--Poppet!\"\n\nThe horse, gig, and Bathsheba moved on.\n\n\"How on earth did you come here?  I thought you were miles away, or\ndead!  Why didn't you write to me?\" said Troy to the woman, in a\nstrangely gentle, yet hurried voice, as he lifted her up.\n\n\"I feared to.\"\n\n\"Have you any money?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"Good Heaven--I wish I had more to give you!  Here's--wretched--the\nmerest trifle.  It is every farthing I have left.  I have none but\nwhat my wife gives me, you know, and I can't ask her now.\"\n\nThe woman made no answer.\n\n\"I have only another moment,\" continued Troy; \"and now listen.  Where\nare you going to-night?  Casterbridge Union?\"\n\n\"Yes; I thought to go there.\"\n\n\"You shan't go there; yet, wait.  Yes, perhaps for to-night; I can\ndo nothing better--worse luck!  Sleep there to-night, and stay there\nto-morrow.  Monday is the first free day I have; and on Monday\nmorning, at ten exactly, meet me on Grey's Bridge just out of the\ntown.  I'll bring all the money I can muster.  You shan't want--I'll\nsee that, Fanny; then I'll get you a lodging somewhere.  Good-bye\ntill then.  I am a brute--but good-bye!\"\n\nAfter advancing the distance which completed the ascent of the\nhill, Bathsheba turned her head.  The woman was upon her feet, and\nBathsheba saw her withdrawing from Troy, and going feebly down the\nhill by the third milestone from Casterbridge.  Troy then came on\ntowards his wife, stepped into the gig, took the reins from her hand,\nand without making any observation whipped the horse into a trot.  He\nwas rather agitated.\n\n\"Do you know who that woman was?\" said Bathsheba, looking searchingly\ninto his face.\n\n\"I do,\" he said, looking boldly back into hers.\n\n\"I thought you did,\" said she, with angry hauteur, and still\nregarding him.  \"Who is she?\"\n\nHe suddenly seemed to think that frankness would benefit neither of\nthe women.\n\n\"Nothing to either of us,\" he said.  \"I know her by sight.\"\n\n\"What is her name?\"\n\n\"How should I know her name?\"\n\n\"I think you do.\"\n\n\"Think if you will, and be--\" The sentence was completed by a smart\ncut of the whip round Poppet's flank, which caused the animal to\nstart forward at a wild pace.  No more was said.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nTROY'S ROMANTICISM\n\n\nWhen Troy's wife had left the house at the previous midnight his\nfirst act was to cover the dead from sight.  This done he ascended\nthe stairs, and throwing himself down upon the bed dressed as he was,\nhe waited miserably for the morning.\n\nFate had dealt grimly with him through the last four-and-twenty\nhours.  His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially\nfrom his intentions regarding it.  There is always an inertia to\nbe overcome in striking out a new line of conduct--not more in\nourselves, it seems, than in circumscribing events, which appear as\nif leagued together to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.\n\nTwenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed to\nadd to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account,\nwhich had been seven pounds ten.  With this money, twenty-seven\npounds ten in all, he had hastily driven from the gate that morning\nto keep his appointment with Fanny Robin.\n\nOn reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and\nat five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower end\nof the town, and sat himself upon the parapet.  The clocks struck\nthe hour, and no Fanny appeared.  In fact, at that moment she was\nbeing robed in her grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union\npoorhouse--the first and last tiring-women the gentle creature had\never been honoured with.  The quarter went, the half hour.  A rush of\nrecollection came upon Troy as he waited: this was the second time\nshe had broken a serious engagement with him.  In anger he vowed\nit should be the last, and at eleven o'clock, when he had lingered\nand watched the stone of the bridge till he knew every lichen upon\ntheir face and heard the chink of the ripples underneath till they\noppressed him, he jumped from his seat, went to the inn for his\ngig, and in a bitter mood of indifference concerning the past, and\nrecklessness about the future, drove on to Budmouth races.\n\nHe reached the race-course at two o'clock, and remained either there\nor in the town till nine.  But Fanny's image, as it had appeared to\nhim in the sombre shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to his\nmind, backed up by Bathsheba's reproaches.  He vowed he would not\nbet, and he kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o'clock in\nthe evening he had diminished his cash only to the extent of a few\nshillings.\n\nHe trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he was struck for the\nfirst time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented by\nillness from keeping her promise.  This time she could have made no\nmistake.  He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and\nmade inquiries.  Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse and\ncame indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him.\n\n\nAs soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arose\nfrom the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference\nto Bathsheba's whereabouts, and almost oblivious of her existence, he\nstalked downstairs and left the house by the back door.  His walk was\ntowards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he\nfound a newly dug unoccupied grave--the grave dug the day before for\nFanny.  The position of this having been marked, he hastened on to\nCasterbridge, only pausing and musing for a while at the hill whereon\nhe had last seen Fanny alive.\n\nReaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and entered a\npair of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, \"Lester, stone\nand marble mason.\"  Within were lying about stones of all sizes and\ndesigns, inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons\nwho had not yet died.\n\nTroy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that the\nwant of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness.  His\nmethod of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb was\nthat of an absolutely unpractised man.  He could not bring himself\nto consider, calculate, or economize.  He waywardly wished for\nsomething, and he set about obtaining it like a child in a nursery.\n\"I want a good tomb,\" he said to the man who stood in a little office\nwithin the yard.  \"I want as good a one as you can give me for\ntwenty-seven pounds.\"\n\nIt was all the money he possessed.\n\n\"That sum to include everything?\"\n\n\"Everything.  Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury, and\nerection.  And I want it now, at once.\"\n\n\"We could not get anything special worked this week.\"\n\n\"I must have it now.\"\n\n\"If you would like one of these in stock it could be got ready\nimmediately.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Troy, impatiently.  \"Let's see what you have.\"\n\n\"The best I have in stock is this one,\" said the stone-cutter, going\ninto a shed.  \"Here's a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with\nmedallions beneath of typical subjects; here's the footstone after\nthe same pattern, and here's the coping to enclose the grave.  The\npolishing alone of the set cost me eleven pounds--the slabs are the\nbest of their kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and frost\nfor a hundred years without flying.\"\n\n\"And how much?\"\n\n\"Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury for the sum\nyou mention.\"\n\n\"Get it done to-day, and I'll pay the money now.\"\n\nThe man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor who wore not\na shred of mourning.  Troy then wrote the words which were to form\nthe inscription, settled the account and went away.  In the afternoon\nhe came back again, and found that the lettering was almost done.  He\nwaited in the yard till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the\ncart and starting on its way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the\ntwo men who were to accompany it to inquire of the sexton for the\ngrave of the person named in the inscription.\n\nIt was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge.  He carried\nrather a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily\nalong the road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon\nhe deposited his burden for a time.  Midway on his journey he met,\nreturning in the darkness, the men and the waggon which had conveyed\nthe tomb.  He merely inquired if the work was done, and, on being\nassured that it was, passed on again.\n\nTroy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o'clock and went\nimmediately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave early\nin the morning.  It was on the obscure side of the tower, screened to\na great extent from the view of passers along the road--a spot which\nuntil lately had been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of\nalder, but now it was cleared and made orderly for interments, by\nreason of the rapid filling of the ground elsewhere.\n\nHere now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white and shapely\nin the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone, and enclosing border\nof marble-work uniting them.  In the midst was mould, suitable for\nplants.\n\nTroy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few\nminutes.  When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the\nlight of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble, whilst\nhe read the inscription.  He hung his lantern on the lowest bough\nof the yew-tree, and took from his basket flower-roots of several\nvarieties.  There were bundles of snow-drop, hyacinth and crocus\nbulbs, violets and double daisies, which were to bloom in early\nspring, and of carnations, pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley,\nforget-me-not, summer's farewell, meadow-saffron and others, for\nthe later seasons of the year.\n\nTroy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face set\nto work to plant them.  The snowdrops were arranged in a line on the\noutside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the\ngrave.  The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some of\nthe summer flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and\nforget-me-nots over her heart.  The remainder were dispersed in the\nspaces between these.\n\nTroy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in the\nfutility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction\nfrom previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity.\nDeriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showed\nat such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman,\ntogether with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on\nmawkishness, characteristic of the French.\n\nIt was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy's\nlantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminating\npower, flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud\nabove.  He felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and\npresently one came and entered one of the holes of the lantern,\nwhereupon the candle sputtered and went out.  Troy was weary and\nit being now not far from midnight, and the rain threatening to\nincrease, he resolved to leave the finishing touches of his labour\nuntil the day should break.  He groped along the wall and over the\ngraves in the dark till he found himself round at the north side.\nHere he entered the porch, and, reclining upon the bench within,\nfell asleep.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nADVENTURES BY THE SHORE\n\n\nTroy wandered along towards the south.  A composite feeling, made up\nof disgust with the, to him, humdrum tediousness of a farmer's life,\ngloomy images of her who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a\ngeneral averseness to his wife's society, impelled him to seek a\nhome in any place on earth save Weatherbury.  The sad accessories of\nFanny's end confronted him as vivid pictures which threatened to be\nindelible, and made life in Bathsheba's house intolerable.  At three\nin the afternoon he found himself at the foot of a slope more than\na mile in length, which ran to the ridge of a range of hills lying\nparallel with the shore, and forming a monotonous barrier between\nthe basin of cultivated country inland and the wilder scenery of the\ncoast.  Up the hill stretched a road nearly straight and perfectly\nwhite, the two sides approaching each other in a gradual taper till\nthey met the sky at the top about two miles off.  Throughout the\nlength of this narrow and irksome inclined plane not a sign of life\nwas visible on this garish afternoon.  Troy toiled up the road with a\nlanguor and depression greater than any he had experienced for many a\nday and year before.  The air was warm and muggy, and the top seemed\nto recede as he approached.\n\nAt last he reached the summit, and a wide and novel prospect burst\nupon him with an effect almost like that of the Pacific upon Balboa's\ngaze.  The broad steely sea, marked only by faint lines, which had\na semblance of being etched thereon to a degree not deep enough to\ndisturb its general evenness, stretched the whole width of his front\nand round to the right, where, near the town and port of Budmouth,\nthe sun bristled down upon it, and banished all colour, to substitute\nin its place a clear oily polish.  Nothing moved in sky, land, or\nsea, except a frill of milkwhite foam along the nearer angles of the\nshore, shreds of which licked the contiguous stones like tongues.\n\nHe descended and came to a small basin of sea enclosed by the cliffs.\nTroy's nature freshened within him; he thought he would rest and\nbathe here before going farther.  He undressed and plunged in.\nInside the cove the water was uninteresting to a swimmer, being\nsmooth as a pond, and to get a little of the ocean swell, Troy\npresently swam between the two projecting spurs of rock which\nformed the pillars of Hercules to this miniature Mediterranean.\nUnfortunately for Troy a current unknown to him existed outside,\nwhich, unimportant to craft of any burden, was awkward for a swimmer\nwho might be taken in it unawares.  Troy found himself carried to\nthe left and then round in a swoop out to sea.\n\nHe now recollected the place and its sinister character.  Many\nbathers had there prayed for a dry death from time to time, and, like\nGonzalo also, had been unanswered; and Troy began to deem it possible\nthat he might be added to their number.  Not a boat of any kind was\nat present within sight, but far in the distance Budmouth lay upon\nthe sea, as it were quietly regarding his efforts, and beside the\ntown the harbour showed its position by a dim meshwork of ropes and\nspars.  After well-nigh exhausting himself in attempts to get back to\nthe mouth of the cove, in his weakness swimming several inches deeper\nthan was his wont, keeping up his breathing entirely by his nostrils,\nturning upon his back a dozen times over, swimming _en papillon_, and\nso on, Troy resolved as a last resource to tread water at a slight\nincline, and so endeavour to reach the shore at any point, merely\ngiving himself a gentle impetus inwards whilst carried on in the\ngeneral direction of the tide.  This, necessarily a slow process,\nhe found to be not altogether so difficult, and though there was no\nchoice of a landing-place--the objects on shore passing by him in a\nsad and slow procession--he perceptibly approached the extremity of a\nspit of land yet further to the right, now well defined against the\nsunny portion of the horizon.  While the swimmer's eyes were fixed\nupon the spit as his only means of salvation on this side of the\nUnknown, a moving object broke the outline of the extremity, and\nimmediately a ship's boat appeared manned with several sailor lads,\nher bows towards the sea.\n\nAll Troy's vigour spasmodically revived to prolong the struggle yet a\nlittle further.  Swimming with his right arm, he held up his left to\nhail them, splashing upon the waves, and shouting with all his might.\nFrom the position of the setting sun his white form was distinctly\nvisible upon the now deep-hued bosom of the sea to the east of the\nboat, and the men saw him at once.  Backing their oars and putting\nthe boat about, they pulled towards him with a will, and in five or\nsix minutes from the time of his first halloo, two of the sailors\nhauled him in over the stern.\n\nThey formed part of a brig's crew, and had come ashore for sand.\nLending him what little clothing they could spare among them as a\nslight protection against the rapidly cooling air, they agreed to\nland him in the morning; and without further delay, for it was\ngrowing late, they made again towards the roadstead where their\nvessel lay.\n\nAnd now night drooped slowly upon the wide watery levels in front;\nand at no great distance from them, where the shoreline curved round,\nand formed a long riband of shade upon the horizon, a series of\npoints of yellow light began to start into existence, denoting the\nspot to be the site of Budmouth, where the lamps were being lighted\nalong the parade.  The cluck of their oars was the only sound of any\ndistinctness upon the sea, and as they laboured amid the thickening\nshades the lamp-lights grew larger, each appearing to send a flaming\nsword deep down into the waves before it, until there arose, among\nother dim shapes of the kind, the form of the vessel for which they\nwere bound.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nOAK'S ADVANCEMENT--A GREAT HOPE\n\n\nThe later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the leaves lay\nthick upon the turf of the glades and the mosses of the woods.\nBathsheba, having previously been living in a state of suspended\nfeeling which was not suspense, now lived in a mood of quietude which\nwas not precisely peacefulness.  While she had known him to be alive\nshe could have thought of his death with equanimity; but now that it\nmight be she had lost him, she regretted that he was not hers still.\nShe kept the farm going, raked in her profits without caring keenly\nabout them, and expended money on ventures because she had done so\nin bygone days, which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitely\nremoved from her present.  She looked back upon that past over a\ngreat gulf, as if she were now a dead person, having the faculty of\nmeditation still left in her, by means of which, like the mouldering\ngentlefolk of the poet's story, she could sit and ponder what a gift\nlife used to be.\n\nHowever, one excellent result of her general apathy was the\nlong-delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; but he having virtually\nexercised that function for a long time already, the change, beyond\nthe substantial increase of wages it brought, was little more than a\nnominal one addressed to the outside world.\n\nBoldwood lived secluded and inactive.  Much of his wheat and all his\nbarley of that season had been spoilt by the rain.  It sprouted,\ngrew into intricate mats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in\narmfuls.  The strange neglect which had produced this ruin and waste\nbecame the subject of whispered talk among all the people round; and\nit was elicited from one of Boldwood's men that forgetfulness had\nnothing to do with it, for he had been reminded of the danger to his\ncorn as many times and as persistently as inferiors dared to do.\nThe sight of the pigs turning in disgust from the rotten ears seemed\nto arouse Boldwood, and he one evening sent for Oak.  Whether it\nwas suggested by Bathsheba's recent act of promotion or not, the\nfarmer proposed at the interview that Gabriel should undertake the\nsuperintendence of the Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba's, because\nof the necessity Boldwood felt for such aid, and the impossibility\nof discovering a more trustworthy man. Gabriel's malignant star was\nassuredly setting fast.\n\nBathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal--for Oak was obliged to\nconsult her--at first languidly objected.  She considered that the\ntwo farms together were too extensive for the observation of one\nman.  Boldwood, who was apparently determined by personal rather than\ncommercial reasons, suggested that Oak should be furnished with a\nhorse for his sole use, when the plan would present no difficulty,\nthe two farms lying side by side.  Boldwood did not directly\ncommunicate with her during these negotiations, only speaking to Oak,\nwho was the go-between throughout.  All was harmoniously arranged at\nlast, and we now see Oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trotting\nthe length and breadth of about two thousand acres in a cheerful spirit\nof surveillance, as if the crops all belonged to him--the actual\nmistress of the one-half and the master of the other, sitting in\ntheir respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion.\n\nOut of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a talk in the\nparish that Gabriel Oak was feathering his nest fast.\n\n\"Whatever d'ye think,\" said Susan Tall, \"Gable Oak is coming it quite\nthe dand.  He now wears shining boots with hardly a hob in 'em, two\nor three times a-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and 'a hardly knows\nthe name of smockfrock.  When I see people strut enough to be cut up\ninto bantam cocks, I stand dormant with wonder, and says no more!\"\n\nIt was eventually known that Gabriel, though paid a fixed wage by\nBathsheba independent of the fluctuations of agricultural profits,\nhad made an engagement with Boldwood by which Oak was to receive a\nshare of the receipts--a small share certainly, yet it was money of\na higher quality than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way\nthat wages were not.  Some were beginning to consider Oak a \"near\"\nman, for though his condition had thus far improved, he lived in no\nbetter style than before, occupying the same cottage, paring his own\npotatoes, mending his stockings, and sometimes even making his bed\nwith his own hands.  But as Oak was not only provokingly indifferent\nto public opinion, but a man who clung persistently to old habits and\nusages, simply because they were old, there was room for doubt as to\nhis motives.\n\nA great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood, whose unreasoning\ndevotion to Bathsheba could only be characterized as a fond madness\nwhich neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, could\nweaken or destroy.  This fevered hope had grown up again like a grain\nof mustard-seed during the quiet which followed the hasty conjecture\nthat Troy was drowned.  He nourished it fearfully, and almost shunned\nthe contemplation of it in earnest, lest facts should reveal the\nwildness of the dream.  Bathsheba having at last been persuaded to\nwear mourning, her appearance as she entered the church in that\nguise was in itself a weekly addition to his faith that a time was\ncoming--very far off perhaps, yet surely nearing--when his waiting on\nevents should have its reward.  How long he might have to wait he had\nnot yet closely considered.  What he would try to recognize was that\nthe severe schooling she had been subjected to had made Bathsheba\nmuch more considerate than she had formerly been of the feelings of\nothers, and he trusted that, should she be willing at any time in the\nfuture to marry any man at all, that man would be himself.  There was\na substratum of good feeling in her: her self-reproach for the injury\nshe had thoughtlessly done him might be depended upon now to a much\ngreater extent than before her infatuation and disappointment.  It\nwould be possible to approach her by the channel of her good nature,\nand to suggest a friendly businesslike compact between them for\nfulfilment at some future day, keeping the passionate side of his\ndesire entirely out of her sight.  Such was Boldwood's hope.\n\nTo the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps additionally\ncharming just now.  Her exuberance of spirit was pruned down; the\noriginal phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too bright\nfor human nature's daily food, and she had been able to enter this\nsecond poetical phase without losing much of the first in the\nprocess.\n\nBathsheba's return from a two months' visit to her old aunt at\nNorcombe afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext for\ninquiring directly after her--now possibly in the ninth month of her\nwidowhood--and endeavouring to get a notion of her state of mind\nregarding him.  This occurred in the middle of the haymaking, and\nBoldwood contrived to be near Liddy, who was assisting in the fields.\n\n\"I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia,\" he said pleasantly.\n\nShe simpered, and wondered in her heart why he should speak so\nfrankly to her.\n\n\"I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence,\" he\ncontinued, in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted neighbour\ncould scarcely say less about her.\n\n\"She is quite well, sir.\"\n\n\"And cheerful, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Yes, cheerful.\"\n\n\"Fearful, did you say?\"\n\n\"Oh no.  I merely said she was cheerful.\"\n\n\"Tells you all her affairs?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Some of them?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia, and very wisely,\nperhaps.\"\n\n\"She do, sir.  I've been with her all through her troubles, and was\nwith her at the time of Mr. Troy's going and all.  And if she were\nto marry again I expect I should bide with her.\"\n\n\"She promises that you shall--quite natural,\" said the strategic\nlover, throbbing throughout him at the presumption which Liddy's\nwords appeared to warrant--that his darling had thought of\nre-marriage.\n\n\"No--she doesn't promise it exactly.  I merely judge on my own\naccount.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I understand.  When she alludes to the possibility of\nmarrying again, you conclude--\"\n\n\"She never do allude to it, sir,\" said Liddy, thinking how very\nstupid Mr. Boldwood was getting.\n\n\"Of course not,\" he returned hastily, his hope falling again.  \"You\nneedn't take quite such long reaches with your rake, Lydia--short\nand quick ones are best.  Well, perhaps, as she is absolute mistress\nagain now, it is wise of her to resolve never to give up her\nfreedom.\"\n\n\"My mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously, that she\nsupposed she might marry again at the end of seven years from last\nyear, if she cared to risk Mr. Troy's coming back and claiming her.\"\n\n\"Ah, six years from the present time.  Said that she might.  She\nmight marry at once in every reasonable person's opinion, whatever\nthe lawyers may say to the contrary.\"\n\n\"Have you been to ask them?\" said Liddy, innocently.\n\n\"Not I,\" said Boldwood, growing red.  \"Liddy, you needn't stay here\na minute later than you wish, so Mr. Oak says.  I am now going on a\nlittle farther.  Good-afternoon.\"\n\nHe went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for this one\ntime in his life done anything which could be called underhand.  Poor\nBoldwood had no more skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he\nwas uneasy with a sense of having made himself to appear stupid and,\nwhat was worse, mean.  But he had, after all, lighted upon one fact\nby way of repayment.  It was a singularly fresh and fascinating fact,\nand though not without its sadness it was pertinent and real.  In\nlittle more than six years from this time Bathsheba might certainly\nmarry him.  There was something definite in that hope, for admitting\nthat there might have been no deep thought in her words to Liddy\nabout marriage, they showed at least her creed on the matter.\n\nThis pleasant notion was now continually in his mind.  Six years were\na long time, but how much shorter than never, the idea he had for so\nlong been obliged to endure!  Jacob had served twice seven years for\nRachel: what were six for such a woman as this?  He tried to like the\nnotion of waiting for her better than that of winning her at once.\nBoldwood felt his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, that\nit was possible she had never yet known its full volume, and this\npatience in delay would afford him an opportunity of giving sweet\nproof on the point.  He would annihilate the six years of his life as\nif they were minutes--so little did he value his time on earth beside\nher love.  He would let her see, all those six years of intangible\nethereal courtship, how little care he had for anything but as it\nbore upon the consummation.\n\nMeanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the week in\nwhich Greenhill Fair was held.  This fair was frequently attended by\nthe folk of Weatherbury.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "THE MARCH FOLLOWING--\"BATHSHEBA BOLDWOOD\"\n\n\nWe pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a breezy day without\nsunshine, frost, or dew.  On Yalbury Hill, about midway between\nWeatherbury and Casterbridge, where the turnpike road passes over\nthe crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of\nthe greater number being frequently stretched afar in a northerly\ndirection.  The groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of\njavelin-men, and two trumpeters, and in the midst were carriages, one\nof which contained the high sheriff.  With the idlers, many of whom\nhad mounted to the top of a cutting formed for the road, were several\nWeatherbury men and boys--among others Poorgrass, Coggan, and Cain\nBall.\n\nAt the end of half-an-hour a faint dust was seen in the expected\nquarter, and shortly after a travelling-carriage, bringing one of the\ntwo judges on the Western Circuit, came up the hill and halted on the\ntop.  The judge changed carriages whilst a flourish was blown by the\nbig-cheeked trumpeters, and a procession being formed of the vehicles\nand javelin-men, they all proceeded towards the town, excepting the\nWeatherbury men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move off\nreturned home again to their work.\n\n\"Joseph, I seed you squeezing close to the carriage,\" said Coggan, as\nthey walked.  \"Did ye notice my lord judge's face?\"\n\n\"I did,\" said Poorgrass.  \"I looked hard at en, as if I would read\nhis very soul; and there was mercy in his eyes--or to speak with the\nexact truth required of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was\ntowards me.\"\n\n\"Well, I hope for the best,\" said Coggan, \"though bad that must be.\nHowever, I shan't go to the trial, and I'd advise the rest of ye\nthat bain't wanted to bide away.  'Twill disturb his mind more than\nanything to see us there staring at him as if he were a show.\"\n\n\"The very thing I said this morning,\" observed Joseph, \"'Justice is\ncome to weigh him in the balances,' I said in my reflectious way,\n'and if he's found wanting, so be it unto him,' and a bystander said\n'Hear, hear!  A man who can talk like that ought to be heard.' But I\ndon't like dwelling upon it, for my few words are my few words, and\nnot much; though the speech of some men is rumoured abroad as though\nby nature formed for such.\"\n\n\"So 'tis, Joseph.  And now, neighbours, as I said, every man bide at\nhome.\"\n\nThe resolution was adhered to; and all waited anxiously for the news\nnext day.  Their suspense was diverted, however, by a discovery which\nwas made in the afternoon, throwing more light on Boldwood's conduct\nand condition than any details which had preceded it.\n\nThat he had been from the time of Greenhill Fair until the fatal\nChristmas Eve in excited and unusual moods was known to those who had\nbeen intimate with him; but nobody imagined that there had shown in\nhim unequivocal symptoms of the mental derangement which Bathsheba\nand Oak, alone of all others and at different times, had momentarily\nsuspected.  In a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary\ncollection of articles.  There were several sets of ladies' dresses\nin the piece, of sundry expensive materials; silks and satins,\npoplins and velvets, all of colours which from Bathsheba's style of\ndress might have been judged to be her favourites.  There were two\nmuffs, sable and ermine.  Above all there was a case of jewellery,\ncontaining four heavy gold bracelets and several lockets and rings,\nall of fine quality and manufacture.  These things had been bought in\nBath and other towns from time to time, and brought home by stealth.\nThey were all carefully packed in paper, and each package was\nlabelled \"Bathsheba Boldwood,\" a date being subjoined six years in\nadvance in every instance.\n\nThese somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind crazed with care and love\nwere the subject of discourse in Warren's malt-house when Oak entered\nfrom Casterbridge with tidings of sentence. He came in the afternoon,\nand his face, as the kiln glow shone upon it, told the tale\nsufficiently well.  Boldwood, as every one supposed he would do, had\npleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death.\n\nThe conviction that Boldwood had not been morally responsible for his\nlater acts now became general.  Facts elicited previous to the trial\nhad pointed strongly in the same direction, but they had not been of\nsufficient weight to lead to an order for an examination into the\nstate of Boldwood's mind.  It was astonishing, now that a presumption\nof insanity was raised, how many collateral circumstances were\nremembered to which a condition of mental disease seemed to afford\nthe only explanation--among others, the unprecedented neglect of his\ncorn stacks in the previous summer.\n\nA petition was addressed to the Home Secretary, advancing\nthe circumstances which appeared to justify a request for a\nreconsideration of the sentence.  It was not \"numerously signed\"\nby the inhabitants of Casterbridge, as is usual in such cases, for\nBoldwood had never made many friends over the counter.  The shops\nthought it very natural that a man who, by importing direct from\nthe producer, had daringly set aside the first great principle of\nprovincial existence, namely that God made country villages to supply\ncustomers to county towns, should have confused ideas about the\nDecalogue.  The prompters were a few merciful men who had perhaps too\nfeelingly considered the facts latterly unearthed, and the result was\nthat evidence was taken which it was hoped might remove the crime in\na moral point of view, out of the category of wilful murder, and lead\nit to be regarded as a sheer outcome of madness.\n\nThe upshot of the petition was waited for in Weatherbury with\nsolicitous interest.  The execution had been fixed for eight o'clock\non a Saturday morning about a fortnight after the sentence was\npassed, and up to Friday afternoon no answer had been received.  At\nthat time Gabriel came from Casterbridge Gaol, whither he had been\nto wish Boldwood good-bye, and turned down a by-street to avoid the\ntown.  When past the last house he heard a hammering, and lifting\nhis bowed head he looked back for a moment.  Over the chimneys he\ncould see the upper part of the gaol entrance, rich and glowing\nin the afternoon sun, and some moving figures were there.  They\nwere carpenters lifting a post into a vertical position within the\nparapet.  He withdrew his eyes quickly, and hastened on.\n\nIt was dark when he reached home, and half the village was out to\nmeet him.\n\n\"No tidings,\" Gabriel said, wearily.  \"And I'm afraid there's no\nhope.  I've been with him more than two hours.\"\n\n\"Do ye think he REALLY was out of his mind when he did it?\" said\nSmallbury.\n\n\"I can't honestly say that I do,\" Oak replied.  \"However, that we can\ntalk of another time.  Has there been any change in mistress this\nafternoon?\"\n\n\"None at all.\"\n\n\"Is she downstairs?\"\n\n\"No.  And getting on so nicely as she was too.  She's but very little\nbetter now again than she was at Christmas.  She keeps on asking\nif you be come, and if there's news, till one's wearied out wi'\nanswering her.  Shall I go and say you've come?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Oak.  \"There's a chance yet; but I couldn't stay in town\nany longer--after seeing him too.  So Laban--Laban is here, isn't\nhe?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Tall.\n\n\"What I've arranged is, that you shall ride to town the last thing\nto-night; leave here about nine, and wait a while there, getting home\nabout twelve.  If nothing has been received by eleven to-night, they\nsay there's no chance at all.\"\n\n\"I do so hope his life will be spared,\" said Liddy.  \"If it is not,\nshe'll go out of her mind too.  Poor thing; her sufferings have been\ndreadful; she deserves anybody's pity.\"\n\n\"Is she altered much?\" said Coggan.\n\n\"If you haven't seen poor mistress since Christmas, you wouldn't know\nher,\" said Liddy.  \"Her eyes are so miserable that she's not the same\nwoman.  Only two years ago she was a romping girl, and now she's\nthis!\"\n\nLaban departed as directed, and at eleven o'clock that night several\nof the villagers strolled along the road to Casterbridge and awaited\nhis arrival--among them Oak, and nearly all the rest of Bathsheba's\nmen.  Gabriel's anxiety was great that Boldwood might be saved, even\nthough in his conscience he felt that he ought to die; for there had\nbeen qualities in the farmer which Oak loved.  At last, when they all\nwere weary the tramp of a horse was heard in the distance--\n\n\n     First dead, as if on turf it trode,\n     Then, clattering on the village road\n     In other pace than forth he yode.\n\n\n\"We shall soon know now, one way or other.\" said Coggan, and they all\nstepped down from the bank on which they had been standing into the\nroad, and the rider pranced into the midst of them.\n\n\"Is that you, Laban?\" said Gabriel.\n\n\"Yes--'tis come.  He's not to die.  'Tis confinement during Her\nMajesty's pleasure.\"\n\n\"Hurrah!\" said Coggan, with a swelling heart.  \"God's above the devil\nyet!\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "A FOGGY NIGHT AND MORNING--CONCLUSION\n\n\n\"The most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible to\nhave.\"\n\nThose had been Bathsheba's words to Oak one evening, some time after\nthe event of the preceding f, and he meditated a full hour by\nthe clock upon how to carry out her wishes to the letter.\n\n\"A license--O yes, it must be a license,\" he said to himself at last.\n\"Very well, then; first, a license.\"\n\nOn a dark night, a few days later, Oak came with mysterious steps\nfrom the surrogate's door, in Casterbridge.  On the way home he heard\na heavy tread in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him to\nbe Coggan.  They walked together into the village until they came to\na little lane behind the church, leading down to the cottage of Laban\nTall, who had lately been installed as clerk of the parish, and was\nyet in mortal terror at church on Sundays when he heard his lone\nvoice among certain hard words of the Psalms, whither no man ventured\nto follow him.\n\n\"Well, good-night, Coggan,\" said Oak, \"I'm going down this way.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Coggan, surprised; \"what's going on to-night then, make so\nbold Mr. Oak?\"\n\nIt seemed rather ungenerous not to tell Coggan, under the\ncircumstances, for Coggan had been true as steel all through the time\nof Gabriel's unhappiness about Bathsheba, and Gabriel said, \"You can\nkeep a secret, Coggan?\"\n\n\"You've proved me, and you know.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have, and I do know.  Well, then, mistress and I mean to get\nmarried to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"Heaven's high tower!  And yet I've thought of such a thing from time\nto time; true, I have.  But keeping it so close!  Well, there, 'tis\nno consarn of of mine, and I wish 'ee joy o' her.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Coggan.  But I assure 'ee that this great hush is not\nwhat I wished for at all, or what either of us would have wished if\nit hadn't been for certain things that would make a gay wedding seem\nhardly the thing.  Bathsheba has a great wish that all the parish\nshall not be in church, looking at her--she's shy-like and nervous\nabout it, in fact--so I be doing this to humour her.\"\n\n\"Ay, I see: quite right, too, I suppose I must say.  And you be now\ngoing down to the clerk.\"\n\n\"Yes; you may as well come with me.\"\n\n\"I am afeard your labour in keeping it close will be throwed away,\"\nsaid Coggan, as they walked along.  \"Labe Tall's old woman will horn\nit all over parish in half-an-hour.\"\n\n\"So she will, upon my life; I never thought of that,\" said Oak,\npausing.  \"Yet I must tell him to-night, I suppose, for he's working\nso far off, and leaves early.\"\n\n\"I'll tell 'ee how we could tackle her,\" said Coggan.  \"I'll knock\nand ask to speak to Laban outside the door, you standing in the\nbackground.  Then he'll come out, and you can tell yer tale.  She'll\nnever guess what I want en for; and I'll make up a few words about\nthe farm-work, as a blind.\"\n\nThis scheme was considered feasible; and Coggan advanced boldly, and\nrapped at Mrs. Tall's door.  Mrs. Tall herself opened it.\n\n\"I wanted to have a word with Laban.\"\n\n\"He's not at home, and won't be this side of eleven o'clock.  He've\nbeen forced to go over to Yalbury since shutting out work.  I shall\ndo quite as well.\"\n\n\"I hardly think you will.  Stop a moment;\" and Coggan stepped round\nthe corner of the porch to consult Oak.\n\n\"Who's t'other man, then?\" said Mrs. Tall.\n\n\"Only a friend,\" said Coggan.\n\n\"Say he's wanted to meet mistress near church-hatch to-morrow morning\nat ten,\" said Oak, in a whisper.  \"That he must come without fail,\nand wear his best clothes.\"\n\n\"The clothes will floor us as safe as houses!\" said Coggan.\n\n\"It can't be helped,\" said Oak.  \"Tell her.\"\n\nSo Coggan delivered the message.  \"Mind, het or wet, blow or snow,\nhe must come,\" added Jan.  \"'Tis very particular, indeed.  The fact\nis, 'tis to witness her sign some law-work about taking shares wi'\nanother farmer for a long span o' years.  There, that's what 'tis,\nand now I've told 'ee, Mother Tall, in a way I shouldn't ha' done\nif I hadn't loved 'ee so hopeless well.\"\n\nCoggan retired before she could ask any further; and next they called\nat the vicar's in a manner which excited no curiosity at all.  Then\nGabriel went home, and prepared for the morrow.\n\n\n\"Liddy,\" said Bathsheba, on going to bed that night, \"I want you to\ncall me at seven o'clock to-morrow, In case I shouldn't wake.\"\n\n\"But you always do wake afore then, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I have something important to do, which I'll tell you of\nwhen the time comes, and it's best to make sure.\"\n\nBathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four, nor could she by any\ncontrivance get to sleep again.  About six, being quite positive that\nher watch had stopped during the night, she could wait no longer.\nShe went and tapped at Liddy's door, and after some labour awoke her.\n\n\"But I thought it was I who had to call you?\" said the bewildered\nLiddy.  \"And it isn't six yet.\"\n\n\"Indeed it is; how can you tell such a story, Liddy?  I know it must\nbe ever so much past seven.  Come to my room as soon as you can; I\nwant you to give my hair a good brushing.\"\n\nWhen Liddy came to Bathsheba's room her mistress was already waiting.\nLiddy could not understand this extraordinary promptness.  \"Whatever\nIS going on, ma'am?\" she said.\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you,\" said Bathsheba, with a mischievous smile in\nher bright eyes.  \"Farmer Oak is coming here to dine with me to-day!\"\n\n\"Farmer Oak--and nobody else?--you two alone?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But is it safe, ma'am, after what's been said?\" asked her companion,\ndubiously.  \"A woman's good name is such a perishable article that--\"\n\nBathsheba laughed with a flushed cheek, and whispered in Liddy's ear,\nalthough there was nobody present.  Then Liddy stared and exclaimed,\n\"Souls alive, what news!  It makes my heart go quite bumpity-bump!\"\n\n\"It makes mine rather furious, too,\" said Bathsheba.  \"However,\nthere's no getting out of it now!\"\n\nIt was a damp disagreeable morning.  Nevertheless, at twenty minutes\nto ten o'clock, Oak came out of his house, and\n\n\n              Went up the hill side\n              With that sort of stride\n     A man puts out when walking in search of a bride,\n\n\nand knocked Bathsheba's door.  Ten minutes later a large and a\nsmaller umbrella might have been seen moving from the same door, and\nthrough the mist along the road to the church.  The distance was not\nmore than a quarter of a mile, and these two sensible persons deemed\nit unnecessary to drive.  An observer must have been very close\nindeed to discover that the forms under the umbrellas were those of\nOak and Bathsheba, arm-in-arm for the first time in their lives, Oak\nin a greatcoat extending to his knees, and Bathsheba in a cloak that\nreached her clogs.  Yet, though so plainly dressed, there was a\ncertain rejuvenated appearance about her:--\n\n\n     As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.\n\n\nRepose had again incarnadined her cheeks; and having, at Gabriel's\nrequest, arranged her hair this morning as she had worn it years ago\non Norcombe Hill, she seemed in his eyes remarkably like a girl of\nthat fascinating dream, which, considering that she was now only\nthree or four-and-twenty, was perhaps not very wonderful.  In the\nchurch were Tall, Liddy, and the parson, and in a remarkably short\nspace of time the deed was done.\n\nThe two sat down very quietly to tea in Bathsheba's parlour in the\nevening of the same day, for it had been arranged that Farmer Oak\nshould go there to live, since he had as yet neither money, house,\nnor furniture worthy of the name, though he was on a sure way towards\nthem, whilst Bathsheba was, comparatively, in a plethora of all\nthree.\n\nJust as Bathsheba was pouring out a cup of tea, their ears were\ngreeted by the firing of a cannon, followed by what seemed like a\ntremendous blowing of trumpets, in the front of the house.\n\n\"There!\" said Oak, laughing, \"I knew those fellows were up to\nsomething, by the look on their faces\"\n\nOak took up the light and went into the porch, followed by Bathsheba\nwith a shawl over her head.  The rays fell upon a group of male\nfigures gathered upon the gravel in front, who, when they saw the\nnewly-married couple in the porch, set up a loud \"Hurrah!\" and at the\nsame moment bang again went the cannon in the background, followed by\na hideous clang of music from a drum, tambourine, clarionet, serpent,\nhautboy, tenor-viol, and double-bass--the only remaining relics\nof the true and original Weatherbury band--venerable worm-eaten\ninstruments, which had celebrated in their own persons the victories\nof Marlborough, under the fingers of the forefathers of those who\nplayed them now.  The performers came forward, and marched up to the\nfront.\n\n\"Those bright boys, Mark Clark and Jan, are at the bottom of all\nthis,\" said Oak.  \"Come in, souls, and have something to eat and\ndrink wi' me and my wife.\"\n\n\"Not to-night,\" said Mr. Clark, with evident self-denial.  \"Thank\nye all the same; but we'll call at a more seemly time.  However, we\ncouldn't think of letting the day pass without a note of admiration\nof some sort.  If ye could send a drop of som'at down to Warren's,\nwhy so it is.  Here's long life and happiness to neighbour Oak and\nhis comely bride!\"\n\n\"Thank ye; thank ye all,\" said Gabriel.  \"A bit and a drop shall be\nsent to Warren's for ye at once.  I had a thought that we might very\nlikely get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I was\nsaying so to my wife but now.\"\n\n\"Faith,\" said Coggan, in a critical tone, turning to his companions,\n\"the man hev learnt to say 'my wife' in a wonderful naterel way,\nconsidering how very youthful he is in wedlock as yet--hey,\nneighbours all?\"\n\n\"I never heerd a skilful old married feller of twenty years'\nstanding pipe 'my wife' in a more used note than 'a did,\" said Jacob\nSmallbury.  \"It might have been a little more true to nater if't had\nbeen spoke a little chillier, but that wasn't to be expected just\nnow.\"\n\n\"That improvement will come wi' time,\" said Jan, twirling his eye.\n\nThen Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed readily\nnow), and their friends turned to go.\n\n\"Yes; I suppose that's the size o't,\" said Joseph Poorgrass with a\ncheerful sigh as they moved away; \"and I wish him joy o' her; though\nI were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy Hosea, in my\nscripture manner, which is my second nature, 'Ephraim is joined to\nidols: let him alone.'  But since 'tis as 'tis, why, it might have\nbeen worse, and I feel my thanks accordingly.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nThe season developed and matured.  Another year's instalment of\nflowers, leaves, nightingales, thrushes, finches, and such ephemeral\ncreatures, took up their positions where only a year ago others had\nstood in their place when these were nothing more than germs and\ninorganic particles.  Rays from the sunrise drew forth the buds and\nstretched them into long stalks, lifted up sap in noiseless streams,\nopened petals, and sucked out scents in invisible jets and\nbreathings.\n\nDairyman Crick's household of maids and men lived on comfortably,\nplacidly, even merrily.  Their position was perhaps the happiest of\nall positions in the social scale, being above the line at which\nneediness ends, and below the line at which the _convenances_ begin\nto cramp natural feelings, and the stress of threadbare modishness\nmakes too little of enough.\n\nThus passed the leafy time when arborescence seems to be the one\nthing aimed at out of doors.  Tess and Clare unconsciously studied\neach other, ever balanced on the edge of a passion, yet apparently\nkeeping out of it.  All the while they were converging, under an\nirresistible law, as surely as two streams in one vale.\n\nTess had never in her recent life been so happy as she was now,\npossibly never would be so happy again.  She was, for one thing,\nphysically and mentally suited among these new surroundings.  The\nsapling which had rooted down to a poisonous stratum on the spot of\nits sowing had been transplanted to a deeper soil.  Moreover she, and\nClare also, stood as yet on the debatable land between predilection\nand love; where no profundities have been reached; no reflections\nhave set in, awkwardly inquiring, \"Whither does this new current tend\nto carry me?  What does it mean to my future?  How does it stand\ntowards my past?\"\n\nTess was the merest stray phenomenon to Angel Clare as yet--a rosy,\nwarming apparition which had only just acquired the attribute of\npersistence in his consciousness.  So he allowed his mind to be\noccupied with her, deeming his preoccupation to be no more than a\nphilosopher's regard of an exceedingly novel, fresh, and interesting\nspecimen of womankind.\n\nThey met continually; they could not help it.  They met daily in that\nstrange and solemn interval, the twilight of the morning, in the\nviolet or pink dawn; for it was necessary to rise early, so very\nearly, here.  Milking was done betimes; and before the milking came\nthe skimming, which began at a little past three.  It usually fell\nto the lot of some one or other of them to wake the rest, the first\nbeing aroused by an alarm-clock; and, as Tess was the latest arrival,\nand they soon discovered that she could be depended upon not to sleep\nthough the alarm as others did, this task was thrust most frequently\nupon her.  No sooner had the hour of three struck and whizzed,\nthan she left her room and ran to the dairyman's door; then up the\nladder to Angel's, calling him in a loud whisper; then woke her\nfellow-milkmaids.  By the time that Tess was dressed Clare was\ndownstairs and out in the humid air.  The remaining maids and the\ndairyman usually gave themselves another turn on the pillow, and did\nnot appear till a quarter of an hour later.\n\nThe gray half-tones of daybreak are not the gray half-tones of the\nday's close, though the degree of their shade may be the same.  In\nthe twilight of the morning, light seems active, darkness passive;\nin the twilight of evening it is the darkness which is active and\ncrescent, and the light which is the drowsy reverse.\n\nBeing so often--possibly not always by chance--the first two persons\nto get up at the dairy-house, they seemed to themselves the first\npersons up of all the world.  In these early days of her residence\nhere Tess did not skim, but went out of doors at once after rising,\nwhere he was generally awaiting her.  The spectral, half-compounded,\naqueous light which pervaded the open mead impressed them with\na feeling of isolation, as if they were Adam and Eve.  At this\ndim inceptive stage of the day Tess seemed to Clare to exhibit a\ndignified largeness both of disposition and physique, an almost\nregnant power, possibly because he knew that at that preternatural\ntime hardly any woman so well endowed in person as she was likely to\nbe walking in the open air within the boundaries of his horizon; very\nfew in all England.  Fair women are usually asleep at mid-summer\ndawns.  She was close at hand, and the rest were nowhere.\n\nThe mixed, singular, luminous gloom in which they walked along\ntogether to the spot where the cows lay often made him think of the\nResurrection hour.  He little thought that the Magdalen might be\nat his side.  Whilst all the landscape was in neutral shade his\ncompanion's face, which was the focus of his eyes, rising above the\nmist stratum, seemed to have a sort of phosphorescence upon it.  She\nlooked ghostly, as if she were merely a soul at large.  In reality\nher face, without appearing to do so, had caught the cold gleam of\nday from the north-east; his own face, though he did not think of\nit, wore the same aspect to her.\n\nIt was then, as has been said, that she impressed him most deeply.\nShe was no longer the milkmaid, but a visionary essence of woman--a\nwhole sex condensed into one typical form.  He called her Artemis,\nDemeter, and other fanciful names half teasingly, which she did not\nlike because she did not understand them.\n\n\"Call me Tess,\" she would say askance; and he did.\n\nThen it would grow lighter, and her features would become simply\nfeminine; they had changed from those of a divinity who could confer\nbliss to those of a being who craved it.\n\nAt these non-human hours they could get quite close to the waterfowl.\nHerons came, with a great bold noise as of opening doors and\nshutters, out of the boughs of a plantation which they frequented at\nthe side of the mead; or, if already on the spot, hardily maintained\ntheir standing in the water as the pair walked by, watching them by\nmoving their heads round in a slow, horizontal, passionless wheel,\nlike the turn of puppets by clockwork.\n\nThey could then see the faint summer fogs in layers, woolly, level,\nand apparently no thicker than counterpanes, spread about the meadows\nin detached remnants of small extent.  On the gray moisture of the\ngrass were marks where the cows had lain through the night--dark-green\nislands of dry herbage the size of their carcasses, in the general\nsea of dew. From each island proceeded a serpentine trail, by which\nthe cow had rambled away to feed after getting up, at the end of\nwhich trail they found her; the snoring puff from her nostrils, when\nshe recognized them, making an intenser little fog of her own amid\nthe prevailing one.  Then they drove the animals back to the barton,\nor sat down to milk them on the spot, as the case might require.\n\nOr perhaps the summer fog was more general, and the meadows lay like\na white sea, out of which the scattered trees rose like dangerous\nrocks.  Birds would soar through it into the upper radiance, and\nhang on the wing sunning themselves, or alight on the wet rails\nsubdividing the mead, which now shone like glass rods.  Minute\ndiamonds of moisture from the mist hung, too, upon Tess's eyelashes,\nand drops upon her hair, like seed pearls.  When the day grew quite\nstrong and commonplace these dried off her; moreover, Tess then\nlost her strange and ethereal beauty; her teeth, lips, and eyes\nscintillated in the sunbeams and she was again the dazzlingly fair\ndairymaid only, who had to hold her own against the other women of\nthe world.\n\nAbout this time they would hear Dairyman Crick's voice, lecturing the\nnon-resident milkers for arriving late, and speaking sharply to old\nDeborah Fyander for not washing her hands.\n\n\"For Heaven's sake, pop thy hands under the pump, Deb!  Upon my soul,\nif the London folk only knowed of thee and thy slovenly ways, they'd\nswaller their milk and butter more mincing than they do a'ready; and\nthat's saying a good deal.\"\n\nThe milking progressed, till towards the end Tess and Clare, in\ncommon with the rest, could hear the heavy breakfast table dragged\nout from the wall in the kitchen by Mrs Crick, this being the\ninvariable preliminary to each meal; the same horrible scrape\naccompanying its return journey when the table had been cleared.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nThey came downstairs yawning next morning; but skimming and milking\nwere proceeded with as usual, and they went indoors to breakfast.\nDairyman Crick was discovered stamping about the house.  He had\nreceived a letter, in which a customer had complained that the butter\nhad a twang.\n\n\"And begad, so 't have!\" said the dairyman, who held in his left hand\na wooden slice on which a lump of butter was stuck. \"Yes--taste for\nyourself!\"\n\nSeveral of them gathered round him; and Mr Clare tasted, Tess tasted,\nalso the other indoor milkmaids, one or two of the milking-men, and\nlast of all Mrs Crick, who came out from the waiting breakfast-table.\nThere certainly was a twang.\n\nThe dairyman, who had thrown himself into abstraction to better\nrealize the taste, and so divine the particular species of noxious\nweed to which it appertained, suddenly exclaimed--\n\n\"'Tis garlic! and I thought there wasn't a blade left in that mead!\"\n\nThen all the old hands remembered that a certain dry mead, into which\na few of the cows had been admitted of late, had, in years gone by,\nspoilt the butter in the same way.  The dairyman had not recognized\nthe taste at that time, and thought the butter bewitched.\n\n\"We must overhaul that mead,\" he resumed; \"this mustn't continny!\"\n\nAll having armed themselves with old pointed knives, they went out\ntogether.  As the inimical plant could only be present in very\nmicroscopic dimensions to have escaped ordinary observation, to\nfind it seemed rather a hopeless attempt in the stretch of rich\ngrass before them.  However, they formed themselves into line, all\nassisting, owing to the importance of the search; the dairyman at\nthe upper end with Mr Clare, who had volunteered to help; then\nTess, Marian, Izz Huett, and Retty; then Bill Lewell, Jonathan, and\nthe married dairywomen--Beck Knibbs, with her wooly black hair and\nrolling eyes; and flaxen Frances, consumptive from the winter damps\nof the water-meads--who lived in their respective cottages.\n\nWith eyes fixed upon the ground they crept slowly across a strip of\nthe field, returning a little further down in such a manner that,\nwhen they should have finished, not a single inch of the pasture but\nwould have fallen under the eye of some one of them.  It was a most\ntedious business, not more than half a dozen shoots of garlic being\ndiscoverable in the whole field; yet such was the herb's pungency\nthat probably one bite of it by one cow had been sufficient to season\nthe whole dairy's produce for the day.\n\nDiffering one from another in natures and moods so greatly as they\ndid, they yet formed, bending, a curiously uniform row--automatic,\nnoiseless; and an alien observer passing down the neighbouring lane\nmight well have been excused for massing them as \"Hodge\".  As they\ncrept along, stooping low to discern the plant, a soft yellow gleam\nwas reflected from the buttercups into their shaded faces, giving\nthem an elfish, moonlit aspect, though the sun was pouring upon their\nbacks in all the strength of noon.\n\nAngel Clare, who communistically stuck to his rule of taking part\nwith the rest in everything, glanced up now and then.  It was not,\nof course, by accident that he walked next to Tess.\n\n\"Well, how are you?\" he murmured.\n\n\"Very well, thank you, sir,\" she replied demurely.\n\nAs they had been discussing a score of personal matters only\nhalf-an-hour before, the introductory style seemed a little\nsuperfluous.  But they got no further in speech just then.  They\ncrept and crept, the hem of her petticoat just touching his gaiter,\nand his elbow sometimes brushing hers.  At last the dairyman, who\ncame next, could stand it no longer.\n\n\"Upon my soul and body, this here stooping do fairly make my back\nopen and shut!\" he exclaimed, straightening himself slowly with an\nexcruciated look till quite upright.  \"And you, maidy Tess, you\nwasn't well a day or two ago--this will make your head ache finely!\nDon't do any more, if you feel fainty; leave the rest to finish it.\"\n\nDairyman Crick withdrew, and Tess dropped behind.  Mr Clare also\nstepped out of line, and began privateering about for the weed.  When\nshe found him near her, her very tension at what she had heard the\nnight before made her the first to speak.\n\n\"Don't they look pretty?\" she said.\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Izzy Huett and Retty.\"\n\nTess had moodily decided that either of these maidens would make a\ngood farmer's wife, and that she ought to recommend them, and obscure\nher own wretched charms.\n\n\"Pretty?  Well, yes--they are pretty girls--fresh looking.  I have\noften thought so.\"\n\n\"Though, poor dears, prettiness won't last long!\"\n\n\"O no, unfortunately.\"\n\n\"They are excellent dairywomen.\"\n\n\"Yes: though not better than you.\"\n\n\"They skim better than I.\"\n\n\"Do they?\"\n\nClare remained observing them--not without their observing him.\n\n\"She is colouring up,\" continued Tess heroically.\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Retty Priddle.\"\n\n\"Oh!  Why it that?\"\n\n\"Because you are looking at her.\"\n\nSelf-sacrificing as her mood might be, Tess could not well go further\nand cry, \"Marry one of them, if you really do want a dairywoman and\nnot a lady; and don't think of marrying me!\"  She followed Dairyman\nCrick, and had the mournful satisfaction of seeing that Clare\nremained behind.\n\nFrom this day she forced herself to take pains to avoid him--never\nallowing herself, as formerly, to remain long in his company, even if\ntheir juxtaposition were purely accidental.  She gave the other three\nevery chance.\n\nTess was woman enough to realize from their avowals to herself that\nAngel Clare had the honour of all the dairymaids in his keeping, and\nher perception of his care to avoid compromising the happiness of\neither in the least degree bred a tender respect in Tess for what she\ndeemed, rightly or wrongly, the self-controlling sense of duty shown\nby him, a quality which she had never expected to find in one of the\nopposite sex, and in the absence of which more than one of the simple\nhearts who were his house-mates might have gone weeping on her\npilgrimage.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nAmid the oozing fatness and warm ferments of the Froom Vale, at a\nseason when the rush of juices could almost be heard below the hiss\nof fertilization, it was impossible that the most fanciful love\nshould not grow passionate.  The ready bosoms existing there were\nimpregnated by their surroundings.\n\nJuly passed over their heads, and the Thermidorean weather which came\nin its wake seemed an effort on the part of Nature to match the state\nof hearts at Talbothays Dairy.  The air of the place, so fresh in the\nspring and early summer, was stagnant and enervating now.  Its heavy\nscents weighed upon them, and at mid-day the landscape seemed lying\nin a swoon. Ethiopic scorchings browned the upper slopes of the\npastures, but there was still bright green herbage here where the\nwatercourses purled.  And as Clare was oppressed by the outward\nheats, so was he burdened inwardly by waxing fervour of passion for\nthe soft and silent Tess.\n\nThe rains having passed, the uplands were dry.  The wheels of the\ndairyman's spring-cart, as he sped home from market, licked up the\npulverized surface of the highway, and were followed by white ribands\nof dust, as if they had set a thin powder-train on fire.  The cows\njumped wildly over the five-barred barton-gate, maddened by the\ngad-fly; Dairyman Crick kept his shirt-sleeves permanently rolled up\nfrom Monday to Saturday; open windows had no effect in ventilation\nwithout open doors, and in the dairy-garden the blackbirds and\nthrushes crept about under the currant-bushes, rather in the manner\nof quadrupeds than of winged creatures.  The flies in the kitchen\nwere lazy, teasing, and familiar, crawling about in the unwonted\nplaces, on the floors, into drawers, and over the backs of the\nmilkmaids' hands. Conversations were concerning sunstroke; while\nbutter-making, and still more butter-keeping, was a despair.\n\nThey milked entirely in the meads for coolness and convenience,\nwithout driving in the cows.  During the day the animals obsequiously\nfollowed the shadow of the smallest tree as it moved round the stem\nwith the diurnal roll; and when the milkers came they could hardly\nstand still for the flies.\n\nOn one of these afternoons four or five unmilked cows chanced to\nstand apart from the general herd, behind the corner of a hedge,\namong them being Dumpling and Old Pretty, who loved Tess's hands\nabove those of any other maid.  When she rose from her stool under a\nfinished cow, Angel Clare, who had been observing her for some time,\nasked her if she would take the aforesaid creatures next.  She\nsilently assented, and with her stool at arm's length, and the pail\nagainst her knee, went round to where they stood.  Soon the sound of\nOld Pretty's milk fizzing into the pail came through the hedge, and\nthen Angel felt inclined to go round the corner also, to finish off a\nhard-yielding milcher who had strayed there, he being now as capable\nof this as the dairyman himself.\n\nAll the men, and some of the women, when milking, dug their foreheads\ninto the cows and gazed into the pail.  But a few--mainly the younger\nones--rested their heads sideways.  This was Tess Durbeyfield's\nhabit, her temple pressing the milcher's flank, her eyes fixed on\nthe far end of the meadow with the quiet of one lost in meditation.\nShe was milking Old Pretty thus, and the sun chancing to be on the\nmilking-side, it shone flat upon her pink-gowned form and her white\ncurtain-bonnet, and upon her profile, rendering it keen as a cameo\ncut from the dun background of the cow.\n\nShe did not know that Clare had followed her round, and that he sat\nunder his cow watching her.  The stillness of her head and features\nwas remarkable: she might have been in a trance, her eyes open, yet\nunseeing.  Nothing in the picture moved but Old Pretty's tail and\nTess's pink hands, the latter so gently as to be a rhythmic pulsation\nonly, as if they were obeying a reflex stimulus, like a beating\nheart.\n\nHow very lovable her face was to him.  Yet there was nothing ethereal\nabout it; all was real vitality, real warmth, real incarnation.  And\nit was in her mouth that this culminated.  Eyes almost as deep and\nspeaking he had seen before, and cheeks perhaps as fair; brows as\narched, a chin and throat almost as shapely; her mouth he had seen\nnothing to equal on the face of the earth.  To a young man with the\nleast fire in him that little upward lift in the middle of her red\ntop lip was distracting, infatuating, maddening.  He had never before\nseen a woman's lips and teeth which forced upon his mind with such\npersistent iteration the old Elizabethan simile of roses filled with\nsnow.  Perfect, he, as a lover, might have called them off-hand.  But\nno--they were not perfect.  And it was the touch of the imperfect\nupon the would-be perfect that gave the sweetness, because it was\nthat which gave the humanity.\n\nClare had studied the curves of those lips so many times that he\ncould reproduce them mentally with ease: and now, as they again\nconfronted him, clothed with colour and life, they sent an _aura_\nover his flesh, a breeze through his nerves, which well nigh produced\na qualm; and actually produced, by some mysterious physiological\nprocess, a prosaic sneeze.\n\nShe then became conscious that he was observing her; but she would\nnot show it by any change of position, though the curious dream-like\nfixity disappeared, and a close eye might easily have discerned that\nthe rosiness of her face deepened, and then faded till only a tinge\nof it was left.\n\nThe influence that had passed into Clare like an excitation from the\nsky did not die down.  Resolutions, reticences, prudences, fears,\nfell back like a defeated battalion.  He jumped up from his seat,\nand, leaving his pail to be kicked over if the milcher had such a\nmind, went quickly towards the desire of his eyes, and, kneeling down\nbeside her, clasped her in his arms.\n\nTess was taken completely by surprise, and she yielded to his embrace\nwith unreflecting inevitableness.  Having seen that it was really her\nlover who had advanced, and no one else, her lips parted, and she\nsank upon him in her momentary joy, with something very like an\necstatic cry.\n\nHe had been on the point of kissing that too tempting mouth, but he\nchecked himself, for tender conscience' sake.\n\n\"Forgive me, Tess dear!\" he whispered.  \"I ought to have asked.\nI--did not know what I was doing.  I do not mean it as a liberty.\nI am devoted to you, Tessy, dearest, in all sincerity!\"\n\nOld Pretty by this time had looked round, puzzled; and seeing two\npeople crouching under her where, by immemorial custom, there should\nhave been only one, lifted her hind leg crossly.\n\n\"She is angry--she doesn't know what we mean--she'll kick over the\nmilk!\" exclaimed Tess, gently striving to free herself, her eyes\nconcerned with the quadruped's actions, her heart more deeply\nconcerned with herself and Clare.\n\nShe slipped up from her seat, and they stood together, his arm still\nencircling her.  Tess's eyes, fixed on distance, began to fill.\n\n\"Why do you cry, my darling?\" he said.\n\n\"O--I don't know!\" she murmured.\n\nAs she saw and felt more clearly the position she was in she became\nagitated and tried to withdraw.\n\n\"Well, I have betrayed my feeling, Tess, at last,\" said he, with a\ncurious sigh of desperation, signifying unconsciously that his heart\nhad outrun his judgement.  \"That I--love you dearly and truly I need\nnot say.  But I--it shall go no further now--it distresses you--I am\nas surprised as you are.  You will not think I have presumed upon\nyour defencelessness--been too quick and unreflecting, will you?\"\n\n\"N'--I can't tell.\"\n\nHe had allowed her to free herself; and in a minute or two the\nmilking of each was resumed.  Nobody had beheld the gravitation of\nthe two into one; and when the dairyman came round by that screened\nnook a few minutes later, there was not a sign to reveal that\nthe markedly sundered pair were more to each other than mere\nacquaintance.  Yet in the interval since Crick's last view of them\nsomething had occurred which changed the pivot of the universe for\ntheir two natures; something which, had he known its quality, the\ndairyman would have despised, as a practical man; yet which was based\nupon a more stubborn and resistless tendency than a whole heap of\nso-called practicalities.  A veil had been whisked aside; the tract\nof each one's outlook was to have a new horizon thenceforward--for a\nshort time or for a long.\n\n\nEND OF PHASE THE THIRD\n\n\n\n\n\nPhase the Fourth: The Consequence\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nHer refusal, though unexpected, did not permanently daunt Clare.\nHis experience of women was great enough for him to be aware that\nthe negative often meant nothing more than the preface to the\naffirmative; and it was little enough for him not to know that in\nthe manner of the present negative there lay a great exception to\nthe dallyings of coyness.  That she had already permitted him to\nmake love to her he read as an additional assurance, not fully\ntrowing that in the fields and pastures to \"sigh gratis\" is by no\nmeans deemed waste; love-making being here more often accepted\ninconsiderately and for its own sweet sake than in the carking,\nanxious homes of the ambitious, where a girl's craving for an\nestablishment paralyzes her healthy thought of a passion as an end.\n\n\"Tess, why did you say 'no' in such a positive way?\" he asked her in\nthe course of a few days.\n\nShe started.\n\n\"Don't ask me.  I told you why--partly.  I am not good enough--not\nworthy enough.\"\n\n\"How?  Not fine lady enough?\"\n\n\"Yes--something like that,\" murmured she.  \"Your friends would scorn\nme.\"\n\n\"Indeed, you mistake them--my father and mother.  As for my brothers,\nI don't care--\"  He clasped his fingers behind her back to keep her\nfrom slipping away.  \"Now--you did not mean it, sweet?--I am sure you\ndid not!  You have made me so restless that I cannot read, or play,\nor do anything.  I am in no hurry, Tess, but I want to know--to hear\nfrom your own warm lips--that you will some day be mine--any time you\nmay choose; but some day?\"\n\nShe could only shake her head and look away from him.\n\nClare regarded her attentively, conned the characters of her face as\nif they had been hieroglyphics.  The denial seemed real.\n\n\"Then I ought not to hold you in this way--ought I?  I have no\nright to you--no right to seek out where you are, or walk with you!\nHonestly, Tess, do you love any other man?\"\n\n\"How can you ask?\" she said, with continued self-suppression.\n\n\"I almost know that you do not.  But then, why do you repulse me?\"\n\n\"I don't repulse you.  I like you to--tell me you love me; and you\nmay always tell me so as you go about with me--and never offend me.\"\n\n\"But you will not accept me as a husband?\"\n\n\"Ah--that's different--it is for your good, indeed, my dearest!\nO, believe me, it is only for your sake!  I don't like to give\nmyself the great happiness o' promising to be yours in that\nway--because--because I am SURE I ought not to do it.\"\n\n\"But you will make me happy!\"\n\n\"Ah--you think so, but you don't know!\"\n\nAt such times as this, apprehending the grounds of her refusal to be\nher modest sense of incompetence in matters social and polite, he\nwould say that she was wonderfully well-informed and versatile--which\nwas certainly true, her natural quickness and her admiration for him\nhaving led her to pick up his vocabulary, his accent, and fragments\nof his knowledge, to a surprising extent.  After these tender\ncontests and her victory she would go away by herself under the\nremotest cow, if at milking-time, or into the sedge or into her room,\nif at a leisure interval, and mourn silently, not a minute after an\napparently phlegmatic negative.\n\nThe struggle was so fearful; her own heart was so strongly on the\nside of his--two ardent hearts against one poor little conscience--\nthat she tried to fortify her resolution by every means in her power.\nShe had come to Talbothays with a made-up mind.  On no account could\nshe agree to a step which might afterwards cause bitter rueing to her\nhusband for his blindness in wedding her.  And she held that what her\nconscience had decided for her when her mind was unbiassed ought not\nto be overruled now.\n\n\"Why don't somebody tell him all about me?\" she said.  \"It was only\nforty miles off--why hasn't it reached here?  Somebody must know!\"\n\nYet nobody seemed to know; nobody told him.\n\nFor two or three days no more was said.  She guessed from the sad\ncountenances of her chamber companions that they regarded her not\nonly as the favourite, but as the chosen; but they could see for\nthemselves that she did not put herself in his way.\n\nTess had never before known a time in which the thread of her life\nwas so distinctly twisted of two strands, positive pleasure and\npositive pain.  At the next cheese-making the pair were again left\nalone together.  The dairyman himself had been lending a hand; but\nMr Crick, as well as his wife, seemed latterly to have acquired a\nsuspicion of mutual interest between these two; though they walked\nso circumspectly that suspicion was but of the faintest. Anyhow, the\ndairyman left them to themselves.\n\nThey were breaking up the masses of curd before putting them into\nthe vats.  The operation resembled the act of crumbling bread on a\nlarge scale; and amid the immaculate whiteness of the curds Tess\nDurbeyfield's hands showed themselves of the pinkness of the rose.\nAngel, who was filling the vats with his handful, suddenly ceased,\nand laid his hands flat upon hers.  Her sleeves were rolled far above\nthe elbow, and bending lower he kissed the inside vein of her soft\narm.\n\nAlthough the early September weather was sultry, her arm, from\nher dabbling in the curds, was as cold and damp to his mouth as a\nnew-gathered mushroom, and tasted of the whey.  But she was such\na sheaf of susceptibilities that her pulse was accelerated by the\ntouch, her blood driven to her finder-ends, and the cool arms\nflushed hot.  Then, as though her heart had said, \"Is coyness longer\nnecessary? Truth is truth between man and woman, as between man and\nman,\" she lifted her eyes and they beamed devotedly into his, as her\nlip rose in a tender half-smile.\n\n\"Do you know why I did that, Tess?\" he said.\n\n\"Because you love me very much!\"\n\n\"Yes, and as a preliminary to a new entreaty.\"\n\n\"Not AGAIN!\"\n\nShe looked a sudden fear that her resistance might break down under\nher own desire.\n\n\"O, Tessy!\" he went on, \"I CANNOT think why you are so tantalizing.\nWhy do you disappoint me so?  You seem almost like a coquette, upon\nmy life you do--a coquette of the first urban water!  They blow\nhot and blow cold, just as you do, and it is the very last sort of\nthing to expect to find in a retreat like Talbothays. ...  And yet,\ndearest,\" he quickly added, observing now the remark had cut her, \"I\nknow you to be the most honest, spotless creature that ever lived.\nSo how can I suppose you a flirt?  Tess, why don't you like the idea\nof being my wife, if you love me as you seem to do?\"\n\n\"I have never said I don't like the idea, and I never could say it;\nbecause--it isn't true!\"\n\nThe stress now getting beyond endurance, her lip quivered, and she\nwas obliged to go away.  Clare was so pained and perplexed that he\nran after and caught her in the passage.\n\n\"Tell me, tell me!\" he said, passionately clasping her, in\nforgetfulness of his curdy hands: \"do tell me that you won't belong\nto anybody but me!\"\n\n\"I will, I will tell you!\" she exclaimed.  \"And I will give you a\ncomplete answer, if you will let me go now. I will tell you my\nexperiences--all about myself--all!\"\n\n\"Your experiences, dear; yes, certainly; any number.\"  He expressed\nassent in loving satire, looking into her face.  \"My Tess, no doubt,\nalmost as many experiences as that wild convolvulus out there on the\ngarden hedge, that opened itself this morning for the first time.\nTell me anything, but don't use that wretched expression any more\nabout not being worthy of me.\"\n\n\"I will try--not!  And I'll give you my reasons to-morrow--next\nweek.\"\n\n\"Say on Sunday?\"\n\n\"Yes, on Sunday.\"\n\nAt last she got away, and did not stop in her retreat till she was in\nthe thicket of pollard willows at the lower side of the barton, where\nshe could be quite unseen.  Here Tess flung herself down upon the\nrustling undergrowth of spear-grass, as upon a bed, and remained\ncrouching in palpitating misery broken by momentary shoots of joy,\nwhich her fears about the ending could not altogether suppress.\n\nIn reality, she was drifting into acquiescence.  Every see-saw of her\nbreath, every wave of her blood, every pulse singing in her ears, was\na voice that joined with nature in revolt against her scrupulousness.\nReckless, inconsiderate acceptance of him; to close with him at the\naltar, revealing nothing, and chancing discovery; to snatch ripe\npleasure before the iron teeth of pain could have time to shut upon\nher: that was what love counselled; and in almost a terror of ecstasy\nTess divined that, despite her many months of lonely self-chastisement,\nwrestlings, communings, schemes to lead a future of austere\nisolation, love's counsel would prevail.\n\nThe afternoon advanced, and still she remained among the willows.\nShe heard the rattle of taking down the pails from the forked stands;\nthe \"waow-waow!\" which accompanied the getting together of the cows.\nBut she did not go to the milking.  They would see her agitation;\nand the dairyman, thinking the cause to be love alone, would\ngood-naturedly tease her; and that harassment could not be borne.\n\nHer lover must have guessed her overwrought state, and invented some\nexcuse for her non-appearance, for no inquiries were made or calls\ngiven.  At half-past six the sun settled down upon the levels with\nthe aspect of a great forge in the heavens; and presently a monstrous\npumpkin-like moon arose on the other hand.  The pollard willows,\ntortured out of their natural shape by incessant choppings, became\nspiny-haired monsters as they stood up against it.  She went in and\nupstairs without a light.\n\nIt was now Wednesday.  Thursday came, and Angel looked thoughtfully\nat her from a distance, but intruded in no way upon her.  The indoor\nmilkmaids, Marian and the rest, seemed to guess that something\ndefinite was afoot, for they did not force any remarks upon her in\nthe bedchamber.  Friday passed; Saturday.  To-morrow was the day.\n\n\"I shall give way--I shall say yes--I shall let myself marry\nhim--I cannot help it!\" she jealously panted, with her hot face to\nthe pillow that night, on hearing one of the other girls sigh his\nname in her sleep.  \"I can't bear to let anybody have him but me!\nYet it is a wrong to him, and may kill him when he knows!  O my\nheart--O--O--O!\"\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nIt was now broad day, and she started again, emerging cautiously upon\nthe highway.  But there was no need for caution; not a soul was at\nhand, and Tess went onward with fortitude, her recollection of the\nbirds' silent endurance of their night of agony impressing upon her\nthe relativity of sorrows and the tolerable nature of her own, if she\ncould once rise high enough to despise opinion.  But that she could\nnot do so long as it was held by Clare.\n\nShe reached Chalk-Newton, and breakfasted at an inn, where several\nyoung men were troublesomely complimentary to her good looks.\nSomehow she felt hopeful, for was it not possible that her husband\nalso might say these same things to her even yet?  She was bound to\ntake care of herself on the chance of it, and keep off these casual\nlovers.  To this end Tess resolved to run no further risks from her\nappearance.  As soon as she got out of the village she entered a\nthicket and took from her basket one of the oldest field-gowns, which\nshe had never put on even at the dairy--never since she had worked\namong the stubble at Marlott.  She also, by a felicitous thought,\ntook a handkerchief from her bundle and tied it round her face under\nher bonnet, covering her chin and half her cheeks and temples, as if\nshe were suffering from toothache. Then with her little scissors,\nby the aid of a pocket looking-glass, she mercilessly nipped her\neyebrows off, and thus insured against aggressive admiration, she\nwent on her uneven way.\n\n\"What a mommet of a maid!\" said the next man who met her to a\ncompanion.\n\nTears came into her eyes for very pity of herself as she heard him.\n\n\"But I don't care!\" she said.  \"O no--I don't care!  I'll always be\nugly now, because Angel is not here, and I have nobody to take care\nof me.  My husband that was is gone away, and never will love me any\nmore; but I love him just the same, and hate all other men, and like\nto make 'em think scornfully of me!\"\n\nThus Tess walks on; a figure which is part of the landscape; a\nfieldwoman pure and simple, in winter guise; a gray serge cape, a\nred woollen cravat, a stuff skirt covered by a whitey-brown rough\nwrapper, and buff-leather gloves.  Every thread of that old attire\nhas become faded and thin under the stroke of raindrops, the burn of\nsunbeams, and the stress of winds.  There is no sign of young passion\nin her now--\n\n\n     The maiden's mouth is cold\n     . . .\n     Fold over simple fold\n     Binding her head.\n\n\nInside this exterior, over which the eye might have roved as over a\nthing scarcely percipient, almost inorganic, there was the record of\na pulsing life which had learnt too well, for its years, of the dust\nand ashes of things, of the cruelty of lust and the fragility of\nlove.\n\nNext day the weather was bad, but she trudged on, the honesty,\ndirectness, and impartiality of elemental enmity disconcerting her\nbut little.  Her object being a winter's occupation and a winter's\nhome, there was no time to lose.  Her experience of short hirings\nhad been such that she was determined to accept no more.\n\nThus she went forward from farm to farm in the direction of the place\nwhence Marian had written to her, which she determined to make use of\nas a last shift only, its rumoured stringencies being the reverse of\ntempting.  First she inquired for the lighter kinds of employment,\nand, as acceptance in any variety of these grew hopeless, applied\nnext for the less light, till, beginning with the dairy and poultry\ntendance that she liked best, she ended with the heavy and course\npursuits which she liked least--work on arable land: work of such\nroughness, indeed, as she would never have deliberately voluteered\nfor.\n\nTowards the second evening she reached the irregular chalk table-land\nor plateau, bosomed with semi-globular tumuli--as if Cybele the\nMany-breasted were supinely extended there--which stretched between\nthe valley of her birth and the valley of her love.\n\nHere the air was dry and cold, and the long cart-roads were blown\nwhite and dusty within a few hours after rain.  There were few trees,\nor none, those that would have grown in the hedges being mercilessly\nplashed down with the quickset by the tenant-farmers, the natural\nenemies of tree, bush, and brake.  In the middle distance ahead of\nher she could see the summits of Bulbarrow and of Nettlecombe Tout,\nand they seemed friendly.  They had a low and unassuming aspect from\nthis upland, though as approached on the other side from Blackmoor\nin her childhood they were as lofty bastions against the sky.\nSoutherly, at many miles' distance, and over the hills and ridges\ncoastward, she could discern a surface like polished steel: it was\nthe English Channel at a point far out towards France.\n\nBefore her, in a slight depression, were the remains of a village.\nShe had, in fact, reached Flintcomb-Ash, the place of Marian's\nsojourn.  There seemed to be no help for it; hither she was doomed to\ncome.  The stubborn soil around her showed plainly enough that the\nkind of labour in demand here was of the roughest kind; but it was\ntime to rest from searching, and she resolved to stay, particularly\nas it began to rain.  At the entrance to the village was a cottage\nwhose gable jutted into the road, and before applying for a lodging\nshe stood under its shelter, and watched the evening close in.\n\n\"Who would think I was Mrs Angel Clare!\" she said.\n\nThe wall felt warm to her back and shoulders, and she found that\nimmediately within the gable was the cottage fireplace, the heat of\nwhich came through the bricks.  She warmed her hands upon them, and\nalso put her cheek--red and moist with the drizzle--against their\ncomforting surface.  The wall seemed to be the only friend she had.\nShe had so little wish to leave it that she could have stayed there\nall night.\n\nTess could hear the occupants of the cottage--gathered together after\ntheir day's labour--talking to each other within, and the rattle of\ntheir supper-plates was also audible.  But in the village-street she\nhad seen no soul as yet.  The solitude was at last broken by the\napproach of one feminine figure, who, though the evening was cold,\nwore the print gown and the tilt-bonnet of summer time.  Tess\ninstinctively thought it might be Marian, and when she came near\nenough to be distinguishable in the gloom, surely enough it was\nshe.  Marian was even stouter and redder in the face than formerly,\nand decidedly shabbier in attire.  At any previous period of her\nexistence Tess would hardly have cared to renew the acquaintance in\nsuch conditions; but her loneliness was excessive, and she responded\nreadily to Marian's greeting.\n\nMarian was quite respectful in her inquiries, but seemed much moved\nby the fact that Tess should still continue in no better condition\nthan at first; though she had dimly heard of the separation.\n\n\"Tess--Mrs Clare--the dear wife of dear he!  And is it really so bad\nas this, my child?  Why is your cwomely face tied up in such a way?\nAnybody been beating 'ee?  Not HE?\"\n\n\"No, no, no!  I merely did it not to be clipsed or colled, Marian.\"\n\nShe pulled off in disgust a bandage which could suggest such wild\nthoughts.\n\n\"And you've got no collar on\" (Tess had been accustomed to wear a\nlittle white collar at the dairy).\n\n\"I know it, Marian.\"\n\n\"You've lost it travelling.\"\n\n\"I've not lost it.  The truth is, I don't care anything about my\nlooks; and so I didn't put it on.\"\n\n\"And you don't wear your wedding-ring?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do; but not in public.  I wear it round my neck on a ribbon.\nI don't wish people to think who I am by marriage, or that I am\nmarried at all; it would be so awkward while I lead my present life.\"\n\nMarian paused.\n\n\"But you BE a gentleman's wife; and it seems hardly fair that you\nshould live like this!\"\n\n\"O yes it is, quite fair; though I am very unhappy.\"\n\n\"Well, well.  HE married you--and you can be unhappy!\"\n\n\"Wives are unhappy sometimes; from no fault of their husbands--from\ntheir own.\"\n\n\"You've no faults, deary; that I'm sure of.  And he's none.  So it\nmust be something outside ye both.\"\n\n\"Marian, dear Marian, will you do me a good turn without asking\nquestions?  My husband has gone abroad, and somehow I have overrun my\nallowance, so that I have to fall back upon my old work for a time.\nDo not call me Mrs Clare, but Tess, as before.  Do they want a hand\nhere?\"\n\n\"O yes; they'll take one always, because few care to come.  'Tis a\nstarve-acre place.  Corn and swedes are all they grow.  Though I be\nhere myself, I feel 'tis a pity for such as you to come.\"\n\n\"But you used to be as good a dairywoman as I.\"\n\n\"Yes; but I've got out o' that since I took to drink.  Lord, that's\nthe only comfort I've got now!  If you engage, you'll be set\nswede-hacking.  That's what I be doing; but you won't like it.\"\n\n\"O--anything!  Will you speak for me?\"\n\n\"You will do better by speaking for yourself.\"\n\n\"Very well.  Now, Marian, remember--nothing about HIM if I get the\nplace.  I don't wish to bring his name down to the dirt.\"\n\nMarian, who was really a trustworthy girl though of coarser grain\nthan Tess, promised anything she asked.\n\n\"This is pay-night,\" she said, \"and if you were to come with me you\nwould know at once.  I be real sorry that you are not happy; but 'tis\nbecause he's away, I know.  You couldn't be unhappy if he were here,\neven if he gie'd ye no money--even if he used you like a drudge.\"\n\n\"That's true; I could not!\"\n\nThey walked on together and soon reached the farmhouse, which was\nalmost sublime in its dreariness. There was not a tree within sight;\nthere was not, at this season, a green pasture--nothing but fallow\nand turnips everywhere, in large fields divided by hedges plashed to\nunrelieved levels.\n\nTess waited outside the door of the farmhouse till the group of\nworkfolk had received their wages, and then Marian introduced her.\nThe farmer himself, it appeared, was not at home, but his wife, who\nrepresented him this evening, made no objection to hiring Tess, on\nher agreeing to remain till Old Lady-Day.  Female field-labour was\nseldom offered now, and its cheapness made it profitable for tasks\nwhich women could perform as readily as men.\n\nHaving signed the agreement, there was nothing more for Tess to do\nat present than to get a lodging, and she found one in the house at\nwhose gable-wall she had warmed herself.  It was a poor subsistence\nthat she had ensured, but it would afford a shelter for the winter\nat any rate.\n\nThat night she wrote to inform her parents of her new address, in\ncase a letter should arrive at Marlott from her husband.  But she\ndid not tell them of the sorriness of her situation: it might have\nbrought reproach upon him.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nIt was evening at Emminster Vicarage.  The two customary candles were\nburning under their green shades in the Vicar's study, but he had not\nbeen sitting there.  Occasionally he came in, stirred the small fire\nwhich sufficed for the increasing mildness of the spring, and went\nout again; sometimes pausing at the front door, going on to the\ndrawing-room, then returning again to the front door.\n\nIt faced westward, and though gloom prevailed inside, there was still\nlight enough without to see with distinctness.  Mrs Clare, who had\nbeen sitting in the drawing-room, followed him hither.\n\n\"Plenty of time yet,\" said the Vicar.  \"He doesn't reach Chalk-Newton\ntill six, even if the train should be punctual, and ten miles of\ncountry-road, five of them in Crimmercrock Lane, are not jogged over\nin a hurry by our old horse.\"\n\n\"But he has done it in an hour with us, my dear.\"\n\n\"Years ago.\"\n\nThus they passed the minutes, each well knowing that this was only\nwaste of breath, the one essential being simply to wait.\n\nAt length there was a slight noise in the lane, and the old\npony-chaise appeared indeed outside the railings.  They saw alight\ntherefrom a form which they affected to recognize, but would actually\nhave passed by in the street without identifying had he not got out\nof their carriage at the particular moment when a particular person\nwas due.\n\nMrs Clare rushed through the dark passage to the door, and her\nhusband came more slowly after her.\n\nThe new arrival, who was just about to enter, saw their anxious faces\nin the doorway and the gleam of the west in their spectacles because\nthey confronted the last rays of day; but they could only see his\nshape against the light.\n\n\"O, my boy, my boy--home again at last!\" cried Mrs Clare, who cared\nno more at that moment for the stains of heterodoxy which had caused\nall this separation than for the dust upon his clothes.  What woman,\nindeed, among the most faithful adherents of the truth, believes the\npromises and threats of the Word in the sense in which she believes\nin her own children, or would not throw her theology to the wind if\nweighed against their happiness?  As soon as they reached the room\nwhere the candles were lighted she looked at his face.\n\n\"O, it is not Angel--not my son--the Angel who went away!\" she cried\nin all the irony of sorrow, as she turned herself aside.\n\nHis father, too, was shocked to see him, so reduced was that figure\nfrom its former contours by worry and the bad season that Clare had\nexperienced, in the climate to which he had so rashly hurried in his\nfirst aversion to the mockery of events at home.  You could see the\nskeleton behind the man, and almost the ghost behind the skeleton.\nHe matched Crivelli's dead _Christus_.  His sunken eye-pits were of\nmorbid hue, and the light in his eyes had waned.  The angular hollows\nand lines of his aged ancestors had succeeded to their reign in his\nface twenty years before their time.\n\n\"I was ill over there, you know,\" he said.  \"I am all right now.\"\n\nAs if, however, to falsify this assertion, his legs seemed to give\nway, and he suddenly sat down to save himself from falling.  It was\nonly a slight attack of faintness, resulting from the tedious day's\njourney, and the excitement of arrival.\n\n\"Has any letter come for me lately?\" he asked.  \"I received the\nlast you sent on by the merest chance, and after considerable delay\nthrough being inland; or I might have come sooner.\"\n\n\"It was from your wife, we supposed?\"\n\n\"It was.\"\n\nOnly one other had recently come.  They had not sent it on to him,\nknowing he would start for home so soon.\n\nHe hastily opened the letter produced, and was much disturbed to read\nin Tess's handwriting the sentiments expressed in her last hurried\nscrawl to him.\n\n\n   O why have you treated me so monstrously, Angel! I do\n   not deserve it.  I have thought it all over carefully,\n   and I can never, never forgive you!  You know that I\n   did not intend to wrong you--why have you so wronged\n   me?  You are cruel, cruel indeed!  I will try to forget\n   you.  It is all injustice I have received at your\n   hands!\n                                  T.\n\n\"It is quite true!\" said Angel, throwing down the letter.  \"Perhaps\nshe will never be reconciled to me!\"\n\n\"Don't, Angel, be so anxious about a mere child of the soil!\" said\nhis mother.\n\n\"Child of the soil!  Well, we all are children of the soil.  I wish\nshe were so in the sense you mean; but let me now explain to you what\nI have never explained before, that her father is a descendant in the\nmale line of one of the oldest Norman houses, like a good many others\nwho lead obscure agricultural lives in our villages, and are dubbed\n'sons of the soil.'\"\n\nHe soon retired to bed; and the next morning, feeling exceedingly\nunwell, he remained in his room pondering.  The circumstances amid\nwhich he had left Tess were such that though, while on the south of\nthe Equator and just in receipt of her loving epistle, it had seemed\nthe easiest thing in the world to rush back into her arms the moment\nhe chose to forgive her, now that he had arrived it was not so easy\nas it had seemed.  She was passionate, and her present letter,\nshowing that her estimate of him had changed under his delay--too\njustly changed, he sadly owned,--made him ask himself if it would\nbe wise to confront her unannounced in the presence of her parents.\nSupposing that her love had indeed turned to dislike during the last\nweeks of separation, a sudden meeting might lead to bitter words.\n\nClare therefore thought it would be best to prepare Tess and her\nfamily by sending a line to Marlott announcing his return, and his\nhope that she was still living with them there, as he had arranged\nfor her to do when he left England.  He despatched the inquiry that\nvery day, and before the week was out there came a short reply from\nMrs Durbeyfield which did not remove his embarrassment, for it bore\nno address, though to his surprise it was not written from Marlott.\n\n\n   SIR,\n\n   J write these few lines to say that my Daughter is away\n   from me at present, and J am not sure when she will\n   return, but J will let you know as Soon as she do.\n   J do not feel at liberty to tell you Where she is\n   temperly biding.  J should say that me and my Family\n   have left Marlott for some Time.--\n\n   Yours,\n\n   J. DURBEYFIELD\n\n\nIt was such a relief to Clare to learn that Tess was at least\napparently well that her mother's stiff reticence as to her\nwhereabouts did not long distress him.  They were all angry with him,\nevidently.  He would wait till Mrs Durbeyfield could inform him of\nTess's return, which her letter implied to be soon.  He deserved no\nmore.  His had been a love \"which alters when it alteration finds\".\nHe had undergone some strange experiences in his absence; he had seen\nthe virtual Faustina in the literal Cornelia, a spiritual Lucretia in\na corporeal Phryne; he had thought of the woman taken and set in the\nmidst as one deserving to be stoned, and of the wife of Uriah being\nmade a queen; and he had asked himself why he had not judged Tess\nconstructively rather than biographically, by the will rather than\nby the deed?\n\nA day or two passed while he waited at his father's house for the\npromised second note from Joan Durbeyfield, and indirectly to recover\na little more strength.  The strength showed signs of coming back,\nbut there was no sign of Joan's letter.  Then he hunted up the\nold letter sent on to him in Brazil, which Tess had written from\nFlintcomb-Ash, and re-read it.  The sentences touched him now as\nmuch as when he had first perused them.\n\n\n   ... I must cry to you in my trouble--I have no one\n   else! ...  I think I must die if you do not come\n   soon, or tell me to come to you... please, please,\n   not to be just--only a little kind to me ...  If\n   you would come, I could die in your arms!  I would\n   be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven\n   me! ... if you will send me one little line, and say,\n   \"I am coming soon,\" I will bide on, Angel--O, so\n   cheerfully! ... think how it do hurt my heart not to\n   see you ever--ever!  Ah, if I could only make your\n   dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine\n   does every day and all day long, it might lead you to\n   show pity to your poor lonely one. ...  I would be\n   content, ay, glad, to live with you as your servant,\n   if I may not as your wife; so that I could only be\n   near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you\n   as mine. ...  I long for only one thing in heaven\n   or earth or under the earth, to meet you, my own\n   dear!  Come to me--come to me, and save me from what\n   threatens me!\n\n\nClare determined that he would no longer believe in her more recent\nand severer regard of him, but would go and find her immediately.  He\nasked his father if she had applied for any money during his absence.\nHis father returned a negative, and then for the first time it\noccurred to Angel that her pride had stood in her way, and that she\nhad suffered privation.  From his remarks his parents now gathered\nthe real reason of the separation; and their Christianity was such\nthat, reprobates being their especial care, the tenderness towards\nTess which her blood, her simplicity, even her poverty, had not\nengendered, was instantly excited by her sin.\n\nWhilst he was hastily packing together a few articles for his journey\nhe glanced over a poor plain missive also lately come to hand--the\none from Marian and Izz Huett, beginning--\n\n\"Honour'd Sir, Look to your Wife if you do love her as much as she do\nlove you,\" and signed, \"From Two Well-Wishers.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nThe city of Wintoncester, that fine old city, aforetime capital\nof Wessex, lay amidst its convex and concave downlands in all the\nbrightness and warmth of a July morning.  The gabled brick, tile, and\nfreestone houses had almost dried off for the season their integument\nof lichen, the streams in the meadows were low, and in the sloping\nHigh Street, from the West Gateway to the mediaeval cross, and from\nthe mediaeval cross to the bridge, that leisurely dusting and sweeping\nwas in progress which usually ushers in an old-fashioned market-day.\n\nFrom the western gate aforesaid the highway, as every Wintoncestrian\nknows, ascends a long and regular incline of the exact length of a\nmeasured mile, leaving the houses gradually behind.  Up this road\nfrom the precincts of the city two persons were walking rapidly,\nas if unconscious of the trying ascent--unconscious through\npreoccupation and not through buoyancy.  They had emerged upon this\nroad through a narrow, barred wicket in a high wall a little lower\ndown.  They seemed anxious to get out of the sight of the houses and\nof their kind, and this road appeared to offer the quickest means\nof doing so.  Though they were young, they walked with bowed heads,\nwhich gait of grief the sun's rays smiled on pitilessly.\n\nOne of the pair was Angel Clare, the other a tall budding\ncreature--half girl, half woman--a spiritualized image of Tess,\nslighter than she, but with the same beautiful eyes--Clare's\nsister-in-law, 'Liza-Lu.  Their pale faces seemed to have shrunk\nto half their natural size.  They moved on hand in hand, and never\nspoke a word, the drooping of their heads being that of Giotto's\n\"Two Apostles\".\n\nWhen they had nearly reached the top of the great West Hill the\nclocks in the town struck eight.  Each gave a start at the notes,\nand, walking onward yet a few steps, they reached the first\nmilestone, standing whitely on the green margin of the grass, and\nbacked by the down, which here was open to the road.  They entered\nupon the turf, and, impelled by a force that seemed to overrule their\nwill, suddenly stood still, turned, and waited in paralyzed suspense\nbeside the stone.\n\nThe prospect from this summit was almost unlimited.  In the valley\nbeneath lay the city they had just left, its more prominent buildings\nshowing as in an isometric drawing--among them the broad cathedral\ntower, with its Norman windows and immense length of aisle and nave,\nthe spires of St Thomas's, the pinnacled tower of the College, and,\nmore to the right, the tower and gables of the ancient hospice,\nwhere to this day the pilgrim may receive his dole of bread and ale.\nBehind the city swept the rotund upland of St Catherine's Hill;\nfurther off, landscape beyond landscape, till the horizon was lost\nin the radiance of the sun hanging above it.\n\nAgainst these far stretches of country rose, in front of the other\ncity edifices, a large red-brick building, with level gray roofs,\nand rows of short barred windows bespeaking captivity, the whole\ncontrasting greatly by its formalism with the quaint irregularities\nof the Gothic erections.  It was somewhat disguised from the road in\npassing it by yews and evergreen oaks, but it was visible enough up\nhere.  The wicket from which the pair had lately emerged was in the\nwall of this structure.  From the middle of the building an ugly\nflat-topped octagonal tower ascended against the east horizon, and\nviewed from this spot, on its shady side and against the light, it\nseemed the one blot on the city's beauty.  Yet it was with this blot,\nand not with the beauty, that the two gazers were concerned.\n\nUpon the cornice of the tower a tall staff was fixed.  Their eyes\nwere riveted on it.  A few minutes after the hour had struck\nsomething moved slowly up the staff, and extended itself upon the\nbreeze.  It was a black flag.\n\n\"Justice\" was done, and the President of the Immortals, in Aeschylean\nphrase, had ended his sport with Tess.  And the d'Urberville knights\nand dames slept on in their tombs unknowing.  The two speechless\ngazers bent themselves down to the earth, as if in prayer, and\nremained thus a long time, absolutely motionless: the flag continued\nto wave silently.  As soon as they had strength, they arose, joined\nhands again, and went on.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nOn an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking\nhomeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining\nVale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor.  The pair of legs that carried him\nwere rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him\nsomewhat to the left of a straight line.  He occasionally gave a\nsmart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not\nthinking of anything in particular.  An empty egg-basket was slung\nupon his arm, the nap of his hat was ruffled, a patch being quite\nworn away at its brim where his thumb came in taking it off.\nPresently he was met by an elderly parson astride on a gray mare,\nwho, as he rode, hummed a wandering tune.\n\n\"Good night t'ee,\" said the man with the basket.\n\n\"Good night, Sir John,\" said the parson.\n\nThe pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round.\n\n\"Now, sir, begging your pardon; we met last market-day on this road\nabout this time, and I said 'Good night,' and you made reply '_Good\nnight, Sir John_,' as now.\"\n\n\"I did,\" said the parson.\n\n\"And once before that--near a month ago.\"\n\n\"I may have.\"\n\n\"Then what might your meaning be in calling me 'Sir John' these\ndifferent times, when I be plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler?\"\n\nThe parson rode a step or two nearer.\n\n\"It was only my whim,\" he said; and, after a moment's hesitation: \"It\nwas on account of a discovery I made some little time ago, whilst I\nwas hunting up pedigrees for the new county history.  I am Parson\nTringham, the antiquary, of Stagfoot Lane.  Don't you really know,\nDurbeyfield, that you are the lineal representative of the ancient\nand knightly family of the d'Urbervilles, who derive their descent\nfrom Sir Pagan d'Urberville, that renowned knight who came from\nNormandy with William the Conqueror, as appears by Battle Abbey\nRoll?\"\n\n\"Never heard it before, sir!\"\n\n\"Well it's true.  Throw up your chin a moment, so that I may catch\nthe profile of your face better.  Yes, that's the d'Urberville nose\nand chin--a little debased.  Your ancestor was one of the twelve\nknights who assisted the Lord of Estremavilla in Normandy in his\nconquest of Glamorganshire.  Branches of your family held manors over\nall this part of England; their names appear in the Pipe Rolls in the\ntime of King Stephen.  In the reign of King John one of them was rich\nenough to give a manor to the Knights Hospitallers; and in Edward the\nSecond's time your forefather Brian was summoned to Westminster to\nattend the great Council there.  You declined a little in Oliver\nCromwell's time, but to no serious extent, and in Charles the\nSecond's reign you were made Knights of the Royal Oak for your\nloyalty.  Aye, there have been generations of Sir Johns among\nyou, and if knighthood were hereditary, like a baronetcy, as it\npractically was in old times, when men were knighted from father\nto son, you would be Sir John now.\"\n\n\"Ye don't say so!\"\n\n\"In short,\" concluded the parson, decisively smacking his leg with\nhis switch, \"there's hardly such another family in England.\"\n\n\"Daze my eyes, and isn't there?\" said Durbeyfield.  \"And here have I\nbeen knocking about, year after year, from pillar to post, as if I\nwas no more than the commonest feller in the parish...  And how long\nhev this news about me been knowed, Pa'son Tringham?\"\n\nThe clergyman explained that, as far as he was aware, it had quite\ndied out of knowledge, and could hardly be said to be known at all.\nHis own investigations had begun on a day in the preceding spring\nwhen, having been engaged in tracing the vicissitudes of the\nd'Urberville family, he had observed Durbeyfield's name on his\nwaggon, and had thereupon been led to make inquiries about his\nfather and grandfather till he had no doubt on the subject.\n\n\"At first I resolved not to disturb you with such a useless piece of\ninformation,\" said he.  \"However, our impulses are too strong for our\njudgement sometimes.  I thought you might perhaps know something of\nit all the while.\"\n\n\"Well, I have heard once or twice, 'tis true, that my family had seen\nbetter days afore they came to Blackmoor.  But I took no notice o't,\nthinking it to mean that we had once kept two horses where we now\nkeep only one.  I've got a wold silver spoon, and a wold graven seal\nat home, too; but, Lord, what's a spoon and seal? ...  And to think\nthat I and these noble d'Urbervilles were one flesh all the time.\n'Twas said that my gr't-granfer had secrets, and didn't care to talk\nof where he came from...  And where do we raise our smoke, now,\nparson, if I may make so bold; I mean, where do we d'Urbervilles\nlive?\"\n\n\"You don't live anywhere. You are extinct--as a county family.\"\n\n\"That's bad.\"\n\n\"Yes--what the mendacious family chronicles call extinct in the male\nline--that is, gone down--gone under.\"\n\n\"Then where do we lie?\"\n\n\"At Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill: rows and rows of you in your vaults,\nwith your effigies under Purbeck-marble canopies.\"\n\n\"And where be our family mansions and estates?\"\n\n\"You haven't any.\"\n\n\"Oh?  No lands neither?\"\n\n\"None; though you once had 'em in abundance, as I said, for you\nfamily consisted of numerous branches.  In this county there was a\nseat of yours at Kingsbere, and another at Sherton, and another in\nMillpond, and another at Lullstead, and another at Wellbridge.\"\n\n\"And shall we ever come into our own again?\"\n\n\"Ah--that I can't tell!\"\n\n\"And what had I better do about it, sir?\" asked Durbeyfield, after a\npause.\n\n\"Oh--nothing, nothing; except chasten yourself with the thought of\n'how are the mighty fallen.'  It is a fact of some interest to the\nlocal historian and genealogist, nothing more.  There are several\nfamilies among the cottagers of this county of almost equal lustre.\nGood night.\"\n\n\"But you'll turn back and have a quart of beer wi' me on the strength\no't, Pa'son Tringham?  There's a very pretty brew in tap at The Pure\nDrop--though, to be sure, not so good as at Rolliver's.\"\n\n\"No, thank you--not this evening, Durbeyfield.  You've had enough\nalready.\"  Concluding thus, the parson rode on his way, with doubts\nas to his discretion in retailing this curious bit of lore.\n\nWhen he was gone, Durbeyfield walked a few steps in a profound\nreverie, and then sat down upon the grassy bank by the roadside,\ndepositing his basket before him.  In a few minutes a youth appeared\nin the distance, walking in the same direction as that which had been\npursued by Durbeyfield.  The latter, on seeing him, held up his hand,\nand the lad quickened his pace and came near.\n\n\"Boy, take up that basket!  I want 'ee to go on an errand for me.\"\n\nThe lath-like stripling frowned.  \"Who be you, then, John\nDurbeyfield, to order me about and call me 'boy'?  You know my\nname as well as I know yours!\"\n\n\"Do you, do you?  That's the secret--that's the secret! Now obey my\norders, and take the message I'm going to charge 'ee wi'...  Well,\nFred, I don't mind telling you that the secret is that I'm one of a\nnoble race--it has been just found out by me this present afternoon,\nP.M.\"  And as he made the announcement, Durbeyfield, declining from\nhis sitting position, luxuriously stretched himself out upon the bank\namong the daisies.\n\nThe lad stood before Durbeyfield, and contemplated his length from\ncrown to toe.\n\n\"Sir John d'Urberville--that's who I am,\" continued the prostrate\nman.  \"That is if knights were baronets--which they be.  'Tis\nrecorded in history all about me.  Dost know of such a place, lad,\nas Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill?\"\n\n\"Ees.  I've been there to Greenhill Fair.\"\n\n\"Well, under the church of that city there lie--\"\n\n\"'Tisn't a city, the place I mean; leastwise 'twaddn' when I was\nthere--'twas a little one-eyed, blinking sort o' place.\"\n\n\"Never you mind the place, boy, that's not the question before us.\nUnder the church of that there parish lie my ancestors--hundreds of\n'em--in coats of mail and jewels, in gr't lead coffins weighing tons\nand tons.  There's not a man in the county o' South-Wessex that's\ngot grander and nobler skillentons in his family than I.\"\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"Now take up that basket, and goo on to Marlott, and when you've come\nto The Pure Drop Inn, tell 'em to send a horse and carriage to me\nimmed'ately, to carry me hwome.  And in the bottom o' the carriage\nthey be to put a noggin o' rum in a small bottle, and chalk it up\nto my account.  And when you've done that goo on to my house with\nthe basket, and tell my wife to put away that washing, because she\nneedn't finish it, and wait till I come hwome, as I've news to tell\nher.\"\n\nAs the lad stood in a dubious attitude, Durbeyfield put his hand in\nhis pocket, and produced a shilling, one of the chronically few that\nhe possessed.\n\n\"Here's for your labour, lad.\"\n\nThis made a difference in the young man's estimate of the position.\n\n\"Yes, Sir John.  Thank 'ee.  Anything else I can do for 'ee, Sir\nJohn?\"\n\n\"Tell 'em at hwome that I should like for supper,--well, lamb's fry\nif they can get it; and if they can't, black-pot; and if they can't\nget that, well chitterlings will do.\"\n\n\"Yes, Sir John.\"\n\nThe boy took up the basket, and as he set out the notes of a brass\nband were heard from the direction of the village.\n\n\"What's that?\" said Durbeyfield.  \"Not on account o' I?\"\n\n\"'Tis the women's club-walking, Sir John.  Why, your da'ter is one o'\nthe members.\"\n\n\"To be sure--I'd quite forgot it in my thoughts of greater things!\nWell, vamp on to Marlott, will ye, and order that carriage, and\nmaybe I'll drive round and inspect the club.\"\n\nThe lad departed, and Durbeyfield lay waiting on the grass and\ndaisies in the evening sun.  Not a soul passed that way for a long\nwhile, and the faint notes of the band were the only human sounds\naudible within the rim of blue hills.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nOn the morning appointed for her departure Tess was awake before\ndawn--at the marginal minute of the dark when the grove is still\nmute, save for one prophetic bird who sings with a clear-voiced\nconviction that he at least knows the correct time of day, the rest\npreserving silence as if equally convinced that he is mistaken.  She\nremained upstairs packing till breakfast-time, and then came down in\nher ordinary week-day clothes, her Sunday apparel being carefully\nfolded in her box.\n\nHer mother expostulated. \"You will never set out to see your folks\nwithout dressing up more the dand than that?\"\n\n\"But I am going to work!\" said Tess.\n\n\"Well, yes,\" said Mrs Durbeyfield; and in a private tone, \"at first\nthere mid be a little pretence o't ...  But I think it will be wiser\nof 'ee to put your best side outward,\" she added.\n\n\"Very well; I suppose you know best,\" replied Tess with calm\nabandonment.\n\nAnd to please her parent the girl put herself quite in Joan's hands,\nsaying serenely--\"Do what you like with me, mother.\"\n\nMrs Durbeyfield was only too delighted at this tractability.\nFirst she fetched a great basin, and washed Tess's hair with such\nthoroughness that when dried and brushed it looked twice as much as\nat other times.  She tied it with a broader pink ribbon than usual.\nThen she put upon her the white frock that Tess had worn at the\nclub-walking, the airy fulness of which, supplementing her enlarged\n_coiffure_, imparted to her developing figure an amplitude which\nbelied her age, and might cause her to be estimated as a woman when\nshe was not much more than a child.\n\n\"I declare there's a hole in my stocking-heel!\" said Tess.\n\n\"Never mind holes in your stockings--they don't speak!  When I was a\nmaid, so long as I had a pretty bonnet the devil might ha' found me\nin heels.\"\n\nHer mother's pride in the girl's appearance led her to step back,\nlike a painter from his easel, and survey her work as a whole.\n\n\"You must zee yourself!\" she cried.  \"It is much better than you was\nt'other day.\"\n\nAs the looking-glass was only large enough to reflect a very small\nportion of Tess's person at one time, Mrs Durbeyfield hung a black\ncloak outside the casement, and so made a large reflector of the\npanes, as it is the wont of bedecking cottagers to do.  After this\nshe went downstairs to her husband, who was sitting in the lower\nroom.\n\n\"I'll tell 'ee what 'tis, Durbeyfield,\" said she exultingly; \"he'll\nnever have the heart not to love her.  But whatever you do, don't zay\ntoo much to Tess of his fancy for her, and this chance she has got.\nShe is such an odd maid that it mid zet her against him, or against\ngoing there, even now.  If all goes well, I shall certainly be for\nmaking some return to pa'son at Stagfoot Lane for telling us--dear,\ngood man!\"\n\nHowever, as the moment for the girl's setting out drew nigh, when the\nfirst excitement of the dressing had passed off, a slight misgiving\nfound place in Joan Durbeyfield's mind.  It prompted the matron to\nsay that she would walk a little way--as far as to the point where\nthe acclivity from the valley began its first steep ascent to\nthe outer world.  At the top Tess was going to be met with the\nspring-cart sent by the Stoke-d'Urbervilles, and her box had already\nbeen wheeled ahead towards this summit by a lad with trucks, to be in\nreadiness.\n\nSeeing their mother put on her bonnet, the younger children clamoured\nto go with her.\n\n\"I do want to walk a little-ways wi' Sissy, now she's going to marry\nour gentleman-cousin, and wear fine cloze!\"\n\n\"Now,\" said Tess, flushing and turning quickly, \"I'll hear no more o'\nthat!  Mother, how could you ever put such stuff into their heads?\"\n\n\"Going to work, my dears, for our rich relation, and help get enough\nmoney for a new horse,\" said Mrs Durbeyfield pacifically.\n\n\"Goodbye, father,\" said Tess, with a lumpy throat.\n\n\"Goodbye, my maid,\" said Sir John, raising his head from his breast\nas he suspended his nap, induced by a slight excess this morning in\nhonour of the occasion.  \"Well, I hope my young friend will like such\na comely sample of his own blood.  And tell'n, Tess, that being sunk,\nquite, from our former grandeur, I'll sell him the title--yes, sell\nit--and at no onreasonable figure.\"\n\n\"Not for less than a thousand pound!\" cried Lady Durbeyfield.\n\n\"Tell'n--I'll take a thousand pound.  Well, I'll take less, when\nI come to think o't.  He'll adorn it better than a poor lammicken\nfeller like myself can.  Tell'n he shall hae it for a hundred.  But\nI won't stand upon trifles--tell'n he shall hae it for fifty--for\ntwenty pound!  Yes, twenty pound--that's the lowest.  Dammy, family\nhonour is family honour, and I won't take a penny less!\"\n\nTess's eyes were too full and her voice too choked to utter the\nsentiments that were in her.  She turned quickly, and went out.\n\nSo the girls and their mother all walked together, a child on each\nside of Tess, holding her hand and looking at her meditatively from\ntime to time, as at one who was about to do great things; her mother\njust behind with the smallest; the group forming a picture of honest\nbeauty flanked by innocence, and backed by simple-souled vanity.\nThey followed the way till they reached the beginning of the ascent,\non the crest of which the vehicle from Trantridge was to receive her,\nthis limit having been fixed to save the horse the labour of the last\nslope.  Far away behind the first hills the cliff-like dwellings\nof Shaston broke the line of the ridge. Nobody was visible in the\nelevated road which skirted the ascent save the lad whom they had\nsent on before them, sitting on the handle of the barrow that\ncontained all Tess's worldly possessions.\n\n\"Bide here a bit, and the cart will soon come, no doubt,\" said Mrs\nDurbeyfield.  \"Yes, I see it yonder!\"\n\nIt had come--appearing suddenly from behind the forehead of the\nnearest upland, and stopping beside the boy with the barrow.  Her\nmother and the children thereupon decided to go no farther, and\nbidding them a hasty goodbye, Tess bent her steps up the hill.\n\nThey saw her white shape draw near to the spring-cart, on which her\nbox was already placed.  But before she had quite reached it another\nvehicle shot out from a clump of trees on the summit, came round the\nbend of the road there, passed the luggage-cart, and halted beside\nTess, who looked up as if in great surprise.\n\nHer mother perceived, for the first time, that the second vehicle was\nnot a humble conveyance like the first, but a spick-and-span gig or\ndog-cart, highly varnished and equipped.  The driver was a young man\nof three- or four-and-twenty, with a cigar between his teeth; wearing\na dandy cap, drab jacket, breeches of the same hue, white neckcloth,\nstick-up collar, and brown driving-gloves--in short, he was the\nhandsome, horsey young buck who had visited Joan a week or two before\nto get her answer about Tess.\n\nMrs Durbeyfield clapped her hands like a child.  Then she looked\ndown, then stared again.  Could she be deceived as to the meaning of\nthis?\n\n\"Is dat the gentleman-kinsman who'll make Sissy a lady?\" asked the\nyoungest child.\n\nMeanwhile the muslined form of Tess could be seen standing still,\nundecided, beside this turn-out, whose owner was talking to her.\nHer seeming indecision was, in fact, more than indecision: it was\nmisgiving.  She would have preferred the humble cart.  The young\nman dismounted, and appeared to urge her to ascend.  She turned her\nface down the hill to her relatives, and regarded the little group.\nSomething seemed to quicken her to a determination; possibly the\nthought that she had killed Prince.  She suddenly stepped up; he\nmounted beside her, and immediately whipped on the horse.  In a\nmoment they had passed the slow cart with the box, and disappeared\nbehind the shoulder of the hill.\n\nDirectly Tess was out of sight, and the interest of the matter as a\ndrama was at an end, the little ones' eyes filled with tears.  The\nyoungest child said, \"I wish poor, poor Tess wasn't gone away to be a\nlady!\" and, lowering the corners of his lips, burst out crying.  The\nnew point of view was infectious, and the next child did likewise,\nand then the next, till the whole three of them wailed loud.\n\nThere were tears also in Joan Durbeyfield's eyes as she turned to\ngo home.  But by the time she had got back to the village she was\npassively trusting to the favour of accident.  However, in bed that\nnight she sighed, and her husband asked her what was the matter.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know exactly,\" she said.  \"I was thinking that perhaps\nit would ha' been better if Tess had not gone.\"\n\n\"Oughtn't ye to have thought of that before?\"\n\n\"Well, 'tis a chance for the maid--Still, if 'twere the doing again,\nI wouldn't let her go till I had found out whether the gentleman\nis really a good-hearted young man and choice over her as his\nkinswoman.\"\n\n\"Yes, you ought, perhaps, to ha' done that,\" snored Sir John.\n\nJoan Durbeyfield always managed to find consolation somewhere: \"Well,\nas one of the genuine stock, she ought to make her way with 'en, if\nshe plays her trump card aright.  And if he don't marry her afore he\nwill after.  For that he's all afire wi' love for her any eye can\nsee.\"\n\n\"What's her trump card?  Her d'Urberville blood, you mean?\"\n\n\"No, stupid; her face--as 'twas mine.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "On the day of her departure, Tess dresses in her best clothes at the insistence of her mother, who is still dreaming about her daughter marrying Alec. Joan is delighted with Tess's appearance and feels confident that it will be difficult for Alec to ignore her beauty. Tess's younger brothers and sisters are jubilant about the thought of their sister marrying a gentleman. When Tess is ready to leave, Joan begins to worry about sending her daughter away. She walks with Tess for awhile, and some of the children follow along. As she approaches the cart that will take her luggage, Tess bids her family a quick good- bye. She then looks up and sees Alec, who has come for her. When she climbs up beside him, she can still see her family in the distance. As she thinks about their needs, Tess knows that she is doing the correct thing by going to Trantridge. It is now her family that is uncertain; they are unhappy and tearful about her departure. For the first time, Joan is apprehensive about sending her away with a stranger and regrets not having made inquiries about him."}, {"": "65", "document": "\n\nHaving mounted beside her, Alec d'Urberville drove rapidly along\nthe crest of the first hill, chatting compliments to Tess as they\nwent, the cart with her box being left far behind.  Rising still, an\nimmense landscape stretched around them on every side; behind, the\ngreen valley of her birth, before, a gray country of which she knew\nnothing except from her first brief visit to Trantridge.  Thus they\nreached the verge of an incline down which the road stretched in a\nlong straight descent of nearly a mile.\n\nEver since the accident with her father's horse Tess Durbeyfield,\ncourageous as she naturally was, had been exceedingly timid on\nwheels; the least irregularity of motion startled her.  She began to\nget uneasy at a certain recklessness in her conductor's driving.\n\n\"You will go down slow, sir, I suppose?\" she said with attempted\nunconcern.\n\nD'Urberville looked round upon her, nipped his cigar with the tips of\nhis large white centre-teeth, and allowed his lips to smile slowly of\nthemselves.\n\n\"Why, Tess,\" he answered, after another whiff or two, \"it isn't a\nbrave bouncing girl like you who asks that?  Why, I always go down at\nfull gallop.  There's nothing like it for raising your spirits.\"\n\n\"But perhaps you need not now?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, shaking his head, \"there are two to be reckoned with.\nIt is not me alone.  Tib has to be considered, and she has a very\nqueer temper.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Why, this mare.  I fancy she looked round at me in a very grim way\njust then.  Didn't you notice it?\"\n\n\"Don't try to frighten me, sir,\" said Tess stiffly.\n\n\"Well, I don't.  If any living man can manage this horse I can: I\nwon't say any living man can do it--but if such has the power, I am\nhe.\"\n\n\"Why do you have such a horse?\"\n\n\"Ah, well may you ask it!  It was my fate, I suppose. Tib has killed\none chap; and just after I bought her she nearly killed me.  And\nthen, take my word for it, I nearly killed her.  But she's touchy\nstill, very touchy; and one's life is hardly safe behind her\nsometimes.\"\n\nThey were just beginning to descend; and it was evident that the\nhorse, whether of her own will or of his (the latter being the more\nlikely), knew so well the reckless performance expected of her that\nshe hardly required a hint from behind.\n\nDown, down, they sped, the wheels humming like a top, the dog-cart\nrocking right and left, its axis acquiring a slightly oblique set\nin relation to the line of progress; the figure of the horse rising\nand falling in undulations before them.  Sometimes a wheel was off\nthe ground, it seemed, for many yards; sometimes a stone was sent\nspinning over the hedge, and flinty sparks from the horse's hoofs\noutshone the daylight.  The aspect of the straight road enlarged with\ntheir advance, the two banks dividing like a splitting stick; one\nrushing past at each shoulder.\n\nThe wind blew through Tess's white muslin to her very skin, and her\nwashed hair flew out behind.  She was determined to show no open\nfear, but she clutched d'Urberville's rein-arm.\n\n\"Don't touch my arm!  We shall be thrown out if you do!  Hold on\nround my waist!\"\n\nShe grasped his waist, and so they reached the bottom.\n\n\"Safe, thank God, in spite of your fooling!\" said she, her face on\nfire.\n\n\"Tess--fie! that's temper!\" said d'Urberville.\n\n\"'Tis truth.\"\n\n\"Well, you need not let go your hold of me so thanklessly the moment\nyou feel yourself our of danger.\"\n\nShe had not considered what she had been doing; whether he were man\nor woman, stick or stone, in her involuntary hold on him.  Recovering\nher reserve, she sat without replying, and thus they reached the\nsummit of another declivity.\n\n\"Now then, again!\" said d'Urberville.\n\n\"No, no!\" said Tess.  \"Show more sense, do, please.\"\n\n\"But when people find themselves on one of the highest points in the\ncounty, they must get down again,\" he retorted.\n\nHe loosened rein, and away they went a second time.  D'Urberville\nturned his face to her as they rocked, and said, in playful raillery:\n\"Now then, put your arms round my waist again, as you did before, my\nBeauty.\"\n\n\"Never!\" said Tess independently, holding on as well as she could\nwithout touching him.\n\n\"Let me put one little kiss on those holmberry lips, Tess, or even on\nthat warmed cheek, and I'll stop--on my honour, I will!\"\n\nTess, surprised beyond measure, slid farther back still on her seat,\nat which he urged the horse anew, and rocked her the more.\n\n\"Will nothing else do?\" she cried at length, in desperation, her\nlarge eyes staring at him like those of a wild animal.  This dressing\nher up so prettily by her mother had apparently been to lamentable\npurpose.\n\n\"Nothing, dear Tess,\" he replied.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know--very well; I don't mind!\" she panted miserably.\n\nHe drew rein, and as they slowed he was on the point of imprinting\nthe desired salute, when, as if hardly yet aware of her own modesty,\nshe dodged aside.  His arms being occupied with the reins there was\nleft him no power to prevent her manoeuvre.\n\n\"Now, damn it--I'll break both our necks!\" swore her capriciously\npassionate companion.  \"So you can go from your word like that, you\nyoung witch, can you?\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Tess, \"I'll not move since you be so determined!\nBut I--thought you would be kind to me, and protect me, as my\nkinsman!\"\n\n\"Kinsman be hanged!  Now!\"\n\n\"But I don't want anybody to kiss me, sir!\" she implored, a big\ntear beginning to roll down her face, and the corners of her mouth\ntrembling in her attempts not to cry.  \"And I wouldn't ha' come if\nI had known!\"\n\nHe was inexorable, and she sat still, and d'Urberville gave her the\nkiss of mastery.  No sooner had he done so than she flushed with\nshame, took out her handkerchief, and wiped the spot on her cheek\nthat had been touched by his lips.  His ardour was nettled at the\nsight, for the act on her part had been unconsciously done.\n\n\"You are mighty sensitive for a cottage girl!\" said the young man.\n\nTess made no reply to this remark, of which, indeed, she did not\nquite comprehend the drift, unheeding the snub she had administered\nby her instinctive rub upon her cheek.  She had, in fact, undone the\nkiss, as far as such a thing was physically possible.  With a dim\nsense that he was vexed she looked steadily ahead as they trotted on\nnear Melbury Down and Wingreen, till she saw, to her consternation,\nthat there was yet another descent to be undergone.\n\n\"You shall be made sorry for that!\" he resumed, his injured tone\nstill remaining, as he flourished the whip anew.  \"Unless, that is,\nyou agree willingly to let me do it again, and no handkerchief.\"\n\nShe sighed. \"Very well, sir!\" she said.  \"Oh--let me get my hat!\"\n\nAt the moment of speaking her hat had blown off into the road, their\npresent speed on the upland being by no means slow.  D'Urberville\npulled up, and said he would get it for her, but Tess was down on the\nother side.\n\nShe turned back and picked up the article.\n\n\"You look prettier with it off, upon my soul, if that's possible,\" he\nsaid, contemplating her over the back of the vehicle.  \"Now then, up\nagain!  What's the matter?\"\n\nThe hat was in place and tied, but Tess had not stepped forward.\n\n\"No, sir,\" she said, revealing the red and ivory of her mouth as her\neye lit in defiant triumph; \"not again, if I know it!\"\n\n\"What--you won't get up beside me?\"\n\n\"No; I shall walk.\"\n\n\"'Tis five or six miles yet to Trantridge.\"\n\n\"I don't care if 'tis dozens.  Besides, the cart is behind.\"\n\n\"You artful hussy!  Now, tell me--didn't you make that hat blow off\non purpose?  I'll swear you did!\"\n\nHer strategic silence confirmed his suspicion.\n\nThen d'Urberville cursed and swore at her, and called her everything\nhe could think of for the trick.  Turning the horse suddenly he tried\nto drive back upon her, and so hem her in between the gig and the\nhedge.  But he could not do this short of injuring her.\n\n\"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for using such wicked words!\"\ncried Tess with spirit, from the top of the hedge into which she had\nscrambled.  \"I don't like 'ee at all!  I hate and detest you!  I'll\ngo back to mother, I will!\"\n\nD'Urberville's bad temper cleared up at sight of hers; and he laughed\nheartily.\n\n\"Well, I like you all the better,\" he said.  \"Come, let there be\npeace.  I'll never do it any more against your will.  My life upon\nit now!\"\n\nStill Tess could not be induced to remount.  She did not, however,\nobject to his keeping his gig alongside her; and in this manner, at\na slow pace, they advanced towards the village of Trantridge.  From\ntime to time d'Urberville exhibited a sort of fierce distress at\nthe sight of the tramping he had driven her to undertake by his\nmisdemeanour.  She might in truth have safely trusted him now; but he\nhad forfeited her confidence for the time, and she kept on the ground\nprogressing thoughtfully, as if wondering whether it would be wiser\nto return home.  Her resolve, however, had been taken, and it seemed\nvacillating even to childishness to abandon it now, unless for graver\nreasons.  How could she face her parents, get back her box, and\ndisconcert the whole scheme for the rehabilitation of her family on\nsuch sentimental grounds?\n\nA few minutes later the chimneys of The Slopes appeared in view, and\nin a snug nook to the right the poultry-farm and cottage of Tess'\ndestination.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nThe community of fowls to which Tess had been appointed as\nsupervisor, purveyor, nurse, surgeon, and friend made its\nheadquarters in an old thatched cottage standing in an enclosure that\nhad once been a garden, but was now a trampled and sanded square.\nThe house was overrun with ivy, its chimney being enlarged by the\nboughs of the parasite to the aspect of a ruined tower.  The lower\nrooms were entirely given over to the birds, who walked about them\nwith a proprietary air, as though the place had been built by\nthemselves, and not by certain dusty copyholders who now lay east\nand west in the churchyard.  The descendants of these bygone owners\nfelt it almost as a slight to their family when the house which had\nso much of their affection, had cost so much of their forefathers'\nmoney, and had been in their possession for several generations\nbefore the d'Urbervilles came and built here, was indifferently\nturned into a fowl-house by Mrs Stoke-d'Urberville as soon as the\nproperty fell into hand according to law.  \"'Twas good enough for\nChristians in grandfather's time,\" they said.\n\nThe rooms wherein dozens of infants had wailed at their nursing now\nresounded with the tapping of nascent chicks.  Distracted hens in\ncoops occupied spots where formerly stood chairs supporting sedate\nagriculturists.  The chimney-corner and once-blazing hearth was now\nfilled with inverted beehives, in which the hens laid their eggs;\nwhile out of doors the plots that each succeeding householder had\ncarefully shaped with his spade were torn by the cocks in wildest\nfashion.\n\nThe garden in which the cottage stood was surrounded by a wall, and\ncould only be entered through a door.\n\nWhen Tess had occupied herself about an hour the next morning in\naltering and improving the arrangements, according to her skilled\nideas as the daughter of a professed poulterer, the door in the wall\nopened and a servant in white cap and apron entered.  She had come\nfrom the manor-house.\n\n\"Mrs d'Urberville wants the fowls as usual,\" she said; but perceiving\nthat Tess did not quite understand, she explained, \"Mis'ess is a old\nlady, and blind.\"\n\n\"Blind!\" said Tess.\n\nAlmost before her misgiving at the news could find time to shape\nitself she took, under her companion's direction, two of the\nmost beautiful of the Hamburghs in her arms, and followed the\nmaid-servant, who had likewise taken two, to the adjacent mansion,\nwhich, though ornate and imposing, showed traces everywhere on this\nside that some occupant of its chambers could bend to the love of\ndumb creatures--feathers floating within view of the front, and\nhen-coops standing on the grass.\n\nIn a sitting-room on the ground-floor, ensconced in an armchair with\nher back to the light, was the owner and mistress of the estate, a\nwhite-haired woman of not more than sixty, or even less, wearing a\nlarge cap.  She had the mobile face frequent in those whose sight\nhas decayed by stages, has been laboriously striven after, and\nreluctantly let go, rather than the stagnant mien apparent in persons\nlong sightless or born blind.  Tess walked up to this lady with her\nfeathered charges--one sitting on each arm.\n\n\"Ah, you are the young woman come to look after my birds?\" said Mrs\nd'Urberville, recognizing a new footstep.  \"I hope you will be kind\nto them.  My bailiff tells me you are quite the proper person.\nWell, where are they?  Ah, this is Strut!  But he is hardly so\nlively to-day, is he?  He is alarmed at being handled by a stranger,\nI suppose. And Phena too--yes, they are a little frightened--aren't\nyou, dears? But they will soon get used to you.\"\n\nWhile the old lady had been speaking Tess and the other maid, in\nobedience to her gestures, had placed the fowls severally in her lap,\nand she had felt them over from head to tail, examining their beaks,\ntheir combs, the manes of the cocks, their wings, and their claws.\nHer touch enabled her to recognize them in a moment, and to discover\nif a single feather were crippled or draggled.  She handled their\ncrops, and knew what they had eaten, and if too little or too much;\nher face enacting a vivid pantomime of the criticisms passing in her\nmind.\n\nThe birds that the two girls had brought in were duly returned to the\nyard, and the process was repeated till all the pet cocks and hens\nhad been submitted to the old woman--Hamburghs, Bantams, Cochins,\nBrahmas, Dorkings, and such other sorts as were in fashion just\nthen--her perception of each visitor being seldom at fault as she\nreceived the bird upon her knees.\n\nIt reminded Tess of a Confirmation, in which Mrs d'Urberville was the\nbishop, the fowls the young people presented, and herself and the\nmaid-servant the parson and curate of the parish bringing them up.\nAt the end of the ceremony Mrs d'Urberville abruptly asked Tess,\nwrinkling and twitching her face into undulations, \"Can you whistle?\"\n\n\"Whistle, Ma'am?\"\n\n\"Yes, whistle tunes.\"\n\nTess could whistle like most other country-girls, though the\naccomplishment was one which she did not care to profess in genteel\ncompany.  However, she blandly admitted that such was the fact.\n\n\"Then you will have to practise it every day.  I had a lad who did it\nvery well, but he has left.  I want you to whistle to my bullfinches;\nas I cannot see them, I like to hear them, and we teach 'em airs\nthat way.  Tell her where the cages are, Elizabeth.  You must begin\nto-morrow, or they will go back in their piping. They have been\nneglected these several days.\"\n\n\"Mr d'Urberville whistled to 'em this morning, ma'am,\" said\nElizabeth.\n\n\"He!  Pooh!\"\n\nThe old lady's face creased into furrows of repugnance, and she made\nno further reply.\n\nThus the reception of Tess by her fancied kinswoman terminated, and\nthe birds were taken back to their quarters.  The girl's surprise at\nMrs d'Urberville's manner was not great; for since seeing the size of\nthe house she had expected no more.  But she was far from being aware\nthat the old lady had never heard a word of the so-called kinship.\nShe gathered that no great affection flowed between the blind woman\nand her son.  But in that, too, she was mistaken.  Mrs d'Urberville\nwas not the first mother compelled to love her offspring resentfully,\nand to be bitterly fond.\n\n\nIn spite of the unpleasant initiation of the day before, Tess\ninclined to the freedom and novelty of her new position in the\nmorning when the sun shone, now that she was once installed there;\nand she was curious to test her powers in the unexpected direction\nasked of her, so as to ascertain her chance of retaining her post.\nAs soon as she was alone within the walled garden she sat herself\ndown on a coop, and seriously screwed up her mouth for the\nlong-neglected practice.  She found her former ability to have\ndegenerated to the production of a hollow rush of wind through the\nlips, and no clear note at all.\n\nShe remained fruitlessly blowing and blowing, wondering how she\ncould have so grown out of the art which had come by nature, till\nshe became aware of a movement among the ivy-boughs which cloaked\nthe garden-wall no less then the cottage.  Looking that way she\nbeheld a form springing from the coping to the plot.  It was Alec\nd'Urberville, whom she had not set eyes on since he had conducted\nher the day before to the door of the gardener's cottage where she\nhad lodgings.\n\n\"Upon my honour!\" cried he, \"there was never before such a beautiful\nthing in Nature or Art as you look, 'Cousin' Tess ('Cousin' had a\nfaint ring of mockery).  I have been watching you from over the\nwall--sitting like IM-patience on a monument, and pouting up that\npretty red mouth to whistling shape, and whooing and whooing, and\nprivately swearing, and never being able to produce a note.  Why,\nyou are quite cross because you can't do it.\"\n\n\"I may be cross, but I didn't swear.\"\n\n\"Ah!  I understand why you are trying--those bullies!  My mother\nwants you to carry on their musical education.  How selfish of her!\nAs if attending to these curst cocks and hens here were not enough\nwork for any girl.  I would flatly refuse, if I were you.\"\n\n\"But she wants me particularly to do it, and to be ready by to-morrow\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Does she?  Well then--I'll give you a lesson or two.\"\n\n\"Oh no, you won't!\" said Tess, withdrawing towards the door.\n\n\"Nonsense; I don't want to touch you.  See--I'll stand on this side\nof the wire-netting, and you can keep on the other; so you may feel\nquite safe.  Now, look here; you screw up your lips too harshly.\nThere 'tis--so.\"\n\nHe suited the action to the word, and whistled a line of \"Take, O\ntake those lips away.\"  But the allusion was lost upon Tess.\n\n\"Now try,\" said d'Urberville.\n\nShe attempted to look reserved; her face put on a sculptural\nseverity.  But he persisted in his demand, and at last, to get rid of\nhim, she did put up her lips as directed for producing a clear note;\nlaughing distressfully, however, and then blushing with vexation that\nshe had laughed.\n\nHe encouraged her with \"Try again!\"\n\nTess was quite serious, painfully serious by this time; and she\ntried--ultimately and unexpectedly emitting a real round sound.\nThe momentary pleasure of success got the better of her; her eyes\nenlarged, and she involuntarily smiled in his face.\n\n\"That's it!  Now I have started you--you'll go on beautifully.\nThere--I said I would not come near you; and, in spite of such\ntemptation as never before fell to mortal man, I'll keep my\nword...  Tess, do you think my mother a queer old soul?\"\n\n\"I don't know much of her yet, sir.\"\n\n\"You'll find her so; she must be, to make you learn to whistle to her\nbullfinches.  I am rather out of her books just now, but you will be\nquite in favour if you treat her live-stock well.  Good morning.  If\nyou meet with any difficulties and want help here, don't go to the\nbailiff, come to me.\"\n\n\nIt was in the economy of this _regime_ that Tess Durbeyfield had\nundertaken to fill a place.  Her first day's experiences were fairly\ntypical of those which followed through many succeeding days.  A\nfamiliarity with Alec d'Urberville's presence--which that young man\ncarefully cultivated in her by playful dialogue, and by jestingly\ncalling her his cousin when they were alone--removed much of her\noriginal shyness of him, without, however, implanting any feeling\nwhich could engender shyness of a new and tenderer kind.  But she was\nmore pliable under his hands than a mere companionship would have\nmade her, owing to her unavoidable dependence upon his mother, and,\nthrough that lady's comparative helplessness, upon him.\n\nShe soon found that whistling to the bullfinches in Mrs\nd'Urberville's room was no such onerous business when she had\nregained the art, for she had caught from her musical mother numerous\nairs that suited those songsters admirably.  A far more satisfactory\ntime than when she practised in the garden was this whistling by the\ncages each morning.  Unrestrained by the young man's presence she\nthrew up her mouth, put her lips near the bars, and piped away in\neaseful grace to the attentive listeners.\n\nMrs d'Urberville slept in a large four-post bedstead hung with heavy\ndamask curtains, and the bullfinches occupied the same apartment,\nwhere they flitted about freely at certain hours, and made little\nwhite spots on the furniture and upholstery.  Once while Tess was at\nthe window where the cages were ranged, giving her lesson as usual,\nshe thought she heard a rustling behind the bed.  The old lady was\nnot present, and turning round the girl had an impression that\nthe toes of a pair of boots were visible below the fringe of the\ncurtains.  Thereupon her whistling became so disjointed that the\nlistener, if such there were, must have discovered her suspicion of\nhis presence.  She searched the curtains every morning after that,\nbut never found anybody within them.  Alec d'Urberville had evidently\nthought better of his freak to terrify her by an ambush of that kind.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nAs she drove on through Blackmoor Vale, and the landscape of her\nyouth began to open around her, Tess aroused herself from her stupor.\nHer first thought was how would she be able to face her parents?\n\nShe reached a turnpike-gate which stood upon the highway to the\nvillage.  It was thrown open by a stranger, not by the old man who\nhad kept it for many years, and to whom she had been known; he had\nprobably left on New Year's Day, the date when such changes were\nmade.  Having received no intelligence lately from her home, she\nasked the turnpike-keeper for news.\n\n\"Oh--nothing, miss,\" he answered.  \"Marlott is Marlott still.  Folks\nhave died and that.  John Durbeyfield, too, hev had a daughter\nmarried this week to a gentleman-farmer; not from John's own house,\nyou know; they was married elsewhere; the gentleman being of that\nhigh standing that John's own folk was not considered well-be-doing\nenough to have any part in it, the bridegroom seeming not to know\nhow't have been discovered that John is a old and ancient nobleman\nhimself by blood, with family skillentons in their own vaults to\nthis day, but done out of his property in the time o' the Romans.\nHowever, Sir John, as we call 'n now, kept up the wedding-day as well\nas he could, and stood treat to everybody in the parish; and John's\nwife sung songs at The Pure Drop till past eleven o'clock.\"\n\nHearing this, Tess felt so sick at heart that she could not decide\nto go home publicly in the fly with her luggage and belongings.  She\nasked the turnpike-keeper if she might deposit her things at his\nhouse for a while, and, on his offering no objection, she dismissed\nher carriage, and went on to the village alone by a back lane.\n\nAt sight of her father's chimney she asked herself how she could\npossibly enter the house?  Inside that cottage her relations were\ncalmly supposing her far away on a wedding-tour with a comparatively\nrich man, who was to conduct her to bouncing prosperity; while here\nshe was, friendless, creeping up to the old door quite by herself,\nwith no better place to go to in the world.\n\nShe did not reach the house unobserved.  Just by the garden-hedge she\nwas met by a girl who knew her--one of the two or three with whom she\nhad been intimate at school.  After making a few inquiries as to how\nTess came there, her friend, unheeding her tragic look, interrupted\nwith--\n\n\"But where's thy gentleman, Tess?\"\n\nTess hastily explained that he had been called away on business, and,\nleaving her interlocutor, clambered over the garden-hedge, and thus\nmade her way to the house.\n\nAs she went up the garden-path she heard her mother singing by the\nback door, coming in sight of which she perceived Mrs Durbeyfield on\nthe doorstep in the act of wringing a sheet.  Having performed this\nwithout observing Tess, she went indoors, and her daughter followed\nher.\n\nThe washing-tub stood in the same old place on the same old\nquarter-hogshead, and her mother, having thrown the sheet aside, was\nabout to plunge her arms in anew.\n\n\"Why--Tess!--my chil'--I thought you was married!--married really and\ntruly this time--we sent the cider--\"\n\n\"Yes, mother; so I am.\"\n\n\"Going to be?\"\n\n\"No--I am married.\"\n\n\"Married!  Then where's thy husband?\"\n\n\"Oh, he's gone away for a time.\"\n\n\"Gone away!  When was you married, then?  The day you said?\"\n\n\"Yes, Tuesday, mother.\"\n\n\"And now 'tis on'y Saturday, and he gone away?\"\n\n\"Yes, he's gone.\"\n\n\"What's the meaning o' that?  'Nation seize such husbands as you seem\nto get, say I!\"\n\n\"Mother!\"  Tess went across to Joan Durbeyfield, laid her face upon\nthe matron's bosom, and burst into sobs.  \"I don't know how to tell\n'ee, mother!  You said to me, and wrote to me, that I was not to tell\nhim.  But I did tell him--I couldn't help it--and he went away!\"\n\n\"O you little fool--you little fool!\" burst out Mrs Durbeyfield,\nsplashing Tess and herself in her agitation.  \"My good God! that ever\nI should ha' lived to say it, but I say it again, you little fool!\"\n\nTess was convulsed with weeping, the tension of so many days having\nrelaxed at last.\n\n\"I know it--I know--I know!\" she gasped through her sobs.  \"But,\nO my mother, I could not help it!  He was so good--and I felt\nthe wickedness of trying to blind him as to what had happened!\nIf--if--it were to be done again--I should do the same.  I could\nnot--I dared not--so sin--against him!\"\n\n\"But you sinned enough to marry him first!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; that's where my misery do lie!  But I thought he could get\nrid o' me by law if he were determined not to overlook it.  And O, if\nyou knew--if you could only half know how I loved him--how anxious I\nwas to have him--and how wrung I was between caring so much for him\nand my wish to be fair to him!\"\n\nTess was so shaken that she could get no further, and sank, a\nhelpless thing, into a chair.\n\n\"Well, well; what's done can't be undone!  I'm sure I don't know why\nchildren o' my bringing forth should all be bigger simpletons than\nother people's--not to know better than to blab such a thing as\nthat, when he couldn't ha' found it out till too late!\"  Here Mrs\nDurbeyfield began shedding tears on her own account as a mother to\nbe pitied.  \"What your father will say I don't know,\" she continued;\n\"for he's been talking about the wedding up at Rolliver's and The\nPure Drop every day since, and about his family getting back to their\nrightful position through you--poor silly man!--and now you've made\nthis mess of it!  The Lord-a-Lord!\"\n\nAs if to bring matters to a focus, Tess's father was heard\napproaching at that moment.  He did not, however, enter immediately,\nand Mrs Durbeyfield said that she would break the bad news to him\nherself, Tess keeping out of sight for the present.  After her first\nburst of disappointment Joan began to take the mishap as she had\ntaken Tess's original trouble, as she would have taken a wet holiday\nor failure in the potato-crop; as a thing which had come upon them\nirrespective of desert or folly; a chance external impingement to be\nborne with; not a lesson.\n\nTess retreated upstairs and beheld casually that the beds had been\nshifted, and new arrangements made.  Her old bed had been adapted for\ntwo younger children.  There was no place here for her now.\n\nThe room below being unceiled she could hear most of what went on\nthere.  Presently her father entered, apparently carrying in a live\nhen.  He was a foot-haggler now, having been obliged to sell his\nsecond horse, and he travelled with his basket on his arm.  The hen\nhad been carried about this morning as it was often carried, to show\npeople that he was in his work, though it had lain, with its legs\ntied, under the table at Rolliver's for more than an hour.\n\n\"We've just had up a story about--\" Durbeyfield began, and thereupon\nrelated in detail to his wife a discussion which had arisen at the\ninn about the clergy, originated by the fact of his daughter having\nmarried into a clerical family. \"They was formerly styled 'sir',\nlike my own ancestry,\" he said, \"though nowadays their true style,\nstrictly speaking, is 'clerk' only.\"  As Tess had wished that no\ngreat publicity should be given to the event, he had mentioned no\nparticulars.  He hoped she would remove that prohibition soon.  He\nproposed that the couple should take Tess's own name, d'Urberville,\nas uncorrupted.  It was better than her husbands's.  He asked if any\nletter had come from her that day.\n\nThen Mrs Durbeyfield informed him that no letter had come, but Tess\nunfortunately had come herself.\n\nWhen at length the collapse was explained to him, a sullen\nmortification, not usual with Durbeyfield, overpowered the influence\nof the cheering glass.  Yet the intrinsic quality of the event moved\nhis touchy sensitiveness less than its conjectured effect upon the\nminds of others.\n\n\"To think, now, that this was to be the end o't!\" said Sir John.\n\"And I with a family vault under that there church of Kingsbere as\nbig as Squire Jollard's ale-cellar, and my folk lying there in sixes\nand sevens, as genuine county bones and marrow as any recorded in\nhistory.  And now to be sure what they fellers at Rolliver's and The\nPure Drop will say to me!  How they'll squint and glane, and say,\n'This is yer mighty match is it; this is yer getting back to the true\nlevel of yer forefathers in King Norman's time!' I feel this is too\nmuch, Joan; I shall put an end to myself, title and all--I can bear\nit no longer! ...  But she can make him keep her if he's married\nher?\"\n\n\"Why, yes. But she won't think o' doing that.\"\n\n\"D'ye think he really have married her?--or is it like the first--\"\n\nPoor Tess, who had heard as far as this, could not bear to hear more.\nThe perception that her word could be doubted even here, in her own\nparental house, set her mind against the spot as nothing else could\nhave done.  How unexpected were the attacks of destiny!  And if her\nfather doubted her a little, would not neighbours and acquaintance\ndoubt her much?  O, she could not live long at home!\n\nA few days, accordingly, were all that she allowed herself here, at\nthe end of which time she received a short note from Clare, informing\nher that he had gone to the North of England to look at a farm.  In\nher craving for the lustre of her true position as his wife, and to\nhide from her parents the vast extent of the division between them,\nshe made use of this letter as her reason for again departing,\nleaving them under the impression that she was setting out to join\nhim.  Still further to screen her husband from any imputation of\nunkindness to her, she took twenty-five of the fifty pounds Clare\nhad given her, and handed the sum over to her mother, as if the wife\nof a man like Angel Clare could well afford it, saying that it was a\nslight return for the trouble and humiliation she had brought upon\nthem in years past.  With this assertion of her dignity she bade them\nfarewell; and after that there were lively doings in the Durbeyfield\nhousehold for some time on the strength of Tess's bounty, her mother\nsaying, and, indeed, believing, that the rupture which had arisen\nbetween the young husband and wife had adjusted itself under their\nstrong feeling that they could not live apart from each other.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nAt eleven o'clock that night, having secured a bed at one of the\nhotels and telegraphed his address to his father immediately on his\narrival, he walked out into the streets of Sandbourne.  It was too\nlate to call on or inquire for any one, and he reluctantly postponed\nhis purpose till the morning.  But he could not retire to rest just\nyet.\n\nThis fashionable watering-place, with its eastern and its western\nstations, its piers, its groves of pines, its promenades, and its\ncovered gardens, was, to Angel Clare, like a fairy place suddenly\ncreated by the stroke of a wand, and allowed to get a little dusty.\nAn outlying eastern tract of the enormous Egdon Waste was close at\nhand, yet on the very verge of that tawny piece of antiquity such a\nglittering novelty as this pleasure city had chosen to spring up.\nWithin the space of a mile from its outskirts every irregularity\nof the soil was prehistoric, every channel an undisturbed British\ntrackway; not a sod having been turned there since the days of the\nCaesars.  Yet the exotic had grown here, suddenly as the prophet's\ngourd; and had drawn hither Tess.\n\nBy the midnight lamps he went up and down the winding way of this new\nworld in an old one, and could discern between the trees and against\nthe stars the lofty roofs, chimneys, gazebos, and towers of the\nnumerous fanciful residences of which the place was composed. It\nwas a city of detached mansions; a Mediterranean lounging-place on\nthe English Channel; and as seen now by night it seemed even more\nimposing than it was.\n\nThe sea was near at hand, but not intrusive; it murmured, and he\nthought it was the pines; the pines murmured in precisely the same\ntones, and he thought they were the sea.\n\nWhere could Tess possibly be, a cottage-girl, his young wife, amidst\nall this wealth and fashion?  The more he pondered, the more was he\npuzzled.  Were there any cows to milk here?  There certainly were\nno fields to till. She was most probably engaged to do something in\none of these large houses; and he sauntered along, looking at the\nchamber-windows and their lights going out one by one, and wondered\nwhich of them might be hers.\n\nConjecture was useless, and just after twelve o'clock he entered\nand went to bed.   Before putting out his light he re-read Tess's\nimpassioned letter.  Sleep, however, he could not--so near her, yet\nso far from her--and he continually lifted the window-blind and\nregarded the backs of the opposite houses, and wondered behind which\nof the sashes she reposed at that moment.\n\nHe might almost as well have sat up all night.  In the morning he\narose at seven, and shortly after went out, taking the direction of\nthe chief post-office.  At the door he met an intelligent postman\ncoming out with letters for the morning delivery.\n\n\"Do you know the address of a Mrs Clare?\" asked Angel.  The postman\nshook his head.\n\nThen, remembering that she would have been likely to continue the use\nof her maiden name, Clare said--\n\n\"Of a Miss Durbeyfield?\"\n\n\"Durbeyfield?\"\n\nThis also was strange to the postman addressed.\n\n\"There's visitors coming and going every day, as you know, sir,\" he\nsaid; \"and without the name of the house 'tis impossible to find\n'em.\"\n\nOne of his comrades hastening out at that moment, the name was\nrepeated to him.\n\n\"I know no name of Durbeyfield; but there is the name of d'Urberville\nat The Herons,\" said the second.\n\n\"That's it!\" cried Clare, pleased to think that she had reverted to\nthe real pronunciation.  \"What place is The Herons?\"\n\n\"A stylish lodging-house.  'Tis all lodging-houses here, bless 'ee.\"\n\nClare received directions how to find the house, and hastened\nthither, arriving with the milkman.  The Herons, though an ordinary\nvilla, stood in its own grounds, and was certainly the last place\nin which one would have expected to find lodgings, so private was\nits appearance.  If poor Tess was a servant here, as he feared, she\nwould go to the back-door to that milkman, and he was inclined to go\nthither also.  However, in his doubts he turned to the front, and\nrang.\n\nThe hour being early, the landlady herself opened the door.  Clare\ninquired for Teresa d'Urberville or Durbeyfield.\n\n\"Mrs d'Urberville?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nTess, then, passed as a married woman, and he felt glad, even though\nshe had not adopted his name.\n\n\"Will you kindly tell her that a relative is anxious to see her?\"\n\n\"It is rather early.  What name shall I give, sir?\"\n\n\"Angel.\"\n\n\"Mr Angel?\"\n\n\"No; Angel.  It is my Christian name.  She'll understand.\"\n\n\"I'll see if she is awake.\"\n\nHe was shown into the front room--the dining-room--and looked out\nthrough the spring curtains at the little lawn, and the rhododendrons\nand other shrubs upon it.  Obviously her position was by no means so\nbad as he had feared, and it crossed his mind that she must somehow\nhave claimed and sold the jewels to attain it.  He did not blame her\nfor one moment.  Soon his sharpened ear detected footsteps upon the\nstairs, at which his heart thumped so painfully that he could hardly\nstand firm.  \"Dear me! what will she think of me, so altered as I\nam!\" he said to himself; and the door opened.\n\nTess appeared on the threshold--not at all as he had expected to\nsee her--bewilderingly otherwise, indeed.  Her great natural beauty\nwas, if not heightened, rendered more obvious by her attire.  She\nwas loosely wrapped in a cashmere dressing-gown of gray-white,\nembroidered in half-mourning tints, and she wore slippers of the same\nhue.  Her neck rose out of a frill of down, and her well-remembered\ncable of dark-brown hair was partially coiled up in a mass at the\nback of her head and partly hanging on her shoulder--the evident\nresult of haste.\n\nHe had held out his arms, but they had fallen again to his side;\nfor she had not come forward, remaining still in the opening of the\ndoorway.  Mere yellow skeleton that he was now, he felt the contrast\nbetween them, and thought his appearance distasteful to her.\n\n\"Tess!\" he said huskily, \"can you forgive me for going away?  Can't\nyou--come to me?  How do you get to be--like this?\"\n\n\"It is too late,\" said she, her voice sounding hard through the room,\nher eyes shining unnaturally.\n\n\"I did not think rightly of you--I did not see you as you were!\" he\ncontinued to plead.  \"I have learnt to since, dearest Tessy mine!\"\n\n\"Too late, too late!\" she said, waving her hand in the impatience of\na person whose tortures cause every instant to seem an hour.  \"Don't\ncome close to me, Angel!  No--you must not.  Keep away.\"\n\n\"But don't you love me, my dear wife, because I have been so pulled\ndown by illness?  You are not so fickle--I am come on purpose for\nyou--my mother and father will welcome you now!\"\n\n\"Yes--O, yes, yes!  But I say, I say it is too late.\"\n\nShe seemed to feel like a fugitive in a dream, who tries to move\naway, but cannot.  \"Don't you know all--don't you know it?  Yet how\ndo you come here if you do not know?\"\n\n\"I inquired here and there, and I found the way.\"\n\n\"I waited and waited for you,\" she went on, her tones suddenly\nresuming their old fluty pathos.  \"But you did not come!  And I wrote\nto you, and you did not come! He kept on saying you would never come\nany more, and that I was a foolish woman.  He was very kind to me,\nand to mother, and to all of us after father's death. He--\"\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"He has won me back to him.\"\n\nClare looked at her keenly, then, gathering her meaning, flagged\nlike one plague-stricken, and his glance sank; it fell on her hands,\nwhich, once rosy, were now white and more delicate.\n\nShe continued--\n\n\"He is upstairs.  I hate him now, because he told me a lie--that you\nwould not come again; and you HAVE come!  These clothes are what he's\nput upon me: I didn't care what he did wi' me!  But--will you go\naway, Angel, please, and never come any more?\"\n\nThey stood fixed, their baffled hearts looking out of their eyes with\na joylessness pitiful to see.  Both seemed to implore something to\nshelter them from reality.\n\n\"Ah--it is my fault!\" said Clare.\n\nBut he could not get on.  Speech was as inexpressive as silence.  But\nhe had a vague consciousness of one thing, though it was not clear\nto him till later; that his original Tess had spiritually ceased to\nrecognize the body before him as hers--allowing it to drift, like a\ncorpse upon the current, in a direction dissociated from its living\nwill.\n\nA few instants passed, and he found that Tess was gone.  His face\ngrew colder and more shrunken as he stood concentrated on the moment,\nand a minute or two after, he found himself in the street, walking\nalong he did not know whither.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nOn a thyme-scented, bird-hatching morning in May, between two and\nthree years after the return from Trantridge--silent, reconstructive\nyears for Tess Durbeyfield--she left her home for the second time.\n\nHaving packed up her luggage so that it could be sent to her later,\nshe started in a hired trap for the little town of Stourcastle,\nthrough which it was necessary to pass on her journey, now in a\ndirection almost opposite to that of her first adventuring.  On the\ncurve of the nearest hill she looked back regretfully at Marlott and\nher father's house, although she had been so anxious to get away.\n\nHer kindred dwelling there would probably continue their daily\nlives as heretofore, with no great diminution of pleasure in their\nconsciousness, although she would be far off, and they deprived of\nher smile.  In a few days the children would engage in their games as\nmerrily as ever, without the sense of any gap left by her departure.\nThis leaving of the younger children she had decided to be for the\nbest; were she to remain they would probably gain less good by her\nprecepts than harm by her example.\n\nShe went through Stourcastle without pausing and onward to a junction\nof highways, where she could await a carrier's van that ran to the\nsouth-west; for the railways which engirdled this interior tract of\ncountry had never yet struck across it.  While waiting, however,\nthere came along a farmer in his spring cart, driving approximately\nin the direction that she wished to pursue.  Though he was a stranger\nto her she accepted his offer of a seat beside him, ignoring that\nits motive was a mere tribute to her countenance.  He was going to\nWeatherbury, and by accompanying him thither she could walk the\nremainder of the distance instead of travelling in the van by way of\nCasterbridge.\n\nTess did not stop at Weatherbury, after this long drive, further than\nto make a slight nondescript meal at noon at a cottage to which the\nfarmer recommended her.  Thence she started on foot, basket in hand,\nto reach the wide upland of heath dividing this district from the\nlow-lying meads of a further valley in which the dairy stood that was\nthe aim and end of her day's pilgrimage.\n\nTess had never before visited this part of the country, and yet she\nfelt akin to the landscape.  Not so very far to the left of her she\ncould discern a dark patch in the scenery, which inquiry confirmed\nher in supposing to be trees marking the environs of Kingsbere--in\nthe church of which parish the bones of her ancestors--her useless\nancestors--lay entombed.\n\nShe had no admiration for them now; she almost hated them for the\ndance they had led her; not a thing of all that had been theirs did\nshe retain but the old seal and spoon.  \"Pooh--I have as much of\nmother as father in me!\" she said.  \"All my prettiness comes from\nher, and she was only a dairymaid.\"\n\nThe journey over the intervening uplands and lowlands of Egdon,\nwhen she reached them, was a more troublesome walk than she had\nanticipated, the distance being actually but a few miles.  It was\ntwo hours, owing to sundry wrong turnings, ere she found herself\non a summit commanding the long-sought-for vale, the Valley of the\nGreat Dairies, the valley in which milk and butter grew to rankness,\nand were produced more profusely, if less delicately, than at her\nhome--the verdant plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom.\n\nIt was intrinsically different from the Vale of Little Dairies,\nBlackmoor Vale, which, save during her disastrous sojourn at\nTrantridge, she had exclusively known till now.  The world was drawn\nto a larger pattern here.  The enclosures numbered fifty acres\ninstead of ten, the farmsteads were more extended, the groups of\ncattle formed tribes hereabout; there only families.  These myriads\nof cows stretching under her eyes from the far east to the far west\noutnumbered any she had ever seen at one glance before. The green\nlea was speckled as thickly with them as a canvas by Van Alsloot\nor Sallaert with burghers.  The ripe hue of the red and dun kine\nabsorbed the evening sunlight, which the white-coated animals\nreturned to the eye in rays almost dazzling, even at the distant\nelevation on which she stood.\n\nThe bird's-eye perspective before her was not so luxuriantly\nbeautiful, perhaps, as that other one which she knew so well; yet it\nwas more cheering.  It lacked the intensely blue atmosphere of the\nrival vale, and its heavy soils and scents; the new air was clear,\nbracing, ethereal.  The river itself, which nourished the grass\nand cows of these renowned dairies, flowed not like the streams in\nBlackmoor.  Those were slow, silent, often turbid; flowing over\nbeds of mud into which the incautious wader might sink and vanish\nunawares.  The Froom waters were clear as the pure River of Life\nshown to the Evangelist, rapid as the shadow of a cloud, with\npebbly shallows that prattled to the sky all day long.  There the\nwater-flower was the lily; the crow-foot here.\n\nEither the change in the quality of the air from heavy to light, or\nthe sense of being amid new scenes where there were no invidious eyes\nupon her, sent up her spirits wonderfully.  Her hopes mingled with\nthe sunshine in an ideal photosphere which surrounded her as she\nbounded along against the soft south wind.  She heard a pleasant\nvoice in every breeze, and in every bird's note seemed to lurk a\njoy.\n\nHer face had latterly changed with changing states of mind,\ncontinually fluctuating between beauty and ordinariness, according as\nthe thoughts were gay or grave.  One day she was pink and flawless;\nanother pale and tragical.  When she was pink she was feeling less\nthan when pale; her more perfect beauty accorded with her less\nelevated mood; her more intense mood with her less perfect beauty.\nIt was her best face physically that was now set against the south\nwind.\n\nThe irresistible, universal, automatic tendency to find sweet\npleasure somewhere, which pervades all life, from the meanest to the\nhighest, had at length mastered Tess.  Being even now only a young\nwoman of twenty, one who mentally and sentimentally had not finished\ngrowing, it was impossible that any event should have left upon her\nan impression that was not in time capable of transmutation.\n\nAnd thus her spirits, and her thankfulness, and her hopes, rose\nhigher and higher.  She tried several ballads, but found them\ninadequate; till, recollecting the psalter that her eyes had so often\nwandered over of a Sunday morning before she had eaten of the tree\nof knowledge, she chanted: \"O ye Sun and Moon ... O ye Stars ... ye\nGreen Things upon the Earth ... ye Fowls of the Air ... Beasts and\nCattle ... Children of Men ... bless ye the Lord, praise Him and\nmagnify Him for ever!\"\n\nShe suddenly stopped and murmured: \"But perhaps I don't quite know\nthe Lord as yet.\"\n\nAnd probably the half-unconscious rhapsody was a Fetishistic\nutterance in a Monotheistic setting; women whose chief companions\nare the forms and forces of outdoor Nature retain in their souls far\nmore of the Pagan fantasy of their remote forefathers than of the\nsystematized religion taught their race at later date.  However, Tess\nfound at least approximate expression for her feelings in the old\n_Benedicite_ that she had lisped from infancy; and it was enough.\nSuch high contentment with such a slight initial performance as that\nof having started towards a means of independent living was a part of\nthe Durbeyfield temperament.  Tess really wished to walk uprightly,\nwhile her father did nothing of the kind; but she resembled him in\nbeing content with immediate and small achievements, and in having no\nmind for laborious effort towards such petty social advancement as\ncould alone be effected by a family so heavily handicapped as the\nonce powerful d'Urbervilles were now.\n\nThere was, it might be said, the energy of her mother's unexpended\nfamily, as well as the natural energy of Tess's years, rekindled\nafter the experience which had so overwhelmed her for the time. Let\nthe truth be told--women do as a rule live through such humiliations,\nand regain their spirits, and again look about them with an\ninterested eye.  While there's life there's hope is a conviction not\nso entirely unknown to the \"betrayed\" as some amiable theorists would\nhave us believe.\n\nTess Durbeyfield, then, in good heart, and full of zest for life,\ndescended the Egdon slopes lower and lower towards the dairy of her\npilgrimage.\n\nThe marked difference, in the final particular, between the rival\nvales now showed itself.  The secret of Blackmoor was best discovered\nfrom the heights around; to read aright the valley before her it was\nnecessary to descend into its midst.  When Tess had accomplished this\nfeat she found herself to be standing on a carpeted level, which\nstretched to the east and west as far as the eye could reach.\n\nThe river had stolen from the higher tracts and brought in particles\nto the vale all this horizontal land; and now, exhausted, aged, and\nattenuated, lay serpentining along through the midst of its former\nspoils.\n\nNot quite sure of her direction, Tess stood still upon the hemmed\nexpanse of verdant flatness, like a fly on a billiard-table of\nindefinite length, and of no more consequence to the surroundings\nthan that fly.  The sole effect of her presence upon the placid\nvalley so far had been to excite the mind of a solitary heron, which,\nafter descending to the ground not far from her path, stood with neck\nerect, looking at her.\n\nSuddenly there arose from all parts of the lowland a prolonged and\nrepeated call--\"Waow! waow! waow!\"\n\nFrom the furthest east to the furthest west the cries spread as if by\ncontagion, accompanied in some cases by the barking of a dog.  It was\nnot the expression of the valley's consciousness that beautiful Tess\nhad arrived, but the ordinary announcement of milking-time--half-past\nfour o'clock, when the dairymen set about getting in the cows.\n\nThe red and white herd nearest at hand, which had been phlegmatically\nwaiting for the call, now trooped towards the steading in the\nbackground, their great bags of milk swinging under them as they\nwalked.  Tess followed slowly in their rear, and entered the barton\nby the open gate through which they had entered before her.  Long\nthatched sheds stretched round the enclosure, their slopes encrusted\nwith vivid green moss, and their eaves supported by wooden posts\nrubbed to a glossy smoothness by the flanks of infinite cows\nand calves of bygone years, now passed to an oblivion almost\ninconceivable in its profundity.  Between the post were ranged\nthe milchers, each exhibiting herself at the present moment to a\nwhimsical eye in the rear as a circle on two stalks, down the centre\nof which a switch moved pendulum-wise; while the sun, lowering itself\nbehind this patient row, threw their shadows accurately inwards upon\nthe wall.  Thus it threw shadows of these obscure and homely figures\nevery evening with as much care over each contour as if it had been\nthe profile of a court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as\ndiligently as it had copied Olympian shapes on marble _facades_ long\nago, or the outline of Alexander, Caesar, and the Pharaohs.\n\nThey were the less restful cows that were stalled.  Those that would\nstand still of their own will were milked in the middle of the yard,\nwhere many of such better behaved ones stood waiting now--all prime\nmilchers, such as were seldom seen out of this valley, and not always\nwithin it; nourished by the succulent feed which the water-meads\nsupplied at this prime season of the year.  Those of them that were\nspotted with white reflected the sunshine in dazzling brilliancy,\nand the polished brass knobs of their horns glittered with something\nof military display.  Their large-veined udders hung ponderous as\nsandbags, the teats sticking out like the legs of a gipsy's crock;\nand as each animal lingered for her turn to arrive the milk oozed\nforth and fell in drops to the ground.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\n\"Now, who mid ye think I've heard news o' this morning?\" said\nDairyman Crick, as he sat down to breakfast next day, with a riddling\ngaze round upon the munching men and maids. \"Now, just who mid ye\nthink?\"\n\nOne guessed, and another guessed.  Mrs Crick did not guess, because\nshe knew already.\n\n\"Well,\" said the dairyman, \"'tis that slack-twisted 'hore's-bird of a\nfeller, Jack Dollop.  He's lately got married to a widow-woman.\"\n\n\"Not Jack Dollop?  A villain--to think o' that!\" said a milker.\n\nThe name entered quickly into Tess Durbeyfield's consciousness, for\nit was the name of the lover who had wronged his sweetheart, and had\nafterwards been so roughly used by the young woman's mother in the\nbutter-churn.\n\n\"And had he married the valiant matron's daughter, as he promised?\"\nasked Angel Clare absently, as he turned over the newspaper he was\nreading at the little table to which he was always banished by Mrs\nCrick, in her sense of his gentility.\n\n\"Not he, sir.  Never meant to,\" replied the dairyman. \"As I say, 'tis\na widow-woman, and she had money, it seems--fifty poun' a year or so;\nand that was all he was after.  They were married in a great hurry;\nand then she told him that by marrying she had lost her fifty poun'\na year.  Just fancy the state o' my gentleman's mind at that news!\nNever such a cat-and-dog life as they've been leading ever since!\nServes him well beright.  But onluckily the poor woman gets the worst\no't.\"\n\n\"Well, the silly body should have told en sooner that the ghost of\nher first man would trouble him,\" said Mrs Crick.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" responded the dairyman indecisively.  \"Still, you can see\nexactly how 'twas.  She wanted a home, and didn't like to run the\nrisk of losing him.  Don't ye think that was something like it,\nmaidens?\"\n\nHe glanced towards the row of girls.\n\n\"She ought to ha' told him just before they went to church, when he\ncould hardly have backed out,\" exclaimed Marian.\n\n\"Yes, she ought,\" agreed Izz.\n\n\"She must have seen what he was after, and should ha' refused him,\"\ncried Retty spasmodically.\n\n\"And what do you say, my dear?\" asked the dairyman of Tess.\n\n\"I think she ought--to have told him the true state of things--or\nelse refused him--I don't know,\" replied Tess, the bread-and-butter\nchoking her.\n\n\"Be cust if I'd have done either o't,\" said Beck Knibbs, a married\nhelper from one of the cottages.  \"All's fair in love and war.  I'd\nha' married en just as she did, and if he'd said two words to me\nabout not telling him beforehand anything whatsomdever about my first\nchap that I hadn't chose to tell, I'd ha' knocked him down wi' the\nrolling-pin--a scram little feller like he!  Any woman could do it.\"\n\nThe laughter which followed this sally was supplemented only by a\nsorry smile, for form's sake, from Tess.  What was comedy to them was\ntragedy to her; and she could hardly bear their mirth.  She soon rose\nfrom table, and, with an impression that Clare would soon follow her,\nwent along a little wriggling path, now stepping to one side of the\nirrigating channels, and now to the other, till she stood by the main\nstream of the Var.  Men had been cutting the water-weeds higher up\nthe river, and masses of them were floating past her--moving islands\nof green crow-foot, whereon she might almost have ridden; long locks\nof which weed had lodged against the piles driven to keep the cows\nfrom crossing.\n\nYes, there was the pain of it.  This question of a woman telling her\nstory--the heaviest of crosses to herself--seemed but amusement to\nothers.  It was as if people should laugh at martyrdom.\n\n\"Tessy!\" came from behind her, and Clare sprang across the gully,\nalighting beside her feet.  \"My wife--soon!\"\n\n\"No, no; I cannot.  For your sake, O Mr Clare; for your sake, I say\nno!\"\n\n\"Tess!\"\n\n\"Still I say no!\" she repeated.\n\nNot expecting this, he had put his arm lightly round her waist the\nmoment after speaking, beneath her hanging tail of hair.  (The\nyounger dairymaids, including Tess, breakfasted with their hair loose\non Sunday mornings before building it up extra high for attending\nchurch, a style they could not adopt when milking with their heads\nagainst the cows.)  If she had said \"Yes\" instead of \"No\" he\nwould have kissed her; it had evidently been his intention; but\nher determined negative deterred his scrupulous heart.  Their\ncondition of domiciliary comradeship put her, as the woman, to such\ndisadvantage by its enforced intercourse, that he felt it unfair to\nher to exercise any pressure of blandishment which he might have\nhonestly employed had she been better able to avoid him.  He released\nher momentarily-imprisoned waist, and withheld the kiss.\n\nIt all turned on that release.  What had given her strength to refuse\nhim this time was solely the tale of the widow told by the dairyman;\nand that would have been overcome in another moment.  But Angel said\nno more; his face was perplexed; he went away.\n\nDay after day they met--somewhat less constantly than before; and\nthus two or three weeks went by.  The end of September drew near, and\nshe could see in his eye that he might ask her again.\n\nHis plan of procedure was different now--as though he had made up\nhis mind that her negatives were, after all, only coyness and youth\nstartled by the novelty of the proposal.  The fitful evasiveness of\nher manner when the subject was under discussion countenanced the\nidea.  So he played a more coaxing game; and while never going beyond\nwords, or attempting the renewal of caresses, he did his utmost\norally.\n\nIn this way Clare persistently wooed her in undertones like that of\nthe purling milk--at the cow's side, at skimmings, at butter-makings,\nat cheese-makings, among broody poultry, and among farrowing pigs--as\nno milkmaid was ever wooed before by such a man.\n\nTess knew that she must break down.  Neither a religious sense of a\ncertain moral validity in the previous union nor a conscientious wish\nfor candour could hold out against it much longer.  She loved him so\npassionately, and he was so godlike in her eyes; and being, though\nuntrained, instinctively refined, her nature cried for his tutelary\nguidance.  And thus, though Tess kept repeating to herself, \"I can\nnever be his wife,\" the words were vain.  A proof of her weakness lay\nin the very utterance of what calm strength would not have taken the\ntrouble to formulate.  Every sound of his voice beginning on the old\nsubject stirred her with a terrifying bliss, and she coveted the\nrecantation she feared.\n\nHis manner was--what man's is not?--so much that of one who would\nlove and cherish and defend her under any conditions, changes,\ncharges, or revelations, that her gloom lessened as she basked in it.\nThe season meanwhile was drawing onward to the equinox, and though\nit was still fine, the days were much shorter.  The dairy had again\nworked by morning candlelight for a long time; and a fresh renewal\nof Clare's pleading occurred one morning between three and four.\n\nShe had run up in her bedgown to his door to call him as usual;\nthen had gone back to dress and call the others; and in ten minutes\nwas walking to the head of the stairs with the candle in her\nhand.  At the same moment he came down his steps from above in his\nshirt-sleeves and put his arm across the stairway.\n\n\"Now, Miss Flirt, before you go down,\" he said peremptorily. \"It is a\nfortnight since I spoke, and this won't do any longer.  You MUST tell\nme what you mean, or I shall have to leave this house.  My door was\najar just now, and I saw you.  For your own safety I must go.  You\ndon't know.  Well?  Is it to be yes at last?\"\n\n\"I am only just up, Mr Clare, and it is too early to take me to\ntask!\" she pouted.  \"You need not call me Flirt.  'Tis cruel and\nuntrue.  Wait till by and by.  Please wait till by and by!  I will\nreally think seriously about it between now and then.  Let me go\ndownstairs!\"\n\nShe looked a little like what he said she was as, holding the candle\nsideways, she tried to smile away the seriousness of her words.\n\n\"Call me Angel, then, and not Mr Clare.\"\n\n\"Angel.\"\n\n\"Angel dearest--why not?\"\n\n\"'Twould mean that I agree, wouldn't it?\"\n\n\"It would only mean that you love me, even if you cannot marry me;\nand you were so good as to own that long ago.\"\n\n\"Very well, then, 'Angel dearest', if I MUST,\" she murmured, looking\nat her candle, a roguish curl coming upon her mouth, notwithstanding\nher suspense.\n\nClare had resolved never to kiss her until he had obtained her\npromise; but somehow, as Tess stood there in her prettily tucked-up\nmilking gown, her hair carelessly heaped upon her head till there\nshould be leisure to arrange it when skimming and milking were done,\nhe broke his resolve, and brought his lips to her cheek for one\nmoment.  She passed downstairs very quickly, never looking back at\nhim or saying another word.  The other maids were already down,\nand the subject was not pursued.  Except Marian, they all looked\nwistfully and suspiciously at the pair, in the sad yellow rays which\nthe morning candles emitted in contrast with the first cold signals\nof the dawn without.\n\nWhen skimming was done--which, as the milk diminished with the\napproach of autumn, was a lessening process day by day--Retty and\nthe rest went out.  The lovers followed them.\n\n\"Our tremulous lives are so different from theirs, are they not?\" he\nmusingly observed to her, as he regarded the three figures tripping\nbefore him through the frigid pallor of opening day.\n\n\"Not so very different, I think,\" she said.\n\n\"Why do you think that?\"\n\n\"There are very few women's lives that are not--tremulous,\" Tess\nreplied, pausing over the new word as if it impressed her.  \"There's\nmore in those three than you think.\"\n\n\"What is in them?\"\n\n\"Almost either of 'em,\" she began, \"would make--perhaps would\nmake--a properer wife than I.  And perhaps they love you as well\nas I--almost.\"\n\n\"O, Tessy!\"\n\nThere were signs that it was an exquisite relief to her to hear the\nimpatient exclamation, though she had resolved so intrepidly to let\ngenerosity make one bid against herself.  That was now done, and she\nhad not the power to attempt self-immolation a second time then.\nThey were joined by a milker from one of the cottages, and no more\nwas said on that which concerned them so deeply.  But Tess knew that\nthis day would decide it.\n\nIn the afternoon several of the dairyman's household and assistants\nwent down to the meads as usual, a long way from the dairy, where\nmany of the cows were milked without being driven home.  The\nsupply was getting less as the animals advanced in calf, and the\nsupernumerary milkers of the lush green season had been dismissed.\n\nThe work progressed leisurely.  Each pailful was poured into tall\ncans that stood in a large spring-waggon which had been brought\nupon the scene; and when they were milked, the cows trailed away.\nDairyman Crick, who was there with the rest, his wrapper gleaming\nmiraculously white against a leaden evening sky, suddenly looked\nat his heavy watch.\n\n\"Why, 'tis later than I thought,\" he said.  \"Begad!  We shan't be\nsoon enough with this milk at the station, if we don't mind.  There's\nno time to-day to take it home and mix it with the bulk afore sending\noff.  It must go to station straight from here.  Who'll drive it\nacross?\"\n\nMr Clare volunteered to do so, though it was none of his business,\nasking Tess to accompany him.  The evening, though sunless, had\nbeen warm and muggy for the season, and Tess had come out with\nher milking-hood only, naked-armed and jacketless; certainly not\ndressed for a drive.  She therefore replied by glancing over her\nscant habiliments; but Clare gently urged her.  She assented by\nrelinquishing her pail and stool to the dairyman to take home, and\nmounted the spring-waggon beside Clare.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nIn a quarter of an hour Clare was leaving the house, whence his\nmother watched his thin figure as it disappeared into the street.\nHe had declined to borrow his father's old mare, well knowing of\nits necessity to the household.  He went to the inn, where he hired\na trap, and could hardly wait during the harnessing.  In a very few\nminutes after, he was driving up the hill out of the town which,\nthree or four months earlier in the year, Tess had descended with\nsuch hopes and ascended with such shattered purposes.\n\nBenvill Lane soon stretched before him, its hedges and trees purple\nwith buds; but he was looking at other things, and only recalled\nhimself to the scene sufficiently to enable him to keep the way.  In\nsomething less than an hour-and-a-half he had skirted the south of\nthe King's Hintock estates and ascended to the untoward solitude of\nCross-in-Hand, the unholy stone whereon Tess had been compelled by\nAlec d'Urberville, in his whim of reformation, to swear the strange\noath that she would never wilfully tempt him again.  The pale and\nblasted nettle-stems of the preceding year even now lingered nakedly\nin the banks, young green nettles of the present spring growing from\ntheir roots.\n\nThence he went along the verge of the upland overhanging the other\nHintocks, and, turning to the right, plunged into the bracing\ncalcareous region of Flintcomb-Ash, the address from which she had\nwritten to him in one of the letters, and which he supposed to be\nthe place of sojourn referred to by her mother.  Here, of course, he\ndid not find her; and what added to his depression was the discovery\nthat no \"Mrs Clare\" had ever been heard of by the cottagers or by\nthe farmer himself, though Tess was remembered well enough by her\nChristian name.  His name she had obviously never used during their\nseparation, and her dignified sense of their total severance was\nshown not much less by this abstention than by the hardships she had\nchosen to undergo (of which he now learnt for the first time) rather\nthan apply to his father for more funds.\n\nFrom this place they told him Tess Durbeyfield had gone, without due\nnotice, to the home of her parents on the other side of Blackmoor,\nand it therefore became necessary to find Mrs Durbeyfield.  She had\ntold him she was not now at Marlott, but had been curiously reticent\nas to her actual address, and the only course was to go to Marlott\nand inquire for it.  The farmer who had been so churlish with Tess\nwas quite smooth-tongued to Clare, and lent him a horse and man to\ndrive him towards Marlott, the gig he had arrived in being sent back\nto Emminster; for the limit of a day's journey with that horse was\nreached.\n\nClare would not accept the loan of the farmer's vehicle for a further\ndistance than to the outskirts of the Vale, and, sending it back with\nthe man who had driven him, he put up at an inn, and next day entered\non foot the region wherein was the spot of his dear Tess's birth.\nIt was as yet too early in the year for much colour to appear in the\ngardens and foliage; the so-called spring was but winter overlaid\nwith a thin coat of greenness, and it was of a parcel with his\nexpectations.\n\nThe house in which Tess had passed the years of her childhood was\nnow inhabited by another family who had never known her.  The new\nresidents were in the garden, taking as much interest in their own\ndoings as if the homestead had never passed its primal time in\nconjunction with the histories of others, beside which the histories\nof these were but as a tale told by an idiot.  They walked about the\ngarden paths with thoughts of their own concerns entirely uppermost,\nbringing their actions at every moment in jarring collision with the\ndim ghosts behind them, talking as though the time when Tess lived\nthere were not one whit intenser in story than now.  Even the spring\nbirds sang over their heads as if they thought there was nobody\nmissing in particular.\n\nOn inquiry of these precious innocents, to whom even the name of\ntheir predecessors was a failing memory, Clare learned that John\nDurbeyfield was dead; that his widow and children had left Marlott,\ndeclaring that they were going to live at Kingsbere, but instead of\ndoing so had gone on to another place they mentioned.  By this time\nClare abhorred the house for ceasing to contain Tess, and hastened\naway from its hated presence without once looking back.\n\nHis way was by the field in which he had first beheld her at the\ndance.  It was as bad as the house--even worse.  He passed on through\nthe churchyard, where, amongst the new headstones, he saw one of a\nsomewhat superior design to the rest.  The inscription ran thus:\n\n\n  In memory of John Durbeyfield, rightly d'Urberville, of\n  the once powerful family of that Name, and Direct\n  Descendant through an illustrious Line from Sir Pagan\n  d'Urberville, one of the Knights of the Conqueror.  Died\n  March 10th, 18--\n\n                HOW ARE THE MIGHTY FALLEN.\n\n\nSome man, apparently the sexton, had observed Clare standing there,\nand drew nigh.  \"Ah, sir, now that's a man who didn't want to lie\nhere, but wished to be carried to Kingsbere, where his ancestors be.\"\n\n\"And why didn't they respect his wish?\"\n\n\"Oh--no money.  Bless your soul, sir, why--there, I wouldn't wish to\nsay it everywhere, but--even this headstone, for all the flourish\nwrote upon en, is not paid for.\"\n\n\"Ah, who put it up?\"\n\nThe man told the name of a mason in the village, and, on leaving the\nchurchyard, Clare called at the mason's house.  He found that the\nstatement was true, and paid the bill.  This done, he turned in the\ndirection of the migrants.\n\nThe distance was too long for a walk, but Clare felt such a strong\ndesire for isolation that at first he would neither hire a conveyance\nnor go to a circuitous line of railway by which he might eventually\nreach the place.  At Shaston, however, he found he must hire; but\nthe way was such that he did not enter Joan's place till about seven\no'clock in the evening, having traversed a distance of over twenty\nmiles since leaving Marlott.\n\nThe village being small he had little difficulty in finding Mrs\nDurbeyfield's tenement, which was a house in a walled garden,\nremote from the main road, where she had stowed away her clumsy old\nfurniture as best she could.  It was plain that for some reason or\nother she had not wished him to visit her, and he felt his call to\nbe somewhat of an intrusion.  She came to the door herself, and the\nlight from the evening sky fell upon her face.\n\nThis was the first time that Clare had ever met her, but he was too\npreoccupied to observe more than that she was still a handsome woman,\nin the garb of a respectable widow.  He was obliged to explain that\nhe was Tess's husband, and his object in coming there, and he did it\nawkwardly enough.  \"I want to see her at once,\" he added.  \"You said\nyou would write to me again, but you have not done so.\"\n\n\"Because she've not come home,\" said Joan.\n\n\"Do you know if she is well?\"\n\n\"I don't.  But you ought to, sir,\" said she.\n\n\"I admit it.  Where is she staying?\"\n\nFrom the beginning of the interview Joan had disclosed her\nembarrassment by keeping her hand to the side of her cheek.\n\n\"I--don't know exactly where she is staying,\" she answered. \"She\nwas--but--\"\n\n\"Where was she?\"\n\n\"Well, she is not there now.\"\n\nIn her evasiveness she paused again, and the younger children had by\nthis time crept to the door, where, pulling at his mother's skirts,\nthe youngest murmured--\n\n\"Is this the gentleman who is going to marry Tess?\"\n\n\"He has married her,\" Joan whispered.  \"Go inside.\"\n\nClare saw her efforts for reticence, and asked--\n\n\"Do you think Tess would wish me to try and find her?  If not, of\ncourse--\"\n\n\"I don't think she would.\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"I am sure she wouldn't.\"\n\nHe was turning away; and then he thought of Tess's tender letter.\n\n\"I am sure she would!\" he retorted passionately.  \"I know her better\nthan you do.\"\n\n\"That's very likely, sir; for I have never really known her.\"\n\n\"Please tell me her address, Mrs Durbeyfield, in kindness to a lonely\nwretched man!\"  Tess's mother again restlessly swept her cheek with\nher vertical hand, and seeing that he suffered, she at last said, is\na low voice--\n\n\"She is at Sandbourne.\"\n\n\"Ah--where there?  Sandbourne has become a large place, they say.\"\n\n\"I don't know more particularly than I have said--Sandbourne.  For\nmyself, I was never there.\"\n\nIt was apparent that Joan spoke the truth in this, and he pressed her\nno further.\n\n\"Are you in want of anything?\" he said gently.\n\n\"No, sir,\" she replied.  \"We are fairly well provided for.\"\n\nWithout entering the house Clare turned away.  There was a station\nthree miles ahead, and paying off his coachman, he walked thither.\nThe last train to Sandbourne left shortly after, and it bore Clare\non its wheels.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter VI. Smerdyakov\n\n\nHe did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a dining-\nroom in the house, the table was laid as usual in the drawing-room, which\nwas the largest room, and furnished with old-fashioned ostentation. The\nfurniture was white and very old, upholstered in old, red, silky material.\nIn the spaces between the windows there were mirrors in elaborate white\nand gilt frames, of old-fashioned carving. On the walls, covered with\nwhite paper, which was torn in many places, there hung two large\nportraits--one of some prince who had been governor of the district thirty\nyears before, and the other of some bishop, also long since dead. In the\ncorner opposite the door there were several ikons, before which a lamp was\nlighted at nightfall ... not so much for devotional purposes as to light\nthe room. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late, at three or four\no'clock in the morning, and would wander about the room at night or sit in\nan arm-chair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept\nquite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge; but usually\nSmerdyakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall.\n\nWhen Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had been\nserved. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy after dinner.\nIvan was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigory and\nSmerdyakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed\nin singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with laughter.\nBefore he entered the room, Alyosha heard the shrill laugh he knew so\nwell, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had only reached\nthe good-humored stage, and was far from being completely drunk.\n\n\"Here he is! Here he is!\" yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly delighted at\nseeing Alyosha. \"Join us. Sit down. Coffee is a lenten dish, but it's hot\nand good. I don't offer you brandy, you're keeping the fast. But would you\nlike some? No; I'd better give you some of our famous liqueur. Smerdyakov,\ngo to the cupboard, the second shelf on the right. Here are the keys. Look\nsharp!\"\n\nAlyosha began refusing the liqueur.\n\n\"Never mind. If you won't have it, we will,\" said Fyodor Pavlovitch,\nbeaming. \"But stay--have you dined?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of bread and\ndrunk a glass of kvas in the Father Superior's kitchen. \"Though I should\nbe pleased to have some hot coffee.\"\n\n\"Bravo, my darling! He'll have some coffee. Does it want warming? No, it's\nboiling. It's capital coffee: Smerdyakov's making. My Smerdyakov's an\nartist at coffee and at fish patties, and at fish soup, too. You must come\none day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand.... But, stay;\ndidn't I tell you this morning to come home with your mattress and pillow\nand all? Have you brought your mattress? He he he!\"\n\n\"No, I haven't,\" said Alyosha, smiling, too.\n\n\"Ah, but you were frightened, you were frightened this morning, weren't\nyou? There, my darling, I couldn't do anything to vex you. Do you know,\nIvan, I can't resist the way he looks one straight in the face and laughs?\nIt makes me laugh all over. I'm so fond of him. Alyosha, let me give you\nmy blessing--a father's blessing.\"\n\nAlyosha rose, but Fyodor Pavlovitch had already changed his mind.\n\n\"No, no,\" he said. \"I'll just make the sign of the cross over you, for\nnow. Sit still. Now we've a treat for you, in your own line, too. It'll\nmake you laugh. Balaam's ass has begun talking to us here--and how he\ntalks! How he talks!\"\n\nBalaam's ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smerdyakov. He was a young man\nof about four and twenty, remarkably unsociable and taciturn. Not that he\nwas shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was conceited and seemed to\ndespise everybody.\n\nBut we must pause to say a few words about him now. He was brought up by\nGrigory and Marfa, but the boy grew up \"with no sense of gratitude,\" as\nGrigory expressed it; he was an unfriendly boy, and seemed to look at the\nworld mistrustfully. In his childhood he was very fond of hanging cats,\nand burying them with great ceremony. He used to dress up in a sheet as\nthough it were a surplice, and sang, and waved some object over the dead\ncat as though it were a censer. All this he did on the sly, with the\ngreatest secrecy. Grigory caught him once at this diversion and gave him a\nsound beating. He shrank into a corner and sulked there for a week. \"He\ndoesn't care for you or me, the monster,\" Grigory used to say to Marfa,\n\"and he doesn't care for any one. Are you a human being?\" he said,\naddressing the boy directly. \"You're not a human being. You grew from the\nmildew in the bath-house.(2) That's what you are.\" Smerdyakov, it appeared\nafterwards, could never forgive him those words. Grigory taught him to\nread and write, and when he was twelve years old, began teaching him the\nScriptures. But this teaching came to nothing. At the second or third\nlesson the boy suddenly grinned.\n\n\"What's that for?\" asked Grigory, looking at him threateningly from under\nhis spectacles.\n\n\"Oh, nothing. God created light on the first day, and the sun, moon, and\nstars on the fourth day. Where did the light come from on the first day?\"\n\nGrigory was thunderstruck. The boy looked sarcastically at his teacher.\nThere was something positively condescending in his expression. Grigory\ncould not restrain himself. \"I'll show you where!\" he cried, and gave the\nboy a violent slap on the cheek. The boy took the slap without a word, but\nwithdrew into his corner again for some days. A week later he had his\nfirst attack of the disease to which he was subject all the rest of his\nlife--epilepsy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of it, his attitude to the boy\nseemed changed at once. Till then he had taken no notice of him, though he\nnever scolded him, and always gave him a copeck when he met him.\nSometimes, when he was in good humor, he would send the boy something\nsweet from his table. But as soon as he heard of his illness, he showed an\nactive interest in him, sent for a doctor, and tried remedies, but the\ndisease turned out to be incurable. The fits occurred, on an average, once\na month, but at various intervals. The fits varied too, in violence: some\nwere light and some were very severe. Fyodor Pavlovitch strictly forbade\nGrigory to use corporal punishment to the boy, and began allowing him to\ncome upstairs to him. He forbade him to be taught anything whatever for a\ntime, too. One day when the boy was about fifteen, Fyodor Pavlovitch\nnoticed him lingering by the bookcase, and reading the titles through the\nglass. Fyodor Pavlovitch had a fair number of books--over a hundred--but no\none ever saw him reading. He at once gave Smerdyakov the key of the\nbookcase. \"Come, read. You shall be my librarian. You'll be better sitting\nreading than hanging about the courtyard. Come, read this,\" and Fyodor\nPavlovitch gave him _Evenings in a Cottage near Dikanka_.\n\nHe read a little but didn't like it. He did not once smile, and ended by\nfrowning.\n\n\"Why? Isn't it funny?\" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch.\n\nSmerdyakov did not speak.\n\n\"Answer, stupid!\"\n\n\"It's all untrue,\" mumbled the boy, with a grin.\n\n\"Then go to the devil! You have the soul of a lackey. Stay, here's\nSmaragdov's _Universal History_. That's all true. Read that.\"\n\nBut Smerdyakov did not get through ten pages of Smaragdov. He thought it\ndull. So the bookcase was closed again.\n\nShortly afterwards Marfa and Grigory reported to Fyodor Pavlovitch that\nSmerdyakov was gradually beginning to show an extraordinary\nfastidiousness. He would sit before his soup, take up his spoon and look\ninto the soup, bend over it, examine it, take a spoonful and hold it to\nthe light.\n\n\"What is it? A beetle?\" Grigory would ask.\n\n\"A fly, perhaps,\" observed Marfa.\n\nThe squeamish youth never answered, but he did the same with his bread,\nhis meat, and everything he ate. He would hold a piece on his fork to the\nlight, scrutinize it microscopically, and only after long deliberation\ndecide to put it in his mouth.\n\n\"Ach! What fine gentlemen's airs!\" Grigory muttered, looking at him.\n\nWhen Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of this development in Smerdyakov he\ndetermined to make him his cook, and sent him to Moscow to be trained. He\nspent some years there and came back remarkably changed in appearance. He\nlooked extraordinarily old for his age. His face had grown wrinkled,\nyellow, and strangely emasculate. In character he seemed almost exactly\nthe same as before he went away. He was just as unsociable, and showed not\nthe slightest inclination for any companionship. In Moscow, too, as we\nheard afterwards, he had always been silent. Moscow itself had little\ninterest for him; he saw very little there, and took scarcely any notice\nof anything. He went once to the theater, but returned silent and\ndispleased with it. On the other hand, he came back to us from Moscow well\ndressed, in a clean coat and clean linen. He brushed his clothes most\nscrupulously twice a day invariably, and was very fond of cleaning his\nsmart calf boots with a special English polish, so that they shone like\nmirrors. He turned out a first-rate cook. Fyodor Pavlovitch paid him a\nsalary, almost the whole of which Smerdyakov spent on clothes, pomade,\nperfumes, and such things. But he seemed to have as much contempt for the\nfemale sex as for men; he was discreet, almost unapproachable, with them.\nFyodor Pavlovitch began to regard him rather differently. His fits were\nbecoming more frequent, and on the days he was ill Marfa cooked, which did\nnot suit Fyodor Pavlovitch at all.\n\n\"Why are your fits getting worse?\" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, looking\naskance at his new cook. \"Would you like to get married? Shall I find you\na wife?\"\n\nBut Smerdyakov turned pale with anger, and made no reply. Fyodor\nPavlovitch left him with an impatient gesture. The great thing was that he\nhad absolute confidence in his honesty. It happened once, when Fyodor\nPavlovitch was drunk, that he dropped in the muddy courtyard three\nhundred-rouble notes which he had only just received. He only missed them\nnext day, and was just hastening to search his pockets when he saw the\nnotes lying on the table. Where had they come from? Smerdyakov had picked\nthem up and brought them in the day before.\n\n\"Well, my lad, I've never met any one like you,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch said\nshortly, and gave him ten roubles. We may add that he not only believed in\nhis honesty, but had, for some reason, a liking for him, although the\nyoung man looked as morosely at him as at every one and was always silent.\nHe rarely spoke. If it had occurred to any one to wonder at the time what\nthe young man was interested in, and what was in his mind, it would have\nbeen impossible to tell by looking at him. Yet he used sometimes to stop\nsuddenly in the house, or even in the yard or street, and would stand\nstill for ten minutes, lost in thought. A physiognomist studying his face\nwould have said that there was no thought in it, no reflection, but only a\nsort of contemplation. There is a remarkable picture by the painter\nKramskoy, called \"Contemplation.\" There is a forest in winter, and on a\nroadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a\ntorn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he\nis not thinking; he is \"contemplating.\" If any one touched him he would\nstart and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he\nwould come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been\nthinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden\nwithin himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period\nof contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards\nthem imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he\ndoes not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many\nyears, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his\nsoul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native\nvillage, and perhaps do both. There are a good many \"contemplatives\" among\nthe peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and he probably\nwas greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter VII. The Controversy\n\n\nBut Balaam's ass had suddenly spoken. The subject was a strange one.\nGrigory had gone in the morning to make purchases, and had heard from the\nshopkeeper Lukyanov the story of a Russian soldier which had appeared in\nthe newspaper of that day. This soldier had been taken prisoner in some\nremote part of Asia, and was threatened with an immediate agonizing death\nif he did not renounce Christianity and follow Islam. He refused to deny\nhis faith, and was tortured, flayed alive, and died, praising and\nglorifying Christ. Grigory had related the story at table. Fyodor\nPavlovitch always liked, over the dessert after dinner, to laugh and talk,\nif only with Grigory. This afternoon he was in a particularly good-humored\nand expansive mood. Sipping his brandy and listening to the story, he\nobserved that they ought to make a saint of a soldier like that, and to\ntake his skin to some monastery. \"That would make the people flock, and\nbring the money in.\"\n\nGrigory frowned, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovitch was by no means touched,\nbut, as usual, was beginning to scoff. At that moment Smerdyakov, who was\nstanding by the door, smiled. Smerdyakov often waited at table towards the\nend of dinner, and since Ivan's arrival in our town he had done so every\nday.\n\n\"What are you grinning at?\" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, catching the smile\ninstantly, and knowing that it referred to Grigory.\n\n\"Well, my opinion is,\" Smerdyakov began suddenly and unexpectedly in a\nloud voice, \"that if that laudable soldier's exploit was so very great\nthere would have been, to my thinking, no sin in it if he had on such an\nemergency renounced, so to speak, the name of Christ and his own\nchristening, to save by that same his life, for good deeds, by which, in\nthe course of years to expiate his cowardice.\"\n\n\"How could it not be a sin? You're talking nonsense. For that you'll go\nstraight to hell and be roasted there like mutton,\" put in Fyodor\nPavlovitch.\n\nIt was at this point that Alyosha came in, and Fyodor Pavlovitch, as we\nhave seen, was highly delighted at his appearance.\n\n\"We're on your subject, your subject,\" he chuckled gleefully, making\nAlyosha sit down to listen.\n\n\"As for mutton, that's not so, and there'll be nothing there for this, and\nthere shouldn't be either, if it's according to justice,\" Smerdyakov\nmaintained stoutly.\n\n\"How do you mean 'according to justice'?\" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried still\nmore gayly, nudging Alyosha with his knee.\n\n\"He's a rascal, that's what he is!\" burst from Grigory. He looked\nSmerdyakov wrathfully in the face.\n\n\"As for being a rascal, wait a little, Grigory Vassilyevitch,\" answered\nSmerdyakov with perfect composure. \"You'd better consider yourself that,\nonce I am taken prisoner by the enemies of the Christian race, and they\ndemand from me to curse the name of God and to renounce my holy\nchristening, I am fully entitled to act by my own reason, since there\nwould be no sin in it.\"\n\n\"But you've said that before. Don't waste words. Prove it,\" cried Fyodor\nPavlovitch.\n\n\"Soup-maker!\" muttered Grigory contemptuously.\n\n\"As for being a soup-maker, wait a bit, too, and consider for yourself,\nGrigory Vassilyevitch, without abusing me. For as soon as I say to those\nenemies, 'No, I'm not a Christian, and I curse my true God,' then at once,\nby God's high judgment, I become immediately and specially anathema\naccursed, and am cut off from the Holy Church, exactly as though I were a\nheathen, so that at that very instant, not only when I say it aloud, but\nwhen I think of saying it, before a quarter of a second has passed, I am\ncut off. Is that so or not, Grigory Vassilyevitch?\"\n\nHe addressed Grigory with obvious satisfaction, though he was really\nanswering Fyodor Pavlovitch's questions, and was well aware of it, and\nintentionally pretending that Grigory had asked the questions.\n\n\"Ivan,\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, \"stoop down for me to whisper.\nHe's got this all up for your benefit. He wants you to praise him. Praise\nhim.\"\n\nIvan listened with perfect seriousness to his father's excited whisper.\n\n\"Stay, Smerdyakov, be quiet a minute,\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch once more.\n\"Ivan, your ear again.\"\n\nIvan bent down again with a perfectly grave face.\n\n\"I love you as I do Alyosha. Don't think I don't love you. Some brandy?\"\n\n\"Yes.--But you're rather drunk yourself,\" thought Ivan, looking steadily at\nhis father.\n\nHe was watching Smerdyakov with great curiosity.\n\n\"You're anathema accursed, as it is,\" Grigory suddenly burst out, \"and how\ndare you argue, you rascal, after that, if--\"\n\n\"Don't scold him, Grigory, don't scold him,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch cut him\nshort.\n\n\"You should wait, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if only a short time, and listen,\nfor I haven't finished all I had to say. For at the very moment I become\naccursed, at that same highest moment, I become exactly like a heathen,\nand my christening is taken off me and becomes of no avail. Isn't that\nso?\"\n\n\"Make haste and finish, my boy,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch urged him, sipping from\nhis wine-glass with relish.\n\n\"And if I've ceased to be a Christian, then I told no lie to the enemy\nwhen they asked whether I was a Christian or not a Christian, seeing I had\nalready been relieved by God Himself of my Christianity by reason of the\nthought alone, before I had time to utter a word to the enemy. And if I\nhave already been discharged, in what manner and with what sort of justice\ncan I be held responsible as a Christian in the other world for having\ndenied Christ, when, through the very thought alone, before denying Him I\nhad been relieved from my christening? If I'm no longer a Christian, then\nI can't renounce Christ, for I've nothing then to renounce. Who will hold\nan unclean Tatar responsible, Grigory Vassilyevitch, even in heaven, for\nnot having been born a Christian? And who would punish him for that,\nconsidering that you can't take two skins off one ox? For God Almighty\nHimself, even if He did make the Tatar responsible, when he dies would\ngive him the smallest possible punishment, I imagine (since he must be\npunished), judging that he is not to blame if he has come into the world\nan unclean heathen, from heathen parents. The Lord God can't surely take a\nTatar and say he was a Christian? That would mean that the Almighty would\ntell a real untruth. And can the Lord of Heaven and earth tell a lie, even\nin one word?\"\n\nGrigory was thunderstruck and looked at the orator, his eyes nearly\nstarting out of his head. Though he did not clearly understand what was\nsaid, he had caught something in this rigmarole, and stood, looking like a\nman who has just hit his head against a wall. Fyodor Pavlovitch emptied\nhis glass and went off into his shrill laugh.\n\n\"Alyosha! Alyosha! What do you say to that! Ah, you casuist! He must have\nbeen with the Jesuits, somewhere, Ivan. Oh, you stinking Jesuit, who\ntaught you? But you're talking nonsense, you casuist, nonsense, nonsense,\nnonsense. Don't cry, Grigory, we'll reduce him to smoke and ashes in a\nmoment. Tell me this, O ass; you may be right before your enemies, but you\nhave renounced your faith all the same in your own heart, and you say\nyourself that in that very hour you became anathema accursed. And if once\nyou're anathema they won't pat you on the head for it in hell. What do you\nsay to that, my fine Jesuit?\"\n\n\"There is no doubt that I have renounced it in my own heart, but there was\nno special sin in that. Or if there was sin, it was the most ordinary.\"\n\n\"How's that the most ordinary?\"\n\n\"You lie, accursed one!\" hissed Grigory.\n\n\"Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch,\" Smerdyakov went on, staid and\nunruffled, conscious of his triumph, but, as it were, generous to the\nvanquished foe. \"Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch; it is said in\nthe Scripture that if you have faith, even as a mustard seed, and bid a\nmountain move into the sea, it will move without the least delay at your\nbidding. Well, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if I'm without faith and you have so\ngreat a faith that you are continually swearing at me, you try yourself\ntelling this mountain, not to move into the sea for that's a long way off,\nbut even to our stinking little river which runs at the bottom of the\ngarden. You'll see for yourself that it won't budge, but will remain just\nwhere it is however much you shout at it, and that shows, Grigory\nVassilyevitch, that you haven't faith in the proper manner, and only abuse\nothers about it. Again, taking into consideration that no one in our day,\nnot only you, but actually no one, from the highest person to the lowest\npeasant, can shove mountains into the sea--except perhaps some one man in\nthe world, or, at most, two, and they most likely are saving their souls\nin secret somewhere in the Egyptian desert, so you wouldn't find them--if\nso it be, if all the rest have no faith, will God curse all the rest? that\nis, the population of the whole earth, except about two hermits in the\ndesert, and in His well-known mercy will He not forgive one of them? And\nso I'm persuaded that though I may once have doubted I shall be forgiven\nif I shed tears of repentance.\"\n\n\"Stay!\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, in a transport of delight. \"So you do\nsuppose there are two who can move mountains? Ivan, make a note of it,\nwrite it down. There you have the Russian all over!\"\n\n\"You're quite right in saying it's characteristic of the people's faith,\"\nIvan assented, with an approving smile.\n\n\"You agree. Then it must be so, if you agree. It's true, isn't it,\nAlyosha? That's the Russian faith all over, isn't it?\"\n\n\"No, Smerdyakov has not the Russian faith at all,\" said Alyosha firmly and\ngravely.\n\n\"I'm not talking about his faith. I mean those two in the desert, only\nthat idea. Surely that's Russian, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's purely Russian,\" said Alyosha smiling.\n\n\"Your words are worth a gold piece, O ass, and I'll give it to you to-day.\nBut as to the rest you talk nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Let me tell you,\nstupid, that we here are all of little faith, only from carelessness,\nbecause we haven't time; things are too much for us, and, in the second\nplace, the Lord God has given us so little time, only twenty-four hours in\nthe day, so that one hasn't even time to get sleep enough, much less to\nrepent of one's sins. While you have denied your faith to your enemies\nwhen you'd nothing else to think about but to show your faith! So I\nconsider, brother, that it constitutes a sin.\"\n\n\"Constitute a sin it may, but consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch,\nthat it only extenuates it, if it does constitute. If I had believed then\nin very truth, as I ought to have believed, then it really would have been\nsinful if I had not faced tortures for my faith, and had gone over to the\npagan Mohammedan faith. But, of course, it wouldn't have come to torture\nthen, because I should only have had to say at that instant to the\nmountain, 'Move and crush the tormentor,' and it would have moved and at\nthe very instant have crushed him like a black-beetle, and I should have\nwalked away as though nothing had happened, praising and glorifying God.\nBut, suppose at that very moment I had tried all that, and cried to that\nmountain, 'Crush these tormentors,' and it hadn't crushed them, how could\nI have helped doubting, pray, at such a time, and at such a dread hour of\nmortal terror? And apart from that, I should know already that I could not\nattain to the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (for since the mountain\nhad not moved at my word, they could not think very much of my faith up\naloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world to\ncome). So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to no\ngood purpose? For, even though they had flayed my skin half off my back,\neven then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my cry. And\nat such a moment not only doubt might come over one but one might lose\none's reason from fear, so that one would not be able to think at all.\nAnd, therefore, how should I be particularly to blame if not seeing my\nadvantage or reward there or here, I should, at least, save my skin. And\nso trusting fully in the grace of the Lord I should cherish the hope that\nI might be altogether forgiven.\"\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter IX. The Sensualists\n\n\nGrigory and Smerdyakov ran into the room after Dmitri. They had been\nstruggling with him in the passage, refusing to admit him, acting on\ninstructions given them by Fyodor Pavlovitch some days before. Taking\nadvantage of the fact that Dmitri stopped a moment on entering the room to\nlook about him, Grigory ran round the table, closed the double doors on\nthe opposite side of the room leading to the inner apartments, and stood\nbefore the closed doors, stretching wide his arms, prepared to defend the\nentrance, so to speak, with the last drop of his blood. Seeing this,\nDmitri uttered a scream rather than a shout and rushed at Grigory.\n\n\"Then she's there! She's hidden there! Out of the way, scoundrel!\"\n\nHe tried to pull Grigory away, but the old servant pushed him back. Beside\nhimself with fury, Dmitri struck out, and hit Grigory with all his might.\nThe old man fell like a log, and Dmitri, leaping over him, broke in the\ndoor. Smerdyakov remained pale and trembling at the other end of the room,\nhuddling close to Fyodor Pavlovitch.\n\n\"She's here!\" shouted Dmitri. \"I saw her turn towards the house just now,\nbut I couldn't catch her. Where is she? Where is she?\"\n\nThat shout, \"She's here!\" produced an indescribable effect on Fyodor\nPavlovitch. All his terror left him.\n\n\"Hold him! Hold him!\" he cried, and dashed after Dmitri. Meanwhile Grigory\nhad got up from the floor, but still seemed stunned. Ivan and Alyosha ran\nafter their father. In the third room something was heard to fall on the\nfloor with a ringing crash: it was a large glass vase--not an expensive\none--on a marble pedestal which Dmitri had upset as he ran past it.\n\n\"At him!\" shouted the old man. \"Help!\"\n\nIvan and Alyosha caught the old man and were forcibly bringing him back.\n\n\"Why do you run after him? He'll murder you outright,\" Ivan cried\nwrathfully at his father.\n\n\"Ivan! Alyosha! She must be here. Grushenka's here. He said he saw her\nhimself, running.\"\n\nHe was choking. He was not expecting Grushenka at the time, and the sudden\nnews that she was here made him beside himself. He was trembling all over.\nHe seemed frantic.\n\n\"But you've seen for yourself that she hasn't come,\" cried Ivan.\n\n\"But she may have come by that other entrance.\"\n\n\"You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key.\"\n\nDmitri suddenly reappeared in the drawing-room. He had, of course, found\nthe other entrance locked, and the key actually was in Fyodor Pavlovitch's\npocket. The windows of all the rooms were also closed, so Grushenka could\nnot have come in anywhere nor have run out anywhere.\n\n\"Hold him!\" shrieked Fyodor Pavlovitch, as soon as he saw him again. \"He's\nbeen stealing money in my bedroom.\" And tearing himself from Ivan he\nrushed again at Dmitri. But Dmitri threw up both hands and suddenly\nclutched the old man by the two tufts of hair that remained on his\ntemples, tugged at them, and flung him with a crash on the floor. He\nkicked him two or three times with his heel in the face. The old man\nmoaned shrilly. Ivan, though not so strong as Dmitri, threw his arms round\nhim, and with all his might pulled him away. Alyosha helped him with his\nslender strength, holding Dmitri in front.\n\n\"Madman! You've killed him!\" cried Ivan.\n\n\"Serve him right!\" shouted Dmitri breathlessly. \"If I haven't killed him,\nI'll come again and kill him. You can't protect him!\"\n\n\"Dmitri! Go away at once!\" cried Alyosha commandingly.\n\n\"Alexey! You tell me. It's only you I can believe; was she here just now,\nor not? I saw her myself creeping this way by the fence from the lane. I\nshouted, she ran away.\"\n\n\"I swear she's not been here, and no one expected her.\"\n\n\"But I saw her.... So she must ... I'll find out at once where she is....\nGood-by, Alexey! Not a word to AEsop about the money now. But go to\nKaterina Ivanovna at once and be sure to say, 'He sends his compliments to\nyou!' Compliments, his compliments! Just compliments and farewell!\nDescribe the scene to her.\"\n\nMeanwhile Ivan and Grigory had raised the old man and seated him in an\narm-chair. His face was covered with blood, but he was conscious and\nlistened greedily to Dmitri's cries. He was still fancying that Grushenka\nreally was somewhere in the house. Dmitri looked at him with hatred as he\nwent out.\n\n\"I don't repent shedding your blood!\" he cried. \"Beware, old man, beware\nof your dream, for I have my dream, too. I curse you, and disown you\naltogether.\"\n\nHe ran out of the room.\n\n\"She's here. She must be here. Smerdyakov! Smerdyakov!\" the old man\nwheezed, scarcely audibly, beckoning to him with his finger.\n\n\"No, she's not here, you old lunatic!\" Ivan shouted at him angrily. \"Here,\nhe's fainting! Water! A towel! Make haste, Smerdyakov!\"\n\nSmerdyakov ran for water. At last they got the old man undressed, and put\nhim to bed. They wrapped a wet towel round his head. Exhausted by the\nbrandy, by his violent emotion, and the blows he had received, he shut his\neyes and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Ivan and\nAlyosha went back to the drawing-room. Smerdyakov removed the fragments of\nthe broken vase, while Grigory stood by the table looking gloomily at the\nfloor.\n\n\"Shouldn't you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed, too?\" Alyosha\nsaid to him. \"We'll look after him. My brother gave you a terrible blow--on\nthe head.\"\n\n\"He's insulted me!\" Grigory articulated gloomily and distinctly.\n\n\"He's 'insulted' his father, not only you,\" observed Ivan with a forced\nsmile.\n\n\"I used to wash him in his tub. He's insulted me,\" repeated Grigory.\n\n\"Damn it all, if I hadn't pulled him away perhaps he'd have murdered him.\nIt wouldn't take much to do for AEsop, would it?\" whispered Ivan to\nAlyosha.\n\n\"God forbid!\" cried Alyosha.\n\n\"Why should He forbid?\" Ivan went on in the same whisper, with a malignant\ngrimace. \"One reptile will devour the other. And serve them both right,\ntoo.\"\n\nAlyosha shuddered.\n\n\"Of course I won't let him be murdered as I didn't just now. Stay here,\nAlyosha, I'll go for a turn in the yard. My head's begun to ache.\"\n\nAlyosha went to his father's bedroom and sat by his bedside behind the\nscreen for about an hour. The old man suddenly opened his eyes and gazed\nfor a long while at Alyosha, evidently remembering and meditating. All at\nonce his face betrayed extraordinary excitement.\n\n\"Alyosha,\" he whispered apprehensively, \"where's Ivan?\"\n\n\"In the yard. He's got a headache. He's on the watch.\"\n\n\"Give me that looking-glass. It stands over there. Give it me.\"\n\nAlyosha gave him a little round folding looking-glass which stood on the\nchest of drawers. The old man looked at himself in it; his nose was\nconsiderably swollen, and on the left side of his forehead there was a\nrather large crimson bruise.\n\n\"What does Ivan say? Alyosha, my dear, my only son, I'm afraid of Ivan.\nI'm more afraid of Ivan than the other. You're the only one I'm not afraid\nof....\"\n\n\"Don't be afraid of Ivan either. He is angry, but he'll defend you.\"\n\n\"Alyosha, and what of the other? He's run to Grushenka. My angel, tell me\nthe truth, was she here just now or not?\"\n\n\"No one has seen her. It was a mistake. She has not been here.\"\n\n\"You know Mitya wants to marry her, to marry her.\"\n\n\"She won't marry him.\"\n\n\"She won't. She won't. She won't. She won't on any account!\"\n\nThe old man fairly fluttered with joy, as though nothing more comforting\ncould have been said to him. In his delight he seized Alyosha's hand and\npressed it warmly to his heart. Tears positively glittered in his eyes.\n\n\"That image of the Mother of God of which I was telling you just now,\" he\nsaid. \"Take it home and keep it for yourself. And I'll let you go back to\nthe monastery.... I was joking this morning, don't be angry with me. My\nhead aches, Alyosha.... Alyosha, comfort my heart. Be an angel and tell me\nthe truth!\"\n\n\"You're still asking whether she has been here or not?\" Alyosha said\nsorrowfully.\n\n\"No, no, no. I believe you. I'll tell you what it is: you go to Grushenka\nyourself, or see her somehow; make haste and ask her; see for yourself,\nwhich she means to choose, him or me. Eh? What? Can you?\"\n\n\"If I see her I'll ask her,\" Alyosha muttered, embarrassed.\n\n\"No, she won't tell you,\" the old man interrupted, \"she's a rogue. She'll\nbegin kissing you and say that it's you she wants. She's a deceitful,\nshameless hussy. You mustn't go to her, you mustn't!\"\n\n\"No, father, and it wouldn't be suitable, it wouldn't be right at all.\"\n\n\"Where was he sending you just now? He shouted 'Go' as he ran away.\"\n\n\"To Katerina Ivanovna.\"\n\n\"For money? To ask her for money?\"\n\n\"No. Not for money.\"\n\n\"He's no money; not a farthing. I'll settle down for the night, and think\nthings over, and you can go. Perhaps you'll meet her.... Only be sure to\ncome to me to-morrow in the morning. Be sure to. I have a word to say to\nyou to-morrow. Will you come?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"When you come, pretend you've come of your own accord to ask after me.\nDon't tell any one I told you to. Don't say a word to Ivan.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\n\"Good-by, my angel. You stood up for me, just now. I shall never forget\nit. I've a word to say to you to-morrow--but I must think about it.\"\n\n\"And how do you feel now?\"\n\n\"I shall get up to-morrow and go out, perfectly well, perfectly well!\"\n\nCrossing the yard Alyosha found Ivan sitting on the bench at the gateway.\nHe was sitting writing something in pencil in his note-book. Alyosha told\nIvan that their father had waked up, was conscious, and had let him go\nback to sleep at the monastery.\n\n\"Alyosha, I should be very glad to meet you to-morrow morning,\" said Ivan\ncordially, standing up. His cordiality was a complete surprise to Alyosha.\n\n\"I shall be at the Hohlakovs' to-morrow,\" answered Alyosha, \"I may be at\nKaterina Ivanovna's, too, if I don't find her now.\"\n\n\"But you're going to her now, anyway? For that 'compliments and\nfarewell,' \" said Ivan smiling. Alyosha was disconcerted.\n\n\"I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what\nwent before. Dmitri has asked you to go to her and say that he--well, in\nfact--takes his leave of her?\"\n\n\"Brother, how will all this horror end between father and Dmitri?\"\nexclaimed Alyosha.\n\n\"One can't tell for certain. Perhaps in nothing: it may all fizzle out.\nThat woman is a beast. In any case we must keep the old man indoors and\nnot let Dmitri in the house.\"\n\n\"Brother, let me ask one thing more: has any man a right to look at other\nmen and decide which is worthy to live?\"\n\n\"Why bring in the question of worth? The matter is most often decided in\nmen's hearts on other grounds much more natural. And as for rights--who has\nnot the right to wish?\"\n\n\"Not for another man's death?\"\n\n\"What even if for another man's death? Why lie to oneself since all men\nlive so and perhaps cannot help living so. Are you referring to what I\nsaid just now--that one reptile will devour the other? In that case let me\nask you, do you think me like Dmitri capable of shedding AEsop's blood,\nmurdering him, eh?\"\n\n\"What are you saying, Ivan? Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don't\nthink Dmitri is capable of it, either.\"\n\n\"Thanks, if only for that,\" smiled Ivan. \"Be sure, I should always defend\nhim. But in my wishes I reserve myself full latitude in this case. Good-by\ntill to-morrow. Don't condemn me, and don't look on me as a villain,\" he\nadded with a smile.\n\nThey shook hands warmly as they had never done before. Alyosha felt that\nhis brother had taken the first step towards him, and that he had\ncertainly done this with some definite motive.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter II. At His Father's\n\n\nFirst of all, Alyosha went to his father. On the way he remembered that\nhis father had insisted the day before that he should come without his\nbrother Ivan seeing him. \"Why so?\" Alyosha wondered suddenly. \"Even if my\nfather has something to say to me alone, why should I go in unseen? Most\nlikely in his excitement yesterday he meant to say something different,\"\nhe decided. Yet he was very glad when Marfa Ignatyevna, who opened the\ngarden gate to him (Grigory, it appeared, was ill in bed in the lodge),\ntold him in answer to his question that Ivan Fyodorovitch had gone out two\nhours ago.\n\n\"And my father?\"\n\n\"He is up, taking his coffee,\" Marfa answered somewhat dryly.\n\nAlyosha went in. The old man was sitting alone at the table wearing\nslippers and a little old overcoat. He was amusing himself by looking\nthrough some accounts, rather inattentively however. He was quite alone in\nthe house, for Smerdyakov too had gone out marketing. Though he had got up\nearly and was trying to put a bold face on it, he looked tired and weak.\nHis forehead, upon which huge purple bruises had come out during the\nnight, was bandaged with a red handkerchief; his nose too had swollen\nterribly in the night, and some smaller bruises covered it in patches,\ngiving his whole face a peculiarly spiteful and irritable look. The old\nman was aware of this, and turned a hostile glance on Alyosha as he came\nin.\n\n\"The coffee is cold,\" he cried harshly; \"I won't offer you any. I've\nordered nothing but a Lenten fish soup to-day, and I don't invite any one\nto share it. Why have you come?\"\n\n\"To find out how you are,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"Yes. Besides, I told you to come yesterday. It's all of no consequence.\nYou need not have troubled. But I knew you'd come poking in directly.\"\n\nHe said this with almost hostile feeling. At the same time he got up and\nlooked anxiously in the looking-glass (perhaps for the fortieth time that\nmorning) at his nose. He began, too, binding his red handkerchief more\nbecomingly on his forehead.\n\n\"Red's better. It's just like the hospital in a white one,\" he observed\nsententiously. \"Well, how are things over there? How is your elder?\"\n\n\"He is very bad; he may die to-day,\" answered Alyosha. But his father had\nnot listened, and had forgotten his own question at once.\n\n\"Ivan's gone out,\" he said suddenly. \"He is doing his utmost to carry off\nMitya's betrothed. That's what he is staying here for,\" he added\nmaliciously, and, twisting his mouth, looked at Alyosha.\n\n\"Surely he did not tell you so?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"Yes, he did, long ago. Would you believe it, he told me three weeks ago?\nYou don't suppose he too came to murder me, do you? He must have had some\nobject in coming.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? Why do you say such things?\" said Alyosha, troubled.\n\n\"He doesn't ask for money, it's true, but yet he won't get a farthing from\nme. I intend living as long as possible, you may as well know, my dear\nAlexey Fyodorovitch, and so I need every farthing, and the longer I live,\nthe more I shall need it,\" he continued, pacing from one corner of the\nroom to the other, keeping his hands in the pockets of his loose greasy\novercoat made of yellow cotton material. \"I can still pass for a man at\nfive and fifty, but I want to pass for one for another twenty years. As I\nget older, you know, I shan't be a pretty object. The wenches won't come\nto me of their own accord, so I shall want my money. So I am saving up\nmore and more, simply for myself, my dear son Alexey Fyodorovitch. You may\nas well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to the end, let me tell you.\nFor sin is sweet; all abuse it, but all men live in it, only others do it\non the sly, and I openly. And so all the other sinners fall upon me for\nbeing so simple. And your paradise, Alexey Fyodorovitch, is not to my\ntaste, let me tell you that; and it's not the proper place for a\ngentleman, your paradise, even if it exists. I believe that I fall asleep\nand don't wake up again, and that's all. You can pray for my soul if you\nlike. And if you don't want to, don't, damn you! That's my philosophy.\nIvan talked well here yesterday, though we were all drunk. Ivan is a\nconceited coxcomb, but he has no particular learning ... nor education\neither. He sits silent and smiles at one without speaking--that's what\npulls him through.\"\n\nAlyosha listened to him in silence.\n\n\"Why won't he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself airs. Your\nIvan is a scoundrel! And I'll marry Grushenka in a minute if I want to.\nFor if you've money, Alexey Fyodorovitch, you have only to want a thing\nand you can have it. That's what Ivan is afraid of, he is on the watch to\nprevent me getting married and that's why he is egging on Mitya to marry\nGrushenka himself. He hopes to keep me from Grushenka by that (as though I\nshould leave him my money if I don't marry her!). Besides if Mitya marries\nGrushenka, Ivan will carry off his rich betrothed, that's what he's\nreckoning on! He is a scoundrel, your Ivan!\"\n\n\"How cross you are! It's because of yesterday; you had better lie down,\"\nsaid Alyosha.\n\n\"There! you say that,\" the old man observed suddenly, as though it had\nstruck him for the first time, \"and I am not angry with you. But if Ivan\nsaid it, I should be angry with him. It is only with you I have good\nmoments, else you know I am an ill-natured man.\"\n\n\"You are not ill-natured, but distorted,\" said Alyosha with a smile.\n\n\"Listen. I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitya locked up and I\ndon't know now what I shall decide about it. Of course in these\nfashionable days fathers and mothers are looked upon as a prejudice, but\neven now the law does not allow you to drag your old father about by the\nhair, to kick him in the face in his own house, and brag of murdering him\noutright--all in the presence of witnesses. If I liked, I could crush him\nand could have him locked up at once for what he did yesterday.\"\n\n\"Then you don't mean to take proceedings?\"\n\n\"Ivan has dissuaded me. I shouldn't care about Ivan, but there's another\nthing.\"\n\nAnd bending down to Alyosha, he went on in a confidential half-whisper.\n\n\"If I send the ruffian to prison, she'll hear of it and run to see him at\nonce. But if she hears that he has beaten me, a weak old man, within an\ninch of my life, she may give him up and come to me.... For that's her\nway, everything by contraries. I know her through and through! Won't you\nhave a drop of brandy? Take some cold coffee and I'll pour a quarter of a\nglass of brandy into it, it's delicious, my boy.\"\n\n\"No, thank you. I'll take that roll with me if I may,\" said Alyosha, and\ntaking a halfpenny French roll he put it in the pocket of his cassock.\n\"And you'd better not have brandy, either,\" he suggested apprehensively,\nlooking into the old man's face.\n\n\"You are quite right, it irritates my nerves instead of soothing them.\nOnly one little glass. I'll get it out of the cupboard.\"\n\nHe unlocked the cupboard, poured out a glass, drank it, then locked the\ncupboard and put the key back in his pocket.\n\n\"That's enough. One glass won't kill me.\"\n\n\"You see you are in a better humor now,\" said Alyosha, smiling.\n\n\"Um! I love you even without the brandy, but with scoundrels I am a\nscoundrel. Ivan is not going to Tchermashnya--why is that? He wants to spy\nhow much I give Grushenka if she comes. They are all scoundrels! But I\ndon't recognize Ivan, I don't know him at all. Where does he come from? He\nis not one of us in soul. As though I'd leave him anything! I shan't leave\na will at all, you may as well know. And I'll crush Mitya like a beetle. I\nsquash black-beetles at night with my slipper; they squelch when you tread\non them. And your Mitya will squelch too. _Your_ Mitya, for you love him.\nYes, you love him and I am not afraid of your loving him. But if Ivan\nloved him I should be afraid for myself at his loving him. But Ivan loves\nnobody. Ivan is not one of us. People like Ivan are not our sort, my boy.\nThey are like a cloud of dust. When the wind blows, the dust will be\ngone.... I had a silly idea in my head when I told you to come to-day; I\nwanted to find out from you about Mitya. If I were to hand him over a\nthousand or maybe two now, would the beggarly wretch agree to take himself\noff altogether for five years or, better still, thirty-five, and without\nGrushenka, and give her up once for all, eh?\"\n\n\"I--I'll ask him,\" muttered Alyosha. \"If you would give him three thousand,\nperhaps he--\"\n\n\"That's nonsense! You needn't ask him now, no need! I've changed my mind.\nIt was a nonsensical idea of mine. I won't give him anything, not a penny,\nI want my money myself,\" cried the old man, waving his hand. \"I'll crush\nhim like a beetle without it. Don't say anything to him or else he will\nbegin hoping. There's nothing for you to do here, you needn't stay. Is\nthat betrothed of his, Katerina Ivanovna, whom he has kept so carefully\nhidden from me all this time, going to marry him or not? You went to see\nher yesterday, I believe?\"\n\n\"Nothing will induce her to abandon him.\"\n\n\"There you see how dearly these fine young ladies love a rake and a\nscoundrel. They are poor creatures I tell you, those pale young ladies,\nvery different from--Ah, if I had his youth and the looks I had then (for I\nwas better-looking than he at eight and twenty) I'd have been a conquering\nhero just as he is. He is a low cad! But he shan't have Grushenka, anyway,\nhe shan't! I'll crush him!\"\n\nHis anger had returned with the last words.\n\n\"You can go. There's nothing for you to do here to-day,\" he snapped\nharshly.\n\nAlyosha went up to say good-by to him, and kissed him on the shoulder.\n\n\"What's that for?\" The old man was a little surprised. \"We shall see each\nother again, or do you think we shan't?\"\n\n\"Not at all, I didn't mean anything.\"\n\n\"Nor did I, I did not mean anything,\" said the old man, looking at him.\n\"Listen, listen,\" he shouted after him, \"make haste and come again and\nI'll have a fish soup for you, a fine one, not like to-day. Be sure to\ncome! Come to-morrow, do you hear, to-morrow!\"\n\nAnd as soon as Alyosha had gone out of the door, he went to the cupboard\nagain and poured out another half-glass.\n\n\"I won't have more!\" he muttered, clearing his throat, and again he locked\nthe cupboard and put the key in his pocket. Then he went into his bedroom,\nlay down on the bed, exhausted, and in one minute he was asleep.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "After leaving the monastery that morning, Alyosha heads straight to his father's, who's in a grumpy mood. Fyodor goes off on a tirade about how everyone is evil; it's just that he lives his evil openly. Fyodor then explains to Alyosha that the reason that he won't press charges against Dmitri is because he knows that would make Dmitri sympathetic in Grushenka's eyes. Fyodor then remarks that Ivan's a cold fish who loves no one. He asks Alyosha to ask Dmitri if Dmitri would leave Grushenka alone for one or two thousand rubles. Alyosha hesitatingly agrees, but Fyodor quickly takes the offer back spitefully. Alyosha gets up to leave and kisses his father goodbye. Fyodor is surprised by the gesture and wonders if he'll see Alyosha again, but Alyosha reassures him that it's just a simple goodbye. After Alyosha leaves, Fyodor goes to his bedroom to sleep."}, {"": "76", "document": "Chapter IV. Cana Of Galilee\n\n\nIt was very late, according to the monastery ideas, when Alyosha returned\nto the hermitage; the door-keeper let him in by a special entrance. It had\nstruck nine o'clock--the hour of rest and repose after a day of such\nagitation for all. Alyosha timidly opened the door and went into the\nelder's cell where his coffin was now standing. There was no one in the\ncell but Father Paissy, reading the Gospel in solitude over the coffin,\nand the young novice Porfiry, who, exhausted by the previous night's\nconversation and the disturbing incidents of the day, was sleeping the\ndeep sound sleep of youth on the floor of the other room. Though Father\nPaissy heard Alyosha come in, he did not even look in his direction.\nAlyosha turned to the right from the door to the corner, fell on his knees\nand began to pray.\n\nHis soul was overflowing but with mingled feelings; no single sensation\nstood out distinctly; on the contrary, one drove out another in a slow,\ncontinual rotation. But there was a sweetness in his heart and, strange to\nsay, Alyosha was not surprised at it. Again he saw that coffin before him,\nthe hidden dead figure so precious to him, but the weeping and poignant\ngrief of the morning was no longer aching in his soul. As soon as he came\nin, he fell down before the coffin as before a holy shrine, but joy, joy\nwas glowing in his mind and in his heart. The one window of the cell was\nopen, the air was fresh and cool. \"So the smell must have become stronger,\nif they opened the window,\" thought Alyosha. But even this thought of the\nsmell of corruption, which had seemed to him so awful and humiliating a\nfew hours before, no longer made him feel miserable or indignant. He began\nquietly praying, but he soon felt that he was praying almost mechanically.\nFragments of thought floated through his soul, flashed like stars and went\nout again at once, to be succeeded by others. But yet there was reigning\nin his soul a sense of the wholeness of things--something steadfast and\ncomforting--and he was aware of it himself. Sometimes he began praying\nardently, he longed to pour out his thankfulness and love....\n\nBut when he had begun to pray, he passed suddenly to something else, and\nsank into thought, forgetting both the prayer and what had interrupted it.\nHe began listening to what Father Paissy was reading, but worn out with\nexhaustion he gradually began to doze.\n\n\"_And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee;_\" read Father\nPaissy. \"_And the mother of Jesus was there; And both Jesus was called,\nand his disciples, to the marriage._\"\n\n\"Marriage? What's that?... A marriage!\" floated whirling through Alyosha's\nmind. \"There is happiness for her, too.... She has gone to the feast....\nNo, she has not taken the knife.... That was only a tragic phrase.... Well\n... tragic phrases should be forgiven, they must be. Tragic phrases\ncomfort the heart.... Without them, sorrow would be too heavy for men to\nbear. Rakitin has gone off to the back alley. As long as Rakitin broods\nover his wrongs, he will always go off to the back alley.... But the high\nroad ... The road is wide and straight and bright as crystal, and the sun\nis at the end of it.... Ah!... What's being read?\"...\n\n\"_And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have\nno wine_\" ... Alyosha heard.\n\n\"Ah, yes, I was missing that, and I didn't want to miss it, I love that\npassage: it's Cana of Galilee, the first miracle.... Ah, that miracle! Ah,\nthat sweet miracle! It was not men's grief, but their joy Christ visited,\nHe worked His first miracle to help men's gladness.... 'He who loves men\nloves their gladness, too' ... He was always repeating that, it was one of\nhis leading ideas.... 'There's no living without joy,' Mitya says.... Yes,\nMitya.... 'Everything that is true and good is always full of\nforgiveness,' he used to say that, too\" ...\n\n\"_Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what has it to do with thee or me? Mine\nhour is not yet come._\n\n\"_His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do\nit_\" ...\n\n\"Do it.... Gladness, the gladness of some poor, very poor, people.... Of\ncourse they were poor, since they hadn't wine enough even at a wedding....\nThe historians write that, in those days, the people living about the Lake\nof Gennesaret were the poorest that can possibly be imagined ... and\nanother great heart, that other great being, His Mother, knew that He had\ncome not only to make His great terrible sacrifice. She knew that His\nheart was open even to the simple, artless merrymaking of some obscure and\nunlearned people, who had warmly bidden Him to their poor wedding. 'Mine\nhour is not yet come,' He said, with a soft smile (He must have smiled\ngently to her). And, indeed, was it to make wine abundant at poor weddings\nHe had come down to earth? And yet He went and did as she asked Him....\nAh, he is reading again\"....\n\n\"_Jesus saith unto them, Fill the waterpots with water. And they filled\nthem up to the brim._\n\n\"_And he saith unto them, Draw out now and bear unto the governor of the\nfeast. And they bare it._\n\n\"_When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and\nknew not whence it was; (but the servants which drew the water knew;) the\ngovernor of the feast called the bridegroom,_\n\n\"_And saith unto him, Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine;\nand when men have well drunk, that which is worse; but thou hast kept the\ngood wine until now._\"\n\n\"But what's this, what's this? Why is the room growing wider?... Ah, yes\n... It's the marriage, the wedding ... yes, of course. Here are the\nguests, here are the young couple sitting, and the merry crowd and ...\nWhere is the wise governor of the feast? But who is this? Who? Again the\nwalls are receding.... Who is getting up there from the great table?\nWhat!... He here, too? But he's in the coffin ... but he's here, too. He\nhas stood up, he sees me, he is coming here.... God!\"...\n\nYes, he came up to him, to him, he, the little, thin old man, with tiny\nwrinkles on his face, joyful and laughing softly. There was no coffin now,\nand he was in the same dress as he had worn yesterday sitting with them,\nwhen the visitors had gathered about him. His face was uncovered, his eyes\nwere shining. How was this, then? He, too, had been called to the feast.\nHe, too, at the marriage of Cana in Galilee....\n\n\"Yes, my dear, I am called, too, called and bidden,\" he heard a soft voice\nsaying over him. \"Why have you hidden yourself here, out of sight? You\ncome and join us too.\"\n\nIt was his voice, the voice of Father Zossima. And it must be he, since he\ncalled him!\n\nThe elder raised Alyosha by the hand and he rose from his knees.\n\n\"We are rejoicing,\" the little, thin old man went on. \"We are drinking the\nnew wine, the wine of new, great gladness; do you see how many guests?\nHere are the bride and bridegroom, here is the wise governor of the feast,\nhe is tasting the new wine. Why do you wonder at me? I gave an onion to a\nbeggar, so I, too, am here. And many here have given only an onion\neach--only one little onion.... What are all our deeds? And you, my gentle\none, you, my kind boy, you too have known how to give a famished woman an\nonion to-day. Begin your work, dear one, begin it, gentle one!... Do you\nsee our Sun, do you see Him?\"\n\n\"I am afraid ... I dare not look,\" whispered Alyosha.\n\n\"Do not fear Him. He is terrible in His greatness, awful in His sublimity,\nbut infinitely merciful. He has made Himself like unto us from love and\nrejoices with us. He is changing the water into wine that the gladness of\nthe guests may not be cut short. He is expecting new guests, He is calling\nnew ones unceasingly for ever and ever.... There they are bringing new\nwine. Do you see they are bringing the vessels....\"\n\nSomething glowed in Alyosha's heart, something filled it till it ached,\ntears of rapture rose from his soul.... He stretched out his hands,\nuttered a cry and waked up.\n\nAgain the coffin, the open window, and the soft, solemn, distinct reading\nof the Gospel. But Alyosha did not listen to the reading. It was strange,\nhe had fallen asleep on his knees, but now he was on his feet, and\nsuddenly, as though thrown forward, with three firm rapid steps he went\nright up to the coffin. His shoulder brushed against Father Paissy without\nhis noticing it. Father Paissy raised his eyes for an instant from his\nbook, but looked away again at once, seeing that something strange was\nhappening to the boy. Alyosha gazed for half a minute at the coffin, at\nthe covered, motionless dead man that lay in the coffin, with the ikon on\nhis breast and the peaked cap with the octangular cross, on his head. He\nhad only just been hearing his voice, and that voice was still ringing in\nhis ears. He was listening, still expecting other words, but suddenly he\nturned sharply and went out of the cell.\n\nHe did not stop on the steps either, but went quickly down; his soul,\noverflowing with rapture, yearned for freedom, space, openness. The vault\nof heaven, full of soft, shining stars, stretched vast and fathomless\nabove him. The Milky Way ran in two pale streams from the zenith to the\nhorizon. The fresh, motionless, still night enfolded the earth. The white\ntowers and golden domes of the cathedral gleamed out against the sapphire\nsky. The gorgeous autumn flowers, in the beds round the house, were\nslumbering till morning. The silence of earth seemed to melt into the\nsilence of the heavens. The mystery of earth was one with the mystery of\nthe stars....\n\nAlyosha stood, gazed, and suddenly threw himself down on the earth. He did\nnot know why he embraced it. He could not have told why he longed so\nirresistibly to kiss it, to kiss it all. But he kissed it weeping, sobbing\nand watering it with his tears, and vowed passionately to love it, to love\nit for ever and ever. \"Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love\nthose tears,\" echoed in his soul.\n\nWhat was he weeping over?\n\nOh! in his rapture he was weeping even over those stars, which were\nshining to him from the abyss of space, and \"he was not ashamed of that\necstasy.\" There seemed to be threads from all those innumerable worlds of\nGod, linking his soul to them, and it was trembling all over \"in contact\nwith other worlds.\" He longed to forgive every one and for everything, and\nto beg forgiveness. Oh, not for himself, but for all men, for all and for\neverything. \"And others are praying for me too,\" echoed again in his soul.\nBut with every instant he felt clearly and, as it were, tangibly, that\nsomething firm and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered into his\nsoul. It was as though some idea had seized the sovereignty of his\nmind--and it was for all his life and for ever and ever. He had fallen on\nthe earth a weak boy, but he rose up a resolute champion, and he knew and\nfelt it suddenly at the very moment of his ecstasy. And never, never, all\nhis life long, could Alyosha forget that minute.\n\n\"Some one visited my soul in that hour,\" he used to say afterwards, with\nimplicit faith in his words.\n\nWithin three days he left the monastery in accordance with the words of\nhis elder, who had bidden him \"sojourn in the world.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter IX. They Carry Mitya Away\n\n\nWhen the protocol had been signed, Nikolay Parfenovitch turned solemnly to\nthe prisoner and read him the \"Committal,\" setting forth, that in such a\nyear, on such a day, in such a place, the investigating lawyer of such-\nand-such a district court, having examined so-and-so (to wit, Mitya)\naccused of this and of that (all the charges were carefully written out)\nand having considered that the accused, not pleading guilty to the charges\nmade against him, had brought forward nothing in his defense, while the\nwitnesses, so-and-so, and so-and-so, and the circumstances such-and-such\ntestify against him, acting in accordance with such-and-such articles of\nthe Statute Book, and so on, has ruled, that, in order to preclude so-and-\nso (Mitya) from all means of evading pursuit and judgment he be detained\nin such-and-such a prison, which he hereby notifies to the accused and\ncommunicates a copy of this same \"Committal\" to the deputy prosecutor, and\nso on, and so on.\n\nIn brief, Mitya was informed that he was, from that moment, a prisoner,\nand that he would be driven at once to the town, and there shut up in a\nvery unpleasant place. Mitya listened attentively, and only shrugged his\nshoulders.\n\n\"Well, gentlemen, I don't blame you. I'm ready.... I understand that\nthere's nothing else for you to do.\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch informed him gently that he would be escorted at once\nby the rural police officer, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, who happened to be on\nthe spot....\n\n\"Stay,\" Mitya interrupted, suddenly, and impelled by uncontrollable\nfeeling he pronounced, addressing all in the room:\n\n\"Gentlemen, we're all cruel, we're all monsters, we all make men weep, and\nmothers, and babes at the breast, but of all, let it be settled here, now,\nof all I am the lowest reptile! I've sworn to amend, and every day I've\ndone the same filthy things. I understand now that such men as I need a\nblow, a blow of destiny to catch them as with a noose, and bind them by a\nforce from without. Never, never should I have risen of myself! But the\nthunderbolt has fallen. I accept the torture of accusation, and my public\nshame, I want to suffer and by suffering I shall be purified. Perhaps I\nshall be purified, gentlemen? But listen, for the last time, I am not\nguilty of my father's blood. I accept my punishment, not because I killed\nhim, but because I meant to kill him, and perhaps I really might have\nkilled him. Still I mean to fight it out with you. I warn you of that.\nI'll fight it out with you to the end, and then God will decide. Good-by,\ngentlemen, don't be vexed with me for having shouted at you during the\nexamination. Oh, I was still such a fool then.... In another minute I\nshall be a prisoner, but now, for the last time, as a free man, Dmitri\nKaramazov offers you his hand. Saying good-by to you, I say it to all\nmen.\"\n\nHis voice quivered and he stretched out his hand, but Nikolay\nParfenovitch, who happened to stand nearest to him, with a sudden, almost\nnervous movement, hid his hands behind his back. Mitya instantly noticed\nthis, and started. He let his outstretched hand fall at once.\n\n\"The preliminary inquiry is not yet over,\" Nikolay Parfenovitch faltered,\nsomewhat embarrassed. \"We will continue it in the town, and I, for my\npart, of course, am ready to wish you all success ... in your defense....\nAs a matter of fact, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, I've always been disposed to\nregard you as, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty. All of us here,\nif I may make bold to speak for all, we are all ready to recognize that\nyou are, at bottom, a young man of honor, but, alas, one who has been\ncarried away by certain passions to a somewhat excessive degree....\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch's little figure was positively majestic by the time\nhe had finished speaking. It struck Mitya that in another minute this\n\"boy\" would take his arm, lead him to another corner, and renew their\nconversation about \"girls.\" But many quite irrelevant and inappropriate\nthoughts sometimes occur even to a prisoner when he is being led out to\nexecution.\n\n\"Gentlemen, you are good, you are humane, may I see _her_ to say 'good-by'\nfor the last time?\" asked Mitya.\n\n\"Certainly, but considering ... in fact, now it's impossible except in the\npresence of--\"\n\n\"Oh, well, if it must be so, it must!\"\n\nGrushenka was brought in, but the farewell was brief, and of few words,\nand did not at all satisfy Nikolay Parfenovitch. Grushenka made a deep bow\nto Mitya.\n\n\"I have told you I am yours, and I will be yours. I will follow you for\never, wherever they may send you. Farewell; you are guiltless, though\nyou've been your own undoing.\"\n\nHer lips quivered, tears flowed from her eyes.\n\n\"Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, for ruining you, too, with my love.\"\n\nMitya would have said something more, but he broke off and went out. He\nwas at once surrounded by men who kept a constant watch on him. At the\nbottom of the steps to which he had driven up with such a dash the day\nbefore with Andrey's three horses, two carts stood in readiness. Mavriky\nMavrikyevitch, a sturdy, thick-set man with a wrinkled face, was annoyed\nabout something, some sudden irregularity. He was shouting angrily. He\nasked Mitya to get into the cart with somewhat excessive surliness.\n\n\"When I stood him drinks in the tavern, the man had quite a different\nface,\" thought Mitya, as he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of\npeople, peasants, women and drivers. Trifon Borissovitch came down the\nsteps too. All stared at Mitya.\n\n\"Forgive me at parting, good people!\" Mitya shouted suddenly from the\ncart.\n\n\"Forgive us too!\" he heard two or three voices.\n\n\"Good-by to you, too, Trifon Borissovitch!\"\n\nBut Trifon Borissovitch did not even turn round. He was, perhaps, too\nbusy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something. It appeared that\neverything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables\nwere to accompany Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. The peasant who had been ordered\nto drive the second cart was pulling on his smock, stoutly maintaining\nthat it was not his turn to go, but Akim's. But Akim was not to be seen.\nThey ran to look for him. The peasant persisted and besought them to wait.\n\n\"You see what our peasants are, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. They've no shame!\"\nexclaimed Trifon Borissovitch. \"Akim gave you twenty-five copecks the day\nbefore yesterday. You've drunk it all and now you cry out. I'm simply\nsurprised at your good-nature, with our low peasants, Mavriky\nMavrikyevitch, that's all I can say.\"\n\n\"But what do we want a second cart for?\" Mitya put in. \"Let's start with\nthe one, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. I won't be unruly, I won't run away from\nyou, old fellow. What do we want an escort for?\"\n\n\"I'll trouble you, sir, to learn how to speak to me if you've never been\ntaught. I'm not 'old fellow' to you, and you can keep your advice for\nanother time!\" Mavriky Mavrikyevitch snapped out savagely, as though glad\nto vent his wrath.\n\nMitya was reduced to silence. He flushed all over. A moment later he felt\nsuddenly very cold. The rain had ceased, but the dull sky was still\novercast with clouds, and a keen wind was blowing straight in his face.\n\n\"I've taken a chill,\" thought Mitya, twitching his shoulders.\n\nAt last Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, too, got into the cart, sat down heavily,\nand, as though without noticing it, squeezed Mitya into the corner. It is\ntrue that he was out of humor and greatly disliked the task that had been\nlaid upon him.\n\n\"Good-by, Trifon Borissovitch!\" Mitya shouted again, and felt himself,\nthat he had not called out this time from good-nature, but involuntarily,\nfrom resentment.\n\nBut Trifon Borissovitch stood proudly, with both hands behind his back,\nand staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry face, he made no\nreply.\n\n\"Good-by, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, good-by!\" he heard all at once the voice of\nKalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart he held out\nhis hand to Mitya. He had no cap on.\n\nMitya had time to seize and press his hand.\n\n\"Good-by, dear fellow! I shan't forget your generosity,\" he cried warmly.\n\nBut the cart moved and their hands parted. The bell began ringing and\nMitya was driven off.\n\nKalganov ran back, sat down in a corner, bent his head, hid his face in\nhis hands, and burst out crying. For a long while he sat like that, crying\nas though he were a little boy instead of a young man of twenty. Oh, he\nbelieved almost without doubt in Mitya's guilt.\n\n\"What are these people? What can men be after this?\" he exclaimed\nincoherently, in bitter despondency, almost despair. At that moment he had\nno desire to live.\n\n\"Is it worth it? Is it worth it?\" exclaimed the boy in his grief.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter VII. Ilusha\n\n\nThe doctor came out of the room again, muffled in his fur coat and with\nhis cap on his head. His face looked almost angry and disgusted, as though\nhe were afraid of getting dirty. He cast a cursory glance round the\npassage, looking sternly at Alyosha and Kolya as he did so. Alyosha waved\nfrom the door to the coachman, and the carriage that had brought the\ndoctor drove up. The captain darted out after the doctor, and, bowing\napologetically, stopped him to get the last word. The poor fellow looked\nutterly crushed; there was a scared look in his eyes.\n\n\"Your Excellency, your Excellency ... is it possible?\" he began, but could\nnot go on and clasped his hands in despair. Yet he still gazed imploringly\nat the doctor, as though a word from him might still change the poor boy's\nfate.\n\n\"I can't help it, I am not God!\" the doctor answered offhand, though with\nthe customary impressiveness.\n\n\"Doctor ... your Excellency ... and will it be soon, soon?\"\n\n\"You must be prepared for anything,\" said the doctor in emphatic and\nincisive tones, and dropping his eyes, he was about to step out to the\ncoach.\n\n\"Your Excellency, for Christ's sake!\" the terror-stricken captain stopped\nhim again. \"Your Excellency! but can nothing, absolutely nothing save him\nnow?\"\n\n\"It's not in my hands now,\" said the doctor impatiently, \"but h'm!...\" he\nstopped suddenly. \"If you could, for instance ... send ... your patient\n... at once, without delay\" (the words \"at once, without delay,\" the\ndoctor uttered with an almost wrathful sternness that made the captain\nstart) \"to Syracuse, the change to the new be-ne-ficial climatic\nconditions might possibly effect--\"\n\n\"To Syracuse!\" cried the captain, unable to grasp what was said.\n\n\"Syracuse is in Sicily,\" Kolya jerked out suddenly in explanation. The\ndoctor looked at him.\n\n\"Sicily! your Excellency,\" faltered the captain, \"but you've seen\"--he\nspread out his hands, indicating his surroundings--\"mamma and my family?\"\n\n\"N--no, Sicily is not the place for the family, the family should go to\nCaucasus in the early spring ... your daughter must go to the Caucasus,\nand your wife ... after a course of the waters in the Caucasus for her\nrheumatism ... must be sent straight to Paris to the mental specialist\nLepelletier; I could give you a note to him, and then ... there might be a\nchange--\"\n\n\"Doctor, doctor! But you see!\" The captain flung wide his hands again\ndespairingly, indicating the bare wooden walls of the passage.\n\n\"Well, that's not my business,\" grinned the doctor. \"I have only told you\nthe answer of medical science to your question as to possible treatment.\nAs for the rest, to my regret--\"\n\n\"Don't be afraid, apothecary, my dog won't bite you,\" Kolya rapped out\nloudly, noticing the doctor's rather uneasy glance at Perezvon, who was\nstanding in the doorway. There was a wrathful note in Kolya's voice. He\nused the word apothecary instead of doctor on purpose, and, as he\nexplained afterwards, used it \"to insult him.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" The doctor flung up his head, staring with surprise at\nKolya. \"Who's this?\" he addressed Alyosha, as though asking him to\nexplain.\n\n\"It's Perezvon's master, don't worry about me,\" Kolya said incisively\nagain.\n\n\"Perezvon?\"(7) repeated the doctor, perplexed.\n\n\"He hears the bell, but where it is he cannot tell. Good-by, we shall meet\nin Syracuse.\"\n\n\"Who's this? Who's this?\" The doctor flew into a terrible rage.\n\n\"He is a schoolboy, doctor, he is a mischievous boy; take no notice of\nhim,\" said Alyosha, frowning and speaking quickly. \"Kolya, hold your\ntongue!\" he cried to Krassotkin. \"Take no notice of him, doctor,\" he\nrepeated, rather impatiently.\n\n\"He wants a thrashing, a good thrashing!\" The doctor stamped in a perfect\nfury.\n\n\"And you know, apothecary, my Perezvon might bite!\" said Kolya, turning\npale, with quivering voice and flashing eyes. \"_Ici_, Perezvon!\"\n\n\"Kolya, if you say another word, I'll have nothing more to do with you,\"\nAlyosha cried peremptorily.\n\n\"There is only one man in the world who can command Nikolay\nKrassotkin--this is the man\"; Kolya pointed to Alyosha. \"I obey him, good-\nby!\"\n\nHe stepped forward, opened the door, and quickly went into the inner room.\nPerezvon flew after him. The doctor stood still for five seconds in\namazement, looking at Alyosha; then, with a curse, he went out quickly to\nthe carriage, repeating aloud, \"This is ... this is ... I don't know what\nit is!\" The captain darted forward to help him into the carriage. Alyosha\nfollowed Kolya into the room. He was already by Ilusha's bedside. The sick\nboy was holding his hand and calling for his father. A minute later the\ncaptain, too, came back.\n\n\"Father, father, come ... we ...\" Ilusha faltered in violent excitement,\nbut apparently unable to go on, he flung his wasted arms round his father\nand Kolya, uniting them in one embrace, and hugging them as tightly as he\ncould. The captain suddenly began to shake with dumb sobs, and Kolya's\nlips and chin twitched.\n\n\"Father, father! How sorry I am for you!\" Ilusha moaned bitterly.\n\n\"Ilusha ... darling ... the doctor said ... you would be all right ... we\nshall be happy ... the doctor ...\" the captain began.\n\n\"Ah, father! I know what the new doctor said to you about me.... I saw!\"\ncried Ilusha, and again he hugged them both with all his strength, hiding\nhis face on his father's shoulder.\n\n\"Father, don't cry, and when I die get a good boy, another one ... choose\none of them all, a good one, call him Ilusha and love him instead of\nme....\"\n\n\"Hush, old man, you'll get well,\" Krassotkin cried suddenly, in a voice\nthat sounded angry.\n\n\"But don't ever forget me, father,\" Ilusha went on, \"come to my grave ...\nand, father, bury me by our big stone, where we used to go for our walk,\nand come to me there with Krassotkin in the evening ... and Perezvon ... I\nshall expect you.... Father, father!\"\n\nHis voice broke. They were all three silent, still embracing. Nina was\ncrying quietly in her chair, and at last seeing them all crying, \"mamma,\"\ntoo, burst into tears.\n\n\"Ilusha! Ilusha!\" she exclaimed.\n\nKrassotkin suddenly released himself from Ilusha's embrace.\n\n\"Good-by, old man, mother expects me back to dinner,\" he said quickly.\n\"What a pity I did not tell her! She will be dreadfully anxious.... But\nafter dinner I'll come back to you for the whole day, for the whole\nevening, and I'll tell you all sorts of things, all sorts of things. And\nI'll bring Perezvon, but now I will take him with me, because he will\nbegin to howl when I am away and bother you. Good-by!\"\n\nAnd he ran out into the passage. He didn't want to cry, but in the passage\nhe burst into tears. Alyosha found him crying.\n\n\"Kolya, you must be sure to keep your word and come, or he will be\nterribly disappointed,\" Alyosha said emphatically.\n\n\"I will! Oh, how I curse myself for not having come before!\" muttered\nKolya, crying, and no longer ashamed of it.\n\nAt that moment the captain flew out of the room, and at once closed the\ndoor behind him. His face looked frenzied, his lips were trembling. He\nstood before the two and flung up his arms.\n\n\"I don't want a good boy! I don't want another boy!\" he muttered in a wild\nwhisper, clenching his teeth. \"If I forget thee, Jerusalem, may my\ntongue--\" He broke off with a sob and sank on his knees before the wooden\nbench. Pressing his fists against his head, he began sobbing with absurd\nwhimpering cries, doing his utmost that his cries should not be heard in\nthe room.\n\nKolya ran out into the street.\n\n\"Good-by, Karamazov? Will you come yourself?\" he cried sharply and angrily\nto Alyosha.\n\n\"I will certainly come in the evening.\"\n\n\"What was that he said about Jerusalem?... What did he mean by that?\"\n\n\"It's from the Bible. 'If I forget thee, Jerusalem,' that is, if I forget\nall that is most precious to me, if I let anything take its place, then\nmay--\"\n\n\"I understand, that's enough! Mind you come! _Ici_, Perezvon!\" he cried\nwith positive ferocity to the dog, and with rapid strides he went home.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter VII. An Historical Survey\n\n\n\"The medical experts have striven to convince us that the prisoner is out\nof his mind and, in fact, a maniac. I maintain that he is in his right\nmind, and that if he had not been, he would have behaved more cleverly. As\nfor his being a maniac, that I would agree with, but only in one point,\nthat is, his fixed idea about the three thousand. Yet I think one might\nfind a much simpler cause than his tendency to insanity. For my part I\nagree thoroughly with the young doctor who maintained that the prisoner's\nmental faculties have always been normal, and that he has only been\nirritable and exasperated. The object of the prisoner's continual and\nviolent anger was not the sum itself; there was a special motive at the\nbottom of it. That motive is jealousy!\"\n\nHere Ippolit Kirillovitch described at length the prisoner's fatal passion\nfor Grushenka. He began from the moment when the prisoner went to the\n\"young person's\" lodgings \"to beat her\"--\"I use his own expression,\" the\nprosecutor explained--\"but instead of beating her, he remained there, at\nher feet. That was the beginning of the passion. At the same time the\nprisoner's father was captivated by the same young person--a strange and\nfatal coincidence, for they both lost their hearts to her simultaneously,\nthough both had known her before. And she inspired in both of them the\nmost violent, characteristically Karamazov passion. We have her own\nconfession: 'I was laughing at both of them.' Yes, the sudden desire to\nmake a jest of them came over her, and she conquered both of them at once.\nThe old man, who worshiped money, at once set aside three thousand roubles\nas a reward for one visit from her, but soon after that, he would have\nbeen happy to lay his property and his name at her feet, if only she would\nbecome his lawful wife. We have good evidence of this. As for the\nprisoner, the tragedy of his fate is evident; it is before us. But such\nwas the young person's 'game.' The enchantress gave the unhappy young man\nno hope until the last moment, when he knelt before her, stretching out\nhands that were already stained with the blood of his father and rival. It\nwas in that position that he was arrested. 'Send me to Siberia with him, I\nhave brought him to this, I am most to blame,' the woman herself cried, in\ngenuine remorse at the moment of his arrest.\n\n\"The talented young man, to whom I have referred already, Mr. Rakitin,\ncharacterized this heroine in brief and impressive terms: 'She was\ndisillusioned early in life, deceived and ruined by a betrothed, who\nseduced and abandoned her. She was left in poverty, cursed by her\nrespectable family, and taken under the protection of a wealthy old man,\nwhom she still, however, considers as her benefactor. There was perhaps\nmuch that was good in her young heart, but it was embittered too early.\nShe became prudent and saved money. She grew sarcastic and resentful\nagainst society.' After this sketch of her character it may well be\nunderstood that she might laugh at both of them simply from mischief, from\nmalice.\n\n\"After a month of hopeless love and moral degradation, during which he\nbetrayed his betrothed and appropriated money entrusted to his honor, the\nprisoner was driven almost to frenzy, almost to madness by continual\njealousy--and of whom? His father! And the worst of it was that the crazy\nold man was alluring and enticing the object of his affection by means of\nthat very three thousand roubles, which the son looked upon as his own\nproperty, part of his inheritance from his mother, of which his father was\ncheating him. Yes, I admit it was hard to bear! It might well drive a man\nto madness. It was not the money, but the fact that this money was used\nwith such revolting cynicism to ruin his happiness!\"\n\nThen the prosecutor went on to describe how the idea of murdering his\nfather had entered the prisoner's head, and illustrated his theory with\nfacts.\n\n\"At first he only talked about it in taverns--he was talking about it all\nthat month. Ah, he likes being always surrounded with company, and he\nlikes to tell his companions everything, even his most diabolical and\ndangerous ideas; he likes to share every thought with others, and expects,\nfor some reason, that those he confides in will meet him with perfect\nsympathy, enter into all his troubles and anxieties, take his part and not\noppose him in anything. If not, he flies into a rage and smashes up\neverything in the tavern. [Then followed the anecdote about Captain\nSnegiryov.] Those who heard the prisoner began to think at last that he\nmight mean more than threats, and that such a frenzy might turn threats\ninto actions.\"\n\nHere the prosecutor described the meeting of the family at the monastery,\nthe conversations with Alyosha, and the horrible scene of violence when\nthe prisoner had rushed into his father's house just after dinner.\n\n\"I cannot positively assert,\" the prosecutor continued, \"that the prisoner\nfully intended to murder his father before that incident. Yet the idea had\nseveral times presented itself to him, and he had deliberated on it--for\nthat we have facts, witnesses, and his own words. I confess, gentlemen of\nthe jury,\" he added, \"that till to-day I have been uncertain whether to\nattribute to the prisoner conscious premeditation. I was firmly convinced\nthat he had pictured the fatal moment beforehand, but had only pictured\nit, contemplating it as a possibility. He had not definitely considered\nwhen and how he might commit the crime.\n\n\"But I was only uncertain till to-day, till that fatal document was\npresented to the court just now. You yourselves heard that young lady's\nexclamation, 'It is the plan, the program of the murder!' That is how she\ndefined that miserable, drunken letter of the unhappy prisoner. And, in\nfact, from that letter we see that the whole fact of the murder was\npremeditated. It was written two days before, and so we know now for a\nfact that, forty-eight hours before the perpetration of his terrible\ndesign, the prisoner swore that, if he could not get money next day, he\nwould murder his father in order to take the envelope with the notes from\nunder his pillow, as soon as Ivan had left. 'As soon as Ivan had gone\naway'--you hear that; so he had thought everything out, weighing every\ncircumstance, and he carried it all out just as he had written it. The\nproof of premeditation is conclusive; the crime must have been committed\nfor the sake of the money, that is stated clearly, that is written and\nsigned. The prisoner does not deny his signature.\n\n\"I shall be told he was drunk when he wrote it. But that does not diminish\nthe value of the letter, quite the contrary; he wrote when drunk what he\nhad planned when sober. Had he not planned it when sober, he would not\nhave written it when drunk. I shall be asked: Then why did he talk about\nit in taverns? A man who premeditates such a crime is silent and keeps it\nto himself. Yes, but he talked about it before he had formed a plan, when\nhe had only the desire, only the impulse to it. Afterwards he talked less\nabout it. On the evening he wrote that letter at the 'Metropolis' tavern,\ncontrary to his custom he was silent, though he had been drinking. He did\nnot play billiards, he sat in a corner, talked to no one. He did indeed\nturn a shopman out of his seat, but that was done almost unconsciously,\nbecause he could never enter a tavern without making a disturbance. It is\ntrue that after he had taken the final decision, he must have felt\napprehensive that he had talked too much about his design beforehand, and\nthat this might lead to his arrest and prosecution afterwards. But there\nwas nothing for it; he could not take his words back, but his luck had\nserved him before, it would serve him again. He believed in his star, you\nknow! I must confess, too, that he did a great deal to avoid the fatal\ncatastrophe. 'To-morrow I shall try and borrow the money from every one,'\nas he writes in his peculiar language, 'and if they won't give it to me,\nthere will be bloodshed.' \"\n\nHere Ippolit Kirillovitch passed to a detailed description of all Mitya's\nefforts to borrow the money. He described his visit to Samsonov, his\njourney to Lyagavy. \"Harassed, jeered at, hungry, after selling his watch\nto pay for the journey (though he tells us he had fifteen hundred roubles\non him--a likely story), tortured by jealousy at having left the object of\nhis affections in the town, suspecting that she would go to Fyodor\nPavlovitch in his absence, he returned at last to the town, to find, to\nhis joy, that she had not been near his father. He accompanied her himself\nto her protector. (Strange to say, he doesn't seem to have been jealous of\nSamsonov, which is psychologically interesting.) Then he hastens back to\nhis ambush in the back gardens, and there learns that Smerdyakov is in a\nfit, that the other servant is ill--the coast is clear and he knows the\n'signals'--what a temptation! Still he resists it; he goes off to a lady\nwho has for some time been residing in the town, and who is highly\nesteemed among us, Madame Hohlakov. That lady, who had long watched his\ncareer with compassion, gave him the most judicious advice, to give up his\ndissipated life, his unseemly love-affair, the waste of his youth and\nvigor in pot-house debauchery, and to set off to Siberia to the gold-\nmines: 'that would be an outlet for your turbulent energies, your romantic\ncharacter, your thirst for adventure.' \"\n\nAfter describing the result of this conversation and the moment when the\nprisoner learnt that Grushenka had not remained at Samsonov's, the sudden\nfrenzy of the luckless man worn out with jealousy and nervous exhaustion,\nat the thought that she had deceived him and was now with his father,\nIppolit Kirillovitch concluded by dwelling upon the fatal influence of\nchance. \"Had the maid told him that her mistress was at Mokroe with her\nformer lover, nothing would have happened. But she lost her head, she\ncould only swear and protest her ignorance, and if the prisoner did not\nkill her on the spot, it was only because he flew in pursuit of his false\nmistress.\n\n\"But note, frantic as he was, he took with him a brass pestle. Why that?\nWhy not some other weapon? But since he had been contemplating his plan\nand preparing himself for it for a whole month, he would snatch up\nanything like a weapon that caught his eye. He had realized for a month\npast that any object of the kind would serve as a weapon, so he instantly,\nwithout hesitation, recognized that it would serve his purpose. So it was\nby no means unconsciously, by no means involuntarily, that he snatched up\nthat fatal pestle. And then we find him in his father's garden--the coast\nis clear, there are no witnesses, darkness and jealousy. The suspicion\nthat she was there, with him, with his rival, in his arms, and perhaps\nlaughing at him at that moment--took his breath away. And it was not mere\nsuspicion, the deception was open, obvious. She must be there, in that\nlighted room, she must be behind the screen; and the unhappy man would\nhave us believe that he stole up to the window, peeped respectfully in,\nand discreetly withdrew, for fear something terrible and immoral should\nhappen. And he tries to persuade us of that, us, who understand his\ncharacter, who know his state of mind at the moment, and that he knew the\nsignals by which he could at once enter the house.\" At this point Ippolit\nKirillovitch broke off to discuss exhaustively the suspected connection of\nSmerdyakov with the murder. He did this very circumstantially, and every\none realized that, although he professed to despise that suspicion, he\nthought the subject of great importance.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter X. The Speech For The Defense. An Argument That Cuts Both Ways\n\n\nAll was hushed as the first words of the famous orator rang out. The eyes\nof the audience were fastened upon him. He began very simply and directly,\nwith an air of conviction, but not the slightest trace of conceit. He made\nno attempt at eloquence, at pathos, or emotional phrases. He was like a\nman speaking in a circle of intimate and sympathetic friends. His voice\nwas a fine one, sonorous and sympathetic, and there was something genuine\nand simple in the very sound of it. But every one realized at once that\nthe speaker might suddenly rise to genuine pathos and \"pierce the heart\nwith untold power.\" His language was perhaps more irregular than Ippolit\nKirillovitch's, but he spoke without long phrases, and indeed, with more\nprecision. One thing did not please the ladies: he kept bending forward,\nespecially at the beginning of his speech, not exactly bowing, but as\nthough he were about to dart at his listeners, bending his long spine in\nhalf, as though there were a spring in the middle that enabled him to bend\nalmost at right angles.\n\nAt the beginning of his speech he spoke rather disconnectedly, without\nsystem, one may say, dealing with facts separately, though, at the end,\nthese facts formed a whole. His speech might be divided into two parts,\nthe first consisting of criticism in refutation of the charge, sometimes\nmalicious and sarcastic. But in the second half he suddenly changed his\ntone, and even his manner, and at once rose to pathos. The audience seemed\non the look-out for it, and quivered with enthusiasm.\n\nHe went straight to the point, and began by saying that although he\npracticed in Petersburg, he had more than once visited provincial towns to\ndefend prisoners, of whose innocence he had a conviction or at least a\npreconceived idea. \"That is what has happened to me in the present case,\"\nhe explained. \"From the very first accounts in the newspapers I was struck\nby something which strongly prepossessed me in the prisoner's favor. What\ninterested me most was a fact which often occurs in legal practice, but\nrarely, I think, in such an extreme and peculiar form as in the present\ncase. I ought to formulate that peculiarity only at the end of my speech,\nbut I will do so at the very beginning, for it is my weakness to go to\nwork directly, not keeping my effects in reserve and economizing my\nmaterial. That may be imprudent on my part, but at least it's sincere.\nWhat I have in my mind is this: there is an overwhelming chain of evidence\nagainst the prisoner, and at the same time not one fact that will stand\ncriticism, if it is examined separately. As I followed the case more\nclosely in the papers my idea was more and more confirmed, and I suddenly\nreceived from the prisoner's relatives a request to undertake his defense.\nI at once hurried here, and here I became completely convinced. It was to\nbreak down this terrible chain of facts, and to show that each piece of\nevidence taken separately was unproved and fantastic, that I undertook the\ncase.\"\n\nSo Fetyukovitch began.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury,\" he suddenly protested, \"I am new to this\ndistrict. I have no preconceived ideas. The prisoner, a man of turbulent\nand unbridled temper, has not insulted me. But he has insulted perhaps\nhundreds of persons in this town, and so prejudiced many people against\nhim beforehand. Of course I recognize that the moral sentiment of local\nsociety is justly excited against him. The prisoner is of turbulent and\nviolent temper. Yet he was received in society here; he was even welcome\nin the family of my talented friend, the prosecutor.\"\n\n(N.B. At these words there were two or three laughs in the audience,\nquickly suppressed, but noticed by all. All of us knew that the prosecutor\nreceived Mitya against his will, solely because he had somehow interested\nhis wife--a lady of the highest virtue and moral worth, but fanciful,\ncapricious, and fond of opposing her husband, especially in trifles.\nMitya's visits, however, had not been frequent.)\n\n\"Nevertheless I venture to suggest,\" Fetyukovitch continued, \"that in\nspite of his independent mind and just character, my opponent may have\nformed a mistaken prejudice against my unfortunate client. Oh, that is so\nnatural; the unfortunate man has only too well deserved such prejudice.\nOutraged morality, and still more outraged taste, is often relentless. We\nhave, in the talented prosecutor's speech, heard a stern analysis of the\nprisoner's character and conduct, and his severe critical attitude to the\ncase was evident. And, what's more, he went into psychological subtleties\ninto which he could not have entered, if he had the least conscious and\nmalicious prejudice against the prisoner. But there are things which are\neven worse, even more fatal in such cases, than the most malicious and\nconsciously unfair attitude. It is worse if we are carried away by the\nartistic instinct, by the desire to create, so to speak, a romance,\nespecially if God has endowed us with psychological insight. Before I\nstarted on my way here, I was warned in Petersburg, and was myself aware,\nthat I should find here a talented opponent whose psychological insight\nand subtlety had gained him peculiar renown in legal circles of recent\nyears. But profound as psychology is, it's a knife that cuts both ways.\"\n(Laughter among the public.) \"You will, of course, forgive me my\ncomparison; I can't boast of eloquence. But I will take as an example any\npoint in the prosecutor's speech.\n\n\"The prisoner, running away in the garden in the dark, climbed over the\nfence, was seized by the servant, and knocked him down with a brass\npestle. Then he jumped back into the garden and spent five minutes over\nthe man, trying to discover whether he had killed him or not. And the\nprosecutor refuses to believe the prisoner's statement that he ran to old\nGrigory out of pity. 'No,' he says, 'such sensibility is impossible at\nsuch a moment, that's unnatural; he ran to find out whether the only\nwitness of his crime was dead or alive, and so showed that he had\ncommitted the murder, since he would not have run back for any other\nreason.'\n\n\"Here you have psychology; but let us take the same method and apply it to\nthe case the other way round, and our result will be no less probable. The\nmurderer, we are told, leapt down to find out, as a precaution, whether\nthe witness was alive or not, yet he had left in his murdered father's\nstudy, as the prosecutor himself argues, an amazing piece of evidence in\nthe shape of a torn envelope, with an inscription that there had been\nthree thousand roubles in it. 'If he had carried that envelope away with\nhim, no one in the world would have known of that envelope and of the\nnotes in it, and that the money had been stolen by the prisoner.' Those\nare the prosecutor's own words. So on one side you see a complete absence\nof precaution, a man who has lost his head and run away in a fright,\nleaving that clew on the floor, and two minutes later, when he has killed\nanother man, we are entitled to assume the most heartless and calculating\nforesight in him. But even admitting this was so, it is psychological\nsubtlety, I suppose, that discerns that under certain circumstances I\nbecome as bloodthirsty and keen-sighted as a Caucasian eagle, while at the\nnext I am as timid and blind as a mole. But if I am so bloodthirsty and\ncruelly calculating that when I kill a man I only run back to find out\nwhether he is alive to witness against me, why should I spend five minutes\nlooking after my victim at the risk of encountering other witnesses? Why\nsoak my handkerchief, wiping the blood off his head so that it may be\nevidence against me later? If he were so cold-hearted and calculating, why\nnot hit the servant on the head again and again with the same pestle so as\nto kill him outright and relieve himself of all anxiety about the witness?\n\n\"Again, though he ran to see whether the witness was alive, he left\nanother witness on the path, that brass pestle which he had taken from the\ntwo women, and which they could always recognize afterwards as theirs, and\nprove that he had taken it from them. And it is not as though he had\nforgotten it on the path, dropped it through carelessness or haste, no, he\nhad flung away his weapon, for it was found fifteen paces from where\nGrigory lay. Why did he do so? Just because he was grieved at having\nkilled a man, an old servant; and he flung away the pestle with a curse,\nas a murderous weapon. That's how it must have been, what other reason\ncould he have had for throwing it so far? And if he was capable of feeling\ngrief and pity at having killed a man, it shows that he was innocent of\nhis father's murder. Had he murdered him, he would never have run to\nanother victim out of pity; then he would have felt differently; his\nthoughts would have been centered on self-preservation. He would have had\nnone to spare for pity, that is beyond doubt. On the contrary, he would\nhave broken his skull instead of spending five minutes looking after him.\nThere was room for pity and good-feeling just because his conscience had\nbeen clear till then. Here we have a different psychology. I have\npurposely resorted to this method, gentlemen of the jury, to show that you\ncan prove anything by it. It all depends on who makes use of it.\nPsychology lures even most serious people into romancing, and quite\nunconsciously. I am speaking of the abuse of psychology, gentlemen.\"\n\nSounds of approval and laughter, at the expense of the prosecutor, were\nagain audible in the court. I will not repeat the speech in detail; I will\nonly quote some passages from it, some leading points.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter II. Lizaveta\n\n\nThere was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly, and\nconfirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta was a\ndwarfish creature, \"not five foot within a wee bit,\" as many of the pious\nold women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad,\nhealthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare in her\neyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered\nabout, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempen\nsmock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb's wool, and formed a\nsort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had\nleaves, bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on\nthe ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard,\ncalled Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with\nsome well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and\ndiseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to\nhim. But she rarely did so, for every one in the town was ready to look\nafter her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's\nemployers, and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople,\ntried to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and\nsheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress her\nup without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral\nporch, and taking off all that had been given her--kerchief, sheepskin,\nskirt or boots--she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock\nas before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the\nprovince, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizaveta, and was\nwounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And though he was told she was\nan idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about\nin nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties, and must not occur\nagain. But the governor went his way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At\nlast her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of\nthe religious persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, every one seemed\nto like her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town,\nespecially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk into\nstrange houses, and no one drove her away. Every one was kind to her and\ngave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and at\nonce drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a\nroll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met.\nSometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it\nto her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted\nanything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop,\nwhere there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on\nher, for they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by\nthem, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to\nchurch. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle\n(there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a\nkitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up \"at home,\" that\nis at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went\nthere every night, and slept either in the passage or the cowhouse. People\nwere amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to\nit, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some\nof the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but\nthat is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to\ntime uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud?\n\nIt happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years ago)\nfive or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a very late\nhour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the \"back-\nway,\" which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles on\neither side. This way leads out on to the bridge over the long, stinking\npool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and\nburdocks under the hurdle our revelers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped\nto look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness.\nIt occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether\nany one could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so\nforth.... They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was\nimpossible. But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and\ndeclared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a\ncertain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that time he\nwas overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and\nentertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in\nreality he was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time\nwhen he had received the news of his first wife's death in Petersburg,\nand, with crape upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly\nthat even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The\nrevelers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion; and one of them\neven began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea\neven more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity, and at\nlast they went on their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore that he had\ngone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no\none ever knew. But five or six months later, all the town was talking,\nwith intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta's condition, and trying\nto find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a\nterrible rumor was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than\nFyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumor going? Of that drunken band five had\nleft the town and the only one still among us was an elderly and much\nrespected civil councilor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could\nhardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it.\nBut rumor pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing\nat him. Of course this was no great grievance to him: he would not have\ntroubled to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud,\nand did not condescend to talk except in his own circle of the officials\nand nobles, whom he entertained so well.\n\nAt the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked\nquarrels and altercations in defense of him and succeeded in bringing some\npeople round to his side. \"It's the wench's own fault,\" he asserted, and\nthe culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict, who had escaped from prison and\nwhose name was well known to us, as he had hidden in our town. This\nconjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that Karp had been in\nthe neighborhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three\npeople. But this affair and all the talk about it did not estrange popular\nsympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A\nwell-to-do merchant's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her\nhouse at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the\nconfinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their\nvigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor\nPavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the\nhigh, strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have\nbeen lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny. The\nmost likely explanation is that it happened naturally--that Lizaveta,\naccustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow\nmanaged to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt\ndown, injuring herself.\n\nGrigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch an\nold midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at\ndawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit\ndown, put it on her lap. \"A child of God--an orphan is akin to all,\" he\nsaid, \"and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who\nhas come from the devil's son and a holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no\nmore.\"\n\nSo Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people\nwere not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor Pavlovitch\ndid not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted\nvigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at\nhis adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname\nfor the child, calling him Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname.\n\nSo this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant, and was\nliving in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our story begins.\nHe was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smerdyakov, but\nI am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these\ncommon menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of\nSmerdyakov in the course of it.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Chapter III. A Meeting With The Schoolboys\n\n\n\"Thank goodness he did not ask me about Grushenka,\" thought Alyosha, as he\nleft his father's house and turned towards Madame Hohlakov's, \"or I might\nhave to tell him of my meeting with Grushenka yesterday.\"\n\nAlyosha felt painfully that since yesterday both combatants had renewed\ntheir energies, and that their hearts had grown hard again. \"Father is\nspiteful and angry, he's made some plan and will stick to it. And what of\nDmitri? He too will be harder than yesterday, he too must be spiteful and\nangry, and he too, no doubt, has made some plan. Oh, I must succeed in\nfinding him to-day, whatever happens.\"\n\nBut Alyosha had not long to meditate. An incident occurred on the road,\nwhich, though apparently of little consequence, made a great impression on\nhim. Just after he had crossed the square and turned the corner coming out\ninto Mihailovsky Street, which is divided by a small ditch from the High\nStreet (our whole town is intersected by ditches), he saw a group of\nschoolboys between the ages of nine and twelve, at the bridge. They were\ngoing home from school, some with their bags on their shoulders, others\nwith leather satchels slung across them, some in short jackets, others in\nlittle overcoats. Some even had those high boots with creases round the\nankles, such as little boys spoilt by rich fathers love to wear. The whole\ngroup was talking eagerly about something, apparently holding a council.\nAlyosha had never from his Moscow days been able to pass children without\ntaking notice of them, and although he was particularly fond of children\nof three or thereabout, he liked schoolboys of ten and eleven too. And so,\nanxious as he was to-day, he wanted at once to turn aside to talk to them.\nHe looked into their excited rosy faces, and noticed at once that all the\nboys had stones in their hands. Behind the ditch some thirty paces away,\nthere was another schoolboy standing by a fence. He too had a satchel at\nhis side. He was about ten years old, pale, delicate-looking and with\nsparkling black eyes. He kept an attentive and anxious watch on the other\nsix, obviously his schoolfellows with whom he had just come out of school,\nbut with whom he had evidently had a feud.\n\nAlyosha went up and, addressing a fair, curly-headed, rosy boy in a black\njacket, observed:\n\n\"When I used to wear a satchel like yours, I always used to carry it on my\nleft side, so as to have my right hand free, but you've got yours on your\nright side. So it will be awkward for you to get at it.\"\n\nAlyosha had no art or premeditation in beginning with this practical\nremark. But it is the only way for a grown-up person to get at once into\nconfidential relations with a child, or still more with a group of\nchildren. One must begin in a serious, businesslike way so as to be on a\nperfectly equal footing. Alyosha understood it by instinct.\n\n\"But he is left-handed,\" another, a fine healthy-looking boy of eleven,\nanswered promptly. All the others stared at Alyosha.\n\n\"He even throws stones with his left hand,\" observed a third.\n\nAt that instant a stone flew into the group, but only just grazed the\nleft-handed boy, though it was well and vigorously thrown by the boy\nstanding the other side of the ditch.\n\n\"Give it him, hit him back, Smurov,\" they all shouted. But Smurov, the\nleft-handed boy, needed no telling, and at once revenged himself; he threw\na stone, but it missed the boy and hit the ground. The boy the other side\nof the ditch, the pocket of whose coat was visibly bulging with stones,\nflung another stone at the group; this time it flew straight at Alyosha\nand hit him painfully on the shoulder.\n\n\"He aimed it at you, he meant it for you. You are Karamazov, Karamazov!\"\nthe boys shouted, laughing. \"Come, all throw at him at once!\" and six\nstones flew at the boy. One struck the boy on the head and he fell down,\nbut at once leapt up and began ferociously returning their fire. Both\nsides threw stones incessantly. Many of the group had their pockets full\ntoo.\n\n\"What are you about! Aren't you ashamed? Six against one! Why, you'll kill\nhim,\" cried Alyosha.\n\nHe ran forward and met the flying stones to screen the solitary boy. Three\nor four ceased throwing for a minute.\n\n\"He began first!\" cried a boy in a red shirt in an angry childish voice.\n\"He is a beast, he stabbed Krassotkin in class the other day with a\npenknife. It bled. Krassotkin wouldn't tell tales, but he must be\nthrashed.\"\n\n\"But what for? I suppose you tease him.\"\n\n\"There, he sent a stone in your back again, he knows you,\" cried the\nchildren. \"It's you he is throwing at now, not us. Come, all of you, at\nhim again, don't miss, Smurov!\" and again a fire of stones, and a very\nvicious one, began. The boy the other side of the ditch was hit in the\nchest; he screamed, began to cry and ran away uphill towards Mihailovsky\nStreet. They all shouted: \"Aha, he is funking, he is running away. Wisp of\ntow!\"\n\n\"You don't know what a beast he is, Karamazov, killing is too good for\nhim,\" said the boy in the jacket, with flashing eyes. He seemed to be the\neldest.\n\n\"What's wrong with him?\" asked Alyosha, \"is he a tell-tale or what?\"\n\nThe boys looked at one another as though derisively.\n\n\"Are you going that way, to Mihailovsky?\" the same boy went on. \"Catch him\nup.... You see he's stopped again, he is waiting and looking at you.\"\n\n\"He is looking at you,\" the other boys chimed in.\n\n\"You ask him, does he like a disheveled wisp of tow. Do you hear, ask him\nthat!\"\n\nThere was a general burst of laughter. Alyosha looked at them, and they at\nhim.\n\n\"Don't go near him, he'll hurt you,\" cried Smurov in a warning voice.\n\n\"I shan't ask him about the wisp of tow, for I expect you tease him with\nthat question somehow. But I'll find out from him why you hate him so.\"\n\n\"Find out then, find out,\" cried the boys, laughing.\n\nAlyosha crossed the bridge and walked uphill by the fence, straight\ntowards the boy.\n\n\"You'd better look out,\" the boys called after him; \"he won't be afraid of\nyou. He will stab you in a minute, on the sly, as he did Krassotkin.\"\n\nThe boy waited for him without budging. Coming up to him, Alyosha saw\nfacing him a child of about nine years old. He was an undersized weakly\nboy with a thin pale face, with large dark eyes that gazed at him\nvindictively. He was dressed in a rather shabby old overcoat, which he had\nmonstrously outgrown. His bare arms stuck out beyond his sleeves. There\nwas a large patch on the right knee of his trousers, and in his right boot\njust at the toe there was a big hole in the leather, carefully blackened\nwith ink. Both the pockets of his great-coat were weighed down with\nstones. Alyosha stopped two steps in front of him, looking inquiringly at\nhim. The boy, seeing at once from Alyosha's eyes that he wouldn't beat\nhim, became less defiant, and addressed him first.\n\n\"I am alone, and there are six of them. I'll beat them all, alone!\" he\nsaid suddenly, with flashing eyes.\n\n\"I think one of the stones must have hurt you badly,\" observed Alyosha.\n\n\"But I hit Smurov on the head!\" cried the boy.\n\n\"They told me that you know me, and that you threw a stone at me on\npurpose,\" said Alyosha.\n\nThe boy looked darkly at him.\n\n\"I don't know you. Do you know me?\" Alyosha continued.\n\n\"Let me alone!\" the boy cried irritably; but he did not move, as though he\nwere expecting something, and again there was a vindictive light in his\neyes.\n\n\"Very well, I am going,\" said Alyosha; \"only I don't know you and I don't\ntease you. They told me how they tease you, but I don't want to tease you.\nGood-by!\"\n\n\"Monk in silk trousers!\" cried the boy, following Alyosha with the same\nvindictive and defiant expression, and he threw himself into an attitude\nof defense, feeling sure that now Alyosha would fall upon him; but Alyosha\nturned, looked at him, and walked away. He had not gone three steps before\nthe biggest stone the boy had in his pocket hit him a painful blow in the\nback.\n\n\"So you'll hit a man from behind! They tell the truth, then, when they say\nthat you attack on the sly,\" said Alyosha, turning round again. This time\nthe boy threw a stone savagely right into Alyosha's face; but Alyosha just\nhad time to guard himself, and the stone struck him on the elbow.\n\n\"Aren't you ashamed? What have I done to you?\" he cried.\n\nThe boy waited in silent defiance, certain that now Alyosha would attack\nhim. Seeing that even now he would not, his rage was like a little wild\nbeast's; he flew at Alyosha himself, and before Alyosha had time to move,\nthe spiteful child had seized his left hand with both of his and bit his\nmiddle finger. He fixed his teeth in it and it was ten seconds before he\nlet go. Alyosha cried out with pain and pulled his finger away with all\nhis might. The child let go at last and retreated to his former distance.\nAlyosha's finger had been badly bitten to the bone, close to the nail; it\nbegan to bleed. Alyosha took out his handkerchief and bound it tightly\nround his injured hand. He was a full minute bandaging it. The boy stood\nwaiting all the time. At last Alyosha raised his gentle eyes and looked at\nhim.\n\n\"Very well,\" he said, \"you see how badly you've bitten me. That's enough,\nisn't it? Now tell me, what have I done to you?\"\n\nThe boy stared in amazement.\n\n\"Though I don't know you and it's the first time I've seen you,\" Alyosha\nwent on with the same serenity, \"yet I must have done something to you--you\nwouldn't have hurt me like this for nothing. So what have I done? How have\nI wronged you, tell me?\"\n\nInstead of answering, the boy broke into a loud tearful wail and ran away.\nAlyosha walked slowly after him towards Mihailovsky Street, and for a long\ntime he saw the child running in the distance as fast as ever, not turning\nhis head, and no doubt still keeping up his tearful wail. He made up his\nmind to find him out as soon as he had time, and to solve this mystery.\nJust now he had not the time.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he\nadvanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head\nforward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging\nbull. His voice was deep, loud, and his manner displayed a kind of\ndogged self-assertion which had nothing aggressive in it. It seemed\na necessity, and it was directed apparently as much at himself as at\nanybody else. He was spotlessly neat, apparelled in immaculate white\nfrom shoes to hat, and in the various Eastern ports where he got his\nliving as ship-chandler's water-clerk he was very popular.\n\nA water-clerk need not pass an examination in anything under the sun,\nbut he must have Ability in the abstract and demonstrate it practically.\nHis work consists in racing under sail, steam, or oars against other\nwater-clerks for any ship about to anchor, greeting her captain\ncheerily, forcing upon him a card--the business card of the\nship-chandler--and on his first visit on shore piloting him firmly but\nwithout ostentation to a vast, cavern-like shop which is full of things\nthat are eaten and drunk on board ship; where you can get everything\nto make her seaworthy and beautiful, from a set of chain-hooks for her\ncable to a book of gold-leaf for the carvings of her stern; and where\nher commander is received like a brother by a ship-chandler he has never\nseen before. There is a cool parlour, easy-chairs, bottles, cigars,\nwriting implements, a copy of harbour regulations, and a warmth of\nwelcome that melts the salt of a three months' passage out of a seaman's\nheart. The connection thus begun is kept up, as long as the ship remains\nin harbour, by the daily visits of the water-clerk. To the captain he\nis faithful like a friend and attentive like a son, with the patience\nof Job, the unselfish devotion of a woman, and the jollity of a boon\ncompanion. Later on the bill is sent in. It is a beautiful and humane\noccupation. Therefore good water-clerks are scarce. When a water-clerk\nwho possesses Ability in the abstract has also the advantage of having\nbeen brought up to the sea, he is worth to his employer a lot of money\nand some humouring. Jim had always good wages and as much humouring\nas would have bought the fidelity of a fiend. Nevertheless, with black\ningratitude he would throw up the job suddenly and depart. To his\nemployers the reasons he gave were obviously inadequate. They said\n'Confounded fool!' as soon as his back was turned. This was their\ncriticism on his exquisite sensibility.\n\nTo the white men in the waterside business and to the captains of ships\nhe was just Jim--nothing more. He had, of course, another name, but he\nwas anxious that it should not be pronounced. His incognito, which had\nas many holes as a sieve, was not meant to hide a personality but a\nfact. When the fact broke through the incognito he would leave\nsuddenly the seaport where he happened to be at the time and go to\nanother--generally farther east. He kept to seaports because he was a\nseaman in exile from the sea, and had Ability in the abstract, which is\ngood for no other work but that of a water-clerk. He retreated in good\norder towards the rising sun, and the fact followed him casually but\ninevitably. Thus in the course of years he was known successively in\nBombay, in Calcutta, in Rangoon, in Penang, in Batavia--and in each of\nthese halting-places was just Jim the water-clerk. Afterwards, when his\nkeen perception of the Intolerable drove him away for good from seaports\nand white men, even into the virgin forest, the Malays of the jungle\nvillage, where he had elected to conceal his deplorable faculty, added a\nword to the monosyllable of his incognito. They called him Tuan Jim: as\none might say--Lord Jim.\n\nOriginally he came from a parsonage. Many commanders of fine\nmerchant-ships come from these abodes of piety and peace. Jim's father\npossessed such certain knowledge of the Unknowable as made for the\nrighteousness of people in cottages without disturbing the ease of mind\nof those whom an unerring Providence enables to live in mansions. The\nlittle church on a hill had the mossy greyness of a rock seen through a\nragged screen of leaves. It had stood there for centuries, but the trees\naround probably remembered the laying of the first stone. Below, the\nred front of the rectory gleamed with a warm tint in the midst of\ngrass-plots, flower-beds, and fir-trees, with an orchard at the back,\na paved stable-yard to the left, and the sloping glass of greenhouses\ntacked along a wall of bricks. The living had belonged to the family for\ngenerations; but Jim was one of five sons, and when after a course of\nlight holiday literature his vocation for the sea had declared itself,\nhe was sent at once to a 'training-ship for officers of the mercantile\nmarine.'\n\nHe learned there a little trigonometry and how to cross top-gallant\nyards. He was generally liked. He had the third place in navigation\nand pulled stroke in the first cutter. Having a steady head with an\nexcellent physique, he was very smart aloft. His station was in the\nfore-top, and often from there he looked down, with the contempt of a\nman destined to shine in the midst of dangers, at the peaceful multitude\nof roofs cut in two by the brown tide of the stream, while scattered\non the outskirts of the surrounding plain the factory chimneys rose\nperpendicular against a grimy sky, each slender like a pencil, and\nbelching out smoke like a volcano. He could see the big ships departing,\nthe broad-beamed ferries constantly on the move, the little boats\nfloating far below his feet, with the hazy splendour of the sea in the\ndistance, and the hope of a stirring life in the world of adventure.\n\nOn the lower deck in the babel of two hundred voices he would forget\nhimself, and beforehand live in his mind the sea-life of light\nliterature. He saw himself saving people from sinking ships, cutting\naway masts in a hurricane, swimming through a surf with a line; or as a\nlonely castaway, barefooted and half naked, walking on uncovered reefs\nin search of shellfish to stave off starvation. He confronted savages on\ntropical shores, quelled mutinies on the high seas, and in a small boat\nupon the ocean kept up the hearts of despairing men--always an example\nof devotion to duty, and as unflinching as a hero in a book.\n\n'Something's up. Come along.'\n\nHe leaped to his feet. The boys were streaming up the ladders. Above\ncould be heard a great scurrying about and shouting, and when he got\nthrough the hatchway he stood still--as if confounded.\n\nIt was the dusk of a winter's day. The gale had freshened since noon,\nstopping the traffic on the river, and now blew with the strength of a\nhurricane in fitful bursts that boomed like salvoes of great guns firing\nover the ocean. The rain slanted in sheets that flicked and subsided,\nand between whiles Jim had threatening glimpses of the tumbling tide,\nthe small craft jumbled and tossing along the shore, the motionless\nbuildings in the driving mist, the broad ferry-boats pitching\nponderously at anchor, the vast landing-stages heaving up and down and\nsmothered in sprays. The next gust seemed to blow all this away. The\nair was full of flying water. There was a fierce purpose in the gale, a\nfurious earnestness in the screech of the wind, in the brutal tumult of\nearth and sky, that seemed directed at him, and made him hold his breath\nin awe. He stood still. It seemed to him he was whirled around.\n\nHe was jostled. 'Man the cutter!' Boys rushed past him. A coaster\nrunning in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one\nof the ship's instructors had seen the accident. A mob of boys clambered\non the rails, clustered round the davits. 'Collision. Just ahead of us.\nMr. Symons saw it.' A push made him stagger against the mizzen-mast, and\nhe caught hold of a rope. The old training-ship chained to her moorings\nquivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty\nrigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea.\n'Lower away!' He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail,\nand rushed after her. He heard a splash. 'Let go; clear the falls!' He\nleaned over. The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks. The cutter\ncould be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind,\nthat for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship.\nA yelling voice in her reached him faintly: 'Keep stroke, you young\nwhelps, if you want to save anybody! Keep stroke!' And suddenly she\nlifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke\nthe spell cast upon her by the wind and tide.\n\nJim felt his shoulder gripped firmly. 'Too late, youngster.' The captain\nof the ship laid a restraining hand on that boy, who seemed on the\npoint of leaping overboard, and Jim looked up with the pain of conscious\ndefeat in his eyes. The captain smiled sympathetically. 'Better luck\nnext time. This will teach you to be smart.'\n\nA shrill cheer greeted the cutter. She came dancing back half full of\nwater, and with two exhausted men washing about on her bottom boards.\nThe tumult and the menace of wind and sea now appeared very contemptible\nto Jim, increasing the regret of his awe at their inefficient menace.\nNow he knew what to think of it. It seemed to him he cared nothing for\nthe gale. He could affront greater perils. He would do so--better than\nanybody. Not a particle of fear was left. Nevertheless he brooded apart\nthat evening while the bowman of the cutter--a boy with a face like\na girl's and big grey eyes--was the hero of the lower deck. Eager\nquestioners crowded round him. He narrated: 'I just saw his head\nbobbing, and I dashed my boat-hook in the water. It caught in his\nbreeches and I nearly went overboard, as I thought I would, only old\nSymons let go the tiller and grabbed my legs--the boat nearly swamped.\nOld Symons is a fine old chap. I don't mind a bit him being grumpy with\nus. He swore at me all the time he held my leg, but that was only his\nway of telling me to stick to the boat-hook. Old Symons is awfully\nexcitable--isn't he? No--not the little fair chap--the other, the big\none with a beard. When we pulled him in he groaned, \"Oh, my leg! oh,\nmy leg!\" and turned up his eyes. Fancy such a big chap fainting like\na girl. Would any of you fellows faint for a jab with a boat-hook?--I\nwouldn't. It went into his leg so far.' He showed the boat-hook, which\nhe had carried below for the purpose, and produced a sensation. 'No,\nsilly! It was not his flesh that held him--his breeches did. Lots of\nblood, of course.'\n\nJim thought it a pitiful display of vanity. The gale had ministered to\na heroism as spurious as its own pretence of terror. He felt angry with\nthe brutal tumult of earth and sky for taking him unawares and checking\nunfairly a generous readiness for narrow escapes. Otherwise he was\nrather glad he had not gone into the cutter, since a lower achievement\nhad served the turn. He had enlarged his knowledge more than those who\nhad done the work. When all men flinched, then--he felt sure--he alone\nwould know how to deal with the spurious menace of wind and seas. He\nknew what to think of it. Seen dispassionately, it seemed contemptible.\nHe could detect no trace of emotion in himself, and the final effect of\na staggering event was that, unnoticed and apart from the noisy crowd of\nboys, he exulted with fresh certitude in his avidity for adventure, and\nin a sense of many-sided courage.\n", "summary": "Meet Jim, a young guy who works as a \"water-clerk\" at various ports in Southeast Asia. That means that he helps ships get situated with fresh drinking water and other supplies before they head out to sea. Jim is good-looking and fairly popular, but people don't seem to know much about him. Good thing our narrator is in the know, and can give us the details. Flashback alert: Jim grew up in a parsonage in England. Because he was a younger brother, he had no shot at inheriting his family's land, so he opted to become a sailor. Maybe he saw this gem and couldn't resist joining up. The early part of Jim's career goes pretty well, except for one night when he misses an opportunity to help rescue some people at sea."}, {"": "84", "document": "\nA month or so afterwards, when Jim, in answer to pointed questions,\ntried to tell honestly the truth of this experience, he said, speaking\nof the ship: 'She went over whatever it was as easy as a snake crawling\nover a stick.' The illustration was good: the questions were aiming at\nfacts, and the official Inquiry was being held in the police court of an\nEastern port. He stood elevated in the witness-box, with burning cheeks\nin a cool lofty room: the big framework of punkahs moved gently to and\nfro high above his head, and from below many eyes were looking at him\nout of dark faces, out of white faces, out of red faces, out of faces\nattentive, spellbound, as if all these people sitting in orderly rows\nupon narrow benches had been enslaved by the fascination of his voice.\nIt was very loud, it rang startling in his own ears, it was the only\nsound audible in the world, for the terribly distinct questions that\nextorted his answers seemed to shape themselves in anguish and pain\nwithin his breast,--came to him poignant and silent like the\nterrible questioning of one's conscience. Outside the court the sun\nblazed--within was the wind of great punkahs that made you shiver, the\nshame that made you burn, the attentive eyes whose glance stabbed. The\nface of the presiding magistrate, clean shaved and impassible, looked at\nhim deadly pale between the red faces of the two nautical assessors. The\nlight of a broad window under the ceiling fell from above on the heads\nand shoulders of the three men, and they were fiercely distinct in the\nhalf-light of the big court-room where the audience seemed composed of\nstaring shadows. They wanted facts. Facts! They demanded facts from him,\nas if facts could explain anything!\n\n'After you had concluded you had collided with something floating awash,\nsay a water-logged wreck, you were ordered by your captain to go forward\nand ascertain if there was any damage done. Did you think it likely from\nthe force of the blow?' asked the assessor sitting to the left. He had\na thin horseshoe beard, salient cheek-bones, and with both elbows on\nthe desk clasped his rugged hands before his face, looking at Jim with\nthoughtful blue eyes; the other, a heavy, scornful man, thrown back in\nhis seat, his left arm extended full length, drummed delicately with his\nfinger-tips on a blotting-pad: in the middle the magistrate upright in\nthe roomy arm-chair, his head inclined slightly on the shoulder, had his\narms crossed on his breast and a few flowers in a glass vase by the side\nof his inkstand.\n\n'I did not,' said Jim. 'I was told to call no one and to make no noise\nfor fear of creating a panic. I thought the precaution reasonable. I\ntook one of the lamps that were hung under the awnings and went forward.\nAfter opening the forepeak hatch I heard splashing in there. I lowered\nthen the lamp the whole drift of its lanyard, and saw that the forepeak\nwas more than half full of water already. I knew then there must be a\nbig hole below the water-line.' He paused.\n\n'Yes,' said the big assessor, with a dreamy smile at the blotting-pad;\nhis fingers played incessantly, touching the paper without noise.\n\n'I did not think of danger just then. I might have been a little\nstartled: all this happened in such a quiet way and so very suddenly. I\nknew there was no other bulkhead in the ship but the collision bulkhead\nseparating the forepeak from the forehold. I went back to tell the\ncaptain. I came upon the second engineer getting up at the foot of the\nbridge-ladder: he seemed dazed, and told me he thought his left arm was\nbroken; he had slipped on the top step when getting down while I was\nforward. He exclaimed, \"My God! That rotten bulkhead'll give way in a\nminute, and the damned thing will go down under us like a lump of lead.\"\nHe pushed me away with his right arm and ran before me up the ladder,\nshouting as he climbed. His left arm hung by his side. I followed up in\ntime to see the captain rush at him and knock him down flat on his back.\nHe did not strike him again: he stood bending over him and speaking\nangrily but quite low. I fancy he was asking him why the devil he didn't\ngo and stop the engines, instead of making a row about it on deck. I\nheard him say, \"Get up! Run! fly!\" He swore also. The engineer slid down\nthe starboard ladder and bolted round the skylight to the engine-room\ncompanion which was on the port side. He moaned as he ran. . . .'\n\nHe spoke slowly; he remembered swiftly and with extreme vividness; he\ncould have reproduced like an echo the moaning of the engineer for\nthe better information of these men who wanted facts. After his first\nfeeling of revolt he had come round to the view that only a meticulous\nprecision of statement would bring out the true horror behind the\nappalling face of things. The facts those men were so eager to know had\nbeen visible, tangible, open to the senses, occupying their place in\nspace and time, requiring for their existence a fourteen-hundred-ton\nsteamer and twenty-seven minutes by the watch; they made a whole that\nhad features, shades of expression, a complicated aspect that could be\nremembered by the eye, and something else besides, something invisible,\na directing spirit of perdition that dwelt within, like a malevolent\nsoul in a detestable body. He was anxious to make this clear. This\nhad not been a common affair, everything in it had been of the utmost\nimportance, and fortunately he remembered everything. He wanted to go on\ntalking for truth's sake, perhaps for his own sake also; and while his\nutterance was deliberate, his mind positively flew round and round the\nserried circle of facts that had surged up all about him to cut him off\nfrom the rest of his kind: it was like a creature that, finding itself\nimprisoned within an enclosure of high stakes, dashes round and round,\ndistracted in the night, trying to find a weak spot, a crevice, a place\nto scale, some opening through which it may squeeze itself and escape.\nThis awful activity of mind made him hesitate at times in his\nspeech. . . .\n\n'The captain kept on moving here and there on the bridge; he seemed calm\nenough, only he stumbled several times; and once as I stood speaking to\nhim he walked right into me as though he had been stone-blind. He made\nno definite answer to what I had to tell. He mumbled to himself; all I\nheard of it were a few words that sounded like \"confounded steam!\" and\n\"infernal steam!\"--something about steam. I thought . . .'\n\nHe was becoming irrelevant; a question to the point cut short his\nspeech, like a pang of pain, and he felt extremely discouraged and\nweary. He was coming to that, he was coming to that--and now, checked\nbrutally, he had to answer by yes or no. He answered truthfully by a\ncurt 'Yes, I did'; and fair of face, big of frame, with young, gloomy\neyes, he held his shoulders upright above the box while his soul writhed\nwithin him. He was made to answer another question so much to the point\nand so useless, then waited again. His mouth was tastelessly dry, as\nthough he had been eating dust, then salt and bitter as after a drink\nof sea-water. He wiped his damp forehead, passed his tongue over parched\nlips, felt a shiver run down his back. The big assessor had dropped his\neyelids, and drummed on without a sound, careless and mournful; the eyes\nof the other above the sunburnt, clasped fingers seemed to glow with\nkindliness; the magistrate had swayed forward; his pale face hovered\nnear the flowers, and then dropping sideways over the arm of his chair,\nhe rested his temple in the palm of his hand. The wind of the punkahs\neddied down on the heads, on the dark-faced natives wound about in\nvoluminous draperies, on the Europeans sitting together very hot and in\ndrill suits that seemed to fit them as close as their skins, and holding\ntheir round pith hats on their knees; while gliding along the walls the\ncourt peons, buttoned tight in long white coats, flitted rapidly to and\nfro, running on bare toes, red-sashed, red turban on head, as noiseless\nas ghosts, and on the alert like so many retrievers.\n\nJim's eyes, wandering in the intervals of his answers, rested upon a\nwhite man who sat apart from the others, with his face worn and clouded,\nbut with quiet eyes that glanced straight, interested and clear. Jim\nanswered another question and was tempted to cry out, 'What's the good\nof this! what's the good!' He tapped with his foot slightly, bit his\nlip, and looked away over the heads. He met the eyes of the white man.\nThe glance directed at him was not the fascinated stare of the others.\nIt was an act of intelligent volition. Jim between two questions forgot\nhimself so far as to find leisure for a thought. This fellow--ran the\nthought--looks at me as though he could see somebody or something past\nmy shoulder. He had come across that man before--in the street perhaps.\nHe was positive he had never spoken to him. For days, for many days,\nhe had spoken to no one, but had held silent, incoherent, and endless\nconverse with himself, like a prisoner alone in his cell or like a\nwayfarer lost in a wilderness. At present he was answering questions\nthat did not matter though they had a purpose, but he doubted whether\nhe would ever again speak out as long as he lived. The sound of his own\ntruthful statements confirmed his deliberate opinion that speech was\nof no use to him any longer. That man there seemed to be aware of his\nhopeless difficulty. Jim looked at him, then turned away resolutely, as\nafter a final parting.\n\nAnd later on, many times, in distant parts of the world, Marlow showed\nhimself willing to remember Jim, to remember him at length, in detail\nand audibly.\n\nPerhaps it would be after dinner, on a verandah draped in motionless\nfoliage and crowned with flowers, in the deep dusk speckled by fiery\ncigar-ends. The elongated bulk of each cane-chair harboured a silent\nlistener. Now and then a small red glow would move abruptly, and\nexpanding light up the fingers of a languid hand, part of a face in\nprofound repose, or flash a crimson gleam into a pair of pensive eyes\novershadowed by a fragment of an unruffled forehead; and with the very\nfirst word uttered Marlow's body, extended at rest in the seat, would\nbecome very still, as though his spirit had winged its way back into the\nlapse of time and were speaking through his lips from the past.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "'He heard me out with his head on one side, and I had another glimpse\nthrough a rent in the mist in which he moved and had his being. The dim\ncandle spluttered within the ball of glass, and that was all I had to\nsee him by; at his back was the dark night with the clear stars, whose\ndistant glitter disposed in retreating planes lured the eye into the\ndepths of a greater darkness; and yet a mysterious light seemed to show\nme his boyish head, as if in that moment the youth within him had, for\na moment, glowed and expired. \"You are an awful good sort to listen like\nthis,\" he said. \"It does me good. You don't know what it is to me. You\ndon't\" . . . words seemed to fail him. It was a distinct glimpse. He was\na youngster of the sort you like to see about you; of the sort you like\nto imagine yourself to have been; of the sort whose appearance claims\nthe fellowship of these illusions you had thought gone out, extinct,\ncold, and which, as if rekindled at the approach of another flame, give\na flutter deep, deep down somewhere, give a flutter of light . . . of\nheat! . . . Yes; I had a glimpse of him then . . . and it was not the\nlast of that kind. . . . \"You don't know what it is for a fellow in my\nposition to be believed--make a clean breast of it to an elder man. It\nis so difficult--so awfully unfair--so hard to understand.\"\n\n'The mists were closing again. I don't know how old I appeared to\nhim--and how much wise. Not half as old as I felt just then; not half\nas uselessly wise as I knew myself to be. Surely in no other craft as in\nthat of the sea do the hearts of those already launched to sink or swim\ngo out so much to the youth on the brink, looking with shining eyes upon\nthat glitter of the vast surface which is only a reflection of his\nown glances full of fire. There is such magnificent vagueness in\nthe expectations that had driven each of us to sea, such a glorious\nindefiniteness, such a beautiful greed of adventures that are their own\nand only reward. What we get--well, we won't talk of that; but can one\nof us restrain a smile? In no other kind of life is the illusion more\nwide of reality--in no other is the beginning _all_ illusion--the\ndisenchantment more swift--the subjugation more complete. Hadn't we all\ncommenced with the same desire, ended with the same knowledge, carried\nthe memory of the same cherished glamour through the sordid days of\nimprecation? What wonder that when some heavy prod gets home the bond\nis found to be close; that besides the fellowship of the craft there is\nfelt the strength of a wider feeling--the feeling that binds a man to a\nchild. He was there before me, believing that age and wisdom can find\na remedy against the pain of truth, giving me a glimpse of himself as a\nyoung fellow in a scrape that is the very devil of a scrape, the sort\nof scrape greybeards wag at solemnly while they hide a smile. And he\nhad been deliberating upon death--confound him! He had found that to\nmeditate about because he thought he had saved his life, while all its\nglamour had gone with the ship in the night. What more natural! It\nwas tragic enough and funny enough in all conscience to call aloud for\ncompassion, and in what was I better than the rest of us to refuse him\nmy pity? And even as I looked at him the mists rolled into the rent, and\nhis voice spoke--\n\n'\"I was so lost, you know. It was the sort of thing one does not expect\nto happen to one. It was not like a fight, for instance.\"\n\n'\"It was not,\" I admitted. He appeared changed, as if he had suddenly\nmatured.\n\n'\"One couldn't be sure,\" he muttered.\n\n'\"Ah! You were not sure,\" I said, and was placated by the sound of\na faint sigh that passed between us like the flight of a bird in the\nnight.\n\n'\"Well, I wasn't,\" he said courageously. \"It was something like that\nwretched story they made up. It was not a lie--but it wasn't truth all\nthe same. It was something. . . . One knows a downright lie. There was\nnot the thickness of a sheet of paper between the right and the wrong of\nthis affair.\"\n\n'\"How much more did you want?\" I asked; but I think I spoke so low that\nhe did not catch what I said. He had advanced his argument as though\nlife had been a network of paths separated by chasms. His voice sounded\nreasonable.\n\n'\"Suppose I had not--I mean to say, suppose I had stuck to the ship?\nWell. How much longer? Say a minute--half a minute. Come. In thirty\nseconds, as it seemed certain then, I would have been overboard; and do\nyou think I would not have laid hold of the first thing that came in my\nway--oar, life-buoy, grating--anything? Wouldn't you?\"\n\n'\"And be saved,\" I interjected.\n\n'\"I would have meant to be,\" he retorted. \"And that's more than I meant\nwhen I\" . . . he shivered as if about to swallow some nauseous\ndrug . . . \"jumped,\" he pronounced with a convulsive effort, whose\nstress, as if propagated by the waves of the air, made my body stir a\nlittle in the chair. He fixed me with lowering eyes. \"Don't you believe\nme?\" he cried. \"I swear! . . . Confound it! You got me here to talk,\nand . . . You must! . . . You said you would believe.\" \"Of course I do,\"\nI protested, in a matter-of-fact tone which produced a calming effect.\n\"Forgive me,\" he said. \"Of course I wouldn't have talked to you about\nall this if you had not been a gentleman. I ought to have known . . . I\nam--I am--a gentleman too . . .\" \"Yes, yes,\" I said hastily. He was\nlooking me squarely in the face, and withdrew his gaze slowly. \"Now you\nunderstand why I didn't after all . . . didn't go out in that way. I\nwasn't going to be frightened at what I had done. And, anyhow, if I had\nstuck to the ship I would have done my best to be saved. Men have been\nknown to float for hours--in the open sea--and be picked up not much the\nworse for it. I might have lasted it out better than many others.\nThere's nothing the matter with my heart.\" He withdrew his right fist\nfrom his pocket, and the blow he struck on his chest resounded like a\nmuffled detonation in the night.\n\n'\"No,\" I said. He meditated, with his legs slightly apart and his\nchin sunk. \"A hair's-breadth,\" he muttered. \"Not the breadth of a hair\nbetween this and that. And at the time . . .\"\n\n'\"It is difficult to see a hair at midnight,\" I put in, a little\nviciously I fear. Don't you see what I mean by the solidarity of the\ncraft? I was aggrieved against him, as though he had cheated me--me!--of\na splendid opportunity to keep up the illusion of my beginnings, as\nthough he had robbed our common life of the last spark of its glamour.\n\"And so you cleared out--at once.\"\n\n'\"Jumped,\" he corrected me incisively. \"Jumped--mind!\" he repeated, and\nI wondered at the evident but obscure intention. \"Well, yes! Perhaps I\ncould not see then. But I had plenty of time and any amount of light\nin that boat. And I could think, too. Nobody would know, of course, but\nthis did not make it any easier for me. You've got to believe that, too.\nI did not want all this talk. . . . No . . . Yes . . . I won't\nlie . . . I wanted it: it is the very thing I wanted--there. Do you\nthink you or anybody could have made me if I . . . I am--I am not afraid\nto tell. And I wasn't afraid to think either. I looked it in the face. I\nwasn't going to run away. At first--at night, if it hadn't been for\nthose fellows I might have . . . No! by heavens! I was not going to give\nthem that satisfaction. They had done enough. They made up a story, and\nbelieved it for all I know. But I knew the truth, and I would live it\ndown--alone, with myself. I wasn't going to give in to such a beastly\nunfair thing. What did it prove after all? I was confoundedly cut up.\nSick of life--to tell you the truth; but what would have been the good\nto shirk it--in--in--that way? That was not the way. I believe--I\nbelieve it would have--it would have ended--nothing.\"\n\n'He had been walking up and down, but with the last word he turned short\nat me.\n\n'\"What do _you_ believe?\" he asked with violence. A pause ensued, and\nsuddenly I felt myself overcome by a profound and hopeless fatigue, as\nthough his voice had startled me out of a dream of wandering through\nempty spaces whose immensity had harassed my soul and exhausted my body.\n\n'\". . . Would have ended nothing,\" he muttered over me obstinately,\nafter a little while. \"No! the proper thing was to face it out--alone\nfor myself--wait for another chance--find out . . .\"'", "summary": "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", "document": "'I did not start in search of Jim at once, only because I had really an\nappointment which I could not neglect. Then, as ill-luck would have\nit, in my agent's office I was fastened upon by a fellow fresh from\nMadagascar with a little scheme for a wonderful piece of business. It\nhad something to do with cattle and cartridges and a Prince Ravonalo\nsomething; but the pivot of the whole affair was the stupidity of some\nadmiral--Admiral Pierre, I think. Everything turned on that, and the\nchap couldn't find words strong enough to express his confidence. He had\nglobular eyes starting out of his head with a fishy glitter, bumps on\nhis forehead, and wore his long hair brushed back without a parting.\nHe had a favourite phrase which he kept on repeating triumphantly, \"The\nminimum of risk with the maximum of profit is my motto. What?\" He made\nmy head ache, spoiled my tiffin, but got his own out of me all right;\nand as soon as I had shaken him off, I made straight for the water-side.\nI caught sight of Jim leaning over the parapet of the quay. Three native\nboatmen quarrelling over five annas were making an awful row at his\nelbow. He didn't hear me come up, but spun round as if the slight\ncontact of my finger had released a catch. \"I was looking,\" he\nstammered. I don't remember what I said, not much anyhow, but he made no\ndifficulty in following me to the hotel.\n\n'He followed me as manageable as a little child, with an obedient air,\nwith no sort of manifestation, rather as though he had been waiting\nfor me there to come along and carry him off. I need not have been so\nsurprised as I was at his tractability. On all the round earth, which to\nsome seems so big and that others affect to consider as rather smaller\nthan a mustard-seed, he had no place where he could--what shall I\nsay?--where he could withdraw. That's it! Withdraw--be alone with his\nloneliness. He walked by my side very calm, glancing here and there, and\nonce turned his head to look after a Sidiboy fireman in a cutaway coat\nand yellowish trousers, whose black face had silky gleams like a lump\nof anthracite coal. I doubt, however, whether he saw anything, or even\nremained all the time aware of my companionship, because if I had not\nedged him to the left here, or pulled him to the right there, I believe\nhe would have gone straight before him in any direction till stopped by\na wall or some other obstacle. I steered him into my bedroom, and sat\ndown at once to write letters. This was the only place in the world\n(unless, perhaps, the Walpole Reef--but that was not so handy) where he\ncould have it out with himself without being bothered by the rest of\nthe universe. The damned thing--as he had expressed it--had not made\nhim invisible, but I behaved exactly as though he were. No sooner in my\nchair I bent over my writing-desk like a medieval scribe, and, but for\nthe movement of the hand holding the pen, remained anxiously quiet. I\ncan't say I was frightened; but I certainly kept as still as if there\nhad been something dangerous in the room, that at the first hint of a\nmovement on my part would be provoked to pounce upon me. There was not\nmuch in the room--you know how these bedrooms are--a sort of four-poster\nbedstead under a mosquito-net, two or three chairs, the table I was\nwriting at, a bare floor. A glass door opened on an upstairs verandah,\nand he stood with his face to it, having a hard time with all possible\nprivacy. Dusk fell; I lit a candle with the greatest economy of movement\nand as much prudence as though it were an illegal proceeding. There is\nno doubt that he had a very hard time of it, and so had I, even to the\npoint, I must own, of wishing him to the devil, or on Walpole Reef at\nleast. It occurred to me once or twice that, after all, Chester was,\nperhaps, the man to deal effectively with such a disaster. That strange\nidealist had found a practical use for it at once--unerringly, as it\nwere. It was enough to make one suspect that, maybe, he really could see\nthe true aspect of things that appeared mysterious or utterly hopeless\nto less imaginative persons. I wrote and wrote; I liquidated all the\narrears of my correspondence, and then went on writing to people who had\nno reason whatever to expect from me a gossipy letter about nothing at\nall. At times I stole a sidelong glance. He was rooted to the spot,\nbut convulsive shudders ran down his back; his shoulders would heave\nsuddenly. He was fighting, he was fighting--mostly for his breath, as it\nseemed. The massive shadows, cast all one way from the straight flame of\nthe candle, seemed possessed of gloomy consciousness; the immobility of\nthe furniture had to my furtive eye an air of attention. I was becoming\nfanciful in the midst of my industrious scribbling; and though, when the\nscratching of my pen stopped for a moment, there was complete silence\nand stillness in the room, I suffered from that profound disturbance\nand confusion of thought which is caused by a violent and menacing\nuproar--of a heavy gale at sea, for instance. Some of you may know what\nI mean: that mingled anxiety, distress, and irritation with a sort of\ncraven feeling creeping in--not pleasant to acknowledge, but which gives\na quite special merit to one's endurance. I don't claim any merit\nfor standing the stress of Jim's emotions; I could take refuge in the\nletters; I could have written to strangers if necessary. Suddenly, as I\nwas taking up a fresh sheet of notepaper, I heard a low sound, the first\nsound that, since we had been shut up together, had come to my ears in\nthe dim stillness of the room. I remained with my head down, with my\nhand arrested. Those who have kept vigil by a sick-bed have heard such\nfaint sounds in the stillness of the night watches, sounds wrung from a\nracked body, from a weary soul. He pushed the glass door with such force\nthat all the panes rang: he stepped out, and I held my breath, straining\nmy ears without knowing what else I expected to hear. He was really\ntaking too much to heart an empty formality which to Chester's rigorous\ncriticism seemed unworthy the notice of a man who could see things as\nthey were. An empty formality; a piece of parchment. Well, well. As to\nan inaccessible guano deposit, that was another story altogether. One\ncould intelligibly break one's heart over that. A feeble burst of many\nvoices mingled with the tinkle of silver and glass floated up from the\ndining-room below; through the open door the outer edge of the light\nfrom my candle fell on his back faintly; beyond all was black; he stood\non the brink of a vast obscurity, like a lonely figure by the shore of\na sombre and hopeless ocean. There was the Walpole Reef in it--to\nbe sure--a speck in the dark void, a straw for the drowning man. My\ncompassion for him took the shape of the thought that I wouldn't have\nliked his people to see him at that moment. I found it trying myself.\nHis back was no longer shaken by his gasps; he stood straight as an\narrow, faintly visible and still; and the meaning of this stillness sank\nto the bottom of my soul like lead into the water, and made it so heavy\nthat for a second I wished heartily that the only course left open for\nme was to pay for his funeral. Even the law had done with him. To bury\nhim would have been such an easy kindness! It would have been so much\nin accordance with the wisdom of life, which consists in putting out of\nsight all the reminders of our folly, of our weakness, of our mortality;\nall that makes against our efficiency--the memory of our failures, the\nhints of our undying fears, the bodies of our dead friends. Perhaps he\ndid take it too much to heart. And if so then--Chester's offer. . . . At\nthis point I took up a fresh sheet and began to write resolutely. There\nwas nothing but myself between him and the dark ocean. I had a sense of\nresponsibility. If I spoke, would that motionless and suffering youth\nleap into the obscurity--clutch at the straw? I found out how difficult\nit may be sometimes to make a sound. There is a weird power in a spoken\nword. And why the devil not? I was asking myself persistently while I\ndrove on with my writing. All at once, on the blank page, under the very\npoint of the pen, the two figures of Chester and his antique partner,\nvery distinct and complete, would dodge into view with stride and\ngestures, as if reproduced in the field of some optical toy. I would\nwatch them for a while. No! They were too phantasmal and extravagant\nto enter into any one's fate. And a word carries far--very far--deals\ndestruction through time as the bullets go flying through space. I said\nnothing; and he, out there with his back to the light, as if bound\nand gagged by all the invisible foes of man, made no stir and made no\nsound.'\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n'He came in at last; but I believe it was mostly the rain that did it;\nit was falling just then with a devastating violence which quieted\ndown gradually while we talked. His manner was very sober and set; his\nbearing was that of a naturally taciturn man possessed by an idea. My\ntalk was of the material aspect of his position; it had the sole aim of\nsaving him from the degradation, ruin, and despair that out there close\nso swiftly upon a friendless, homeless man; I pleaded with him to\naccept my help; I argued reasonably: and every time I looked up at that\nabsorbed smooth face, so grave and youthful, I had a disturbing sense of\nbeing no help but rather an obstacle to some mysterious, inexplicable,\nimpalpable striving of his wounded spirit.\n\n'\"I suppose you intend to eat and drink and to sleep under shelter in\nthe usual way,\" I remember saying with irritation. \"You say you won't\ntouch the money that is due to you.\" . . . He came as near as his sort\ncan to making a gesture of horror. (There were three weeks and five\ndays' pay owing him as mate of the Patna.) \"Well, that's too little to\nmatter anyhow; but what will you do to-morrow? Where will you turn? You\nmust live . . .\" \"That isn't the thing,\" was the comment that escaped\nhim under his breath. I ignored it, and went on combating what I assumed\nto be the scruples of an exaggerated delicacy. \"On every conceivable\nground,\" I concluded, \"you must let me help you.\" \"You can't,\" he said\nvery simply and gently, and holding fast to some deep idea which I\ncould detect shimmering like a pool of water in the dark, but which\nI despaired of ever approaching near enough to fathom. I surveyed his\nwell-proportioned bulk. \"At any rate,\" I said, \"I am able to help what\nI can see of you. I don't pretend to do more.\" He shook his head\nsceptically without looking at me. I got very warm. \"But I can,\" I\ninsisted. \"I can do even more. I _am_ doing more. I am trusting\nyou . . .\" \"The money . . .\" he began. \"Upon my word you deserve being\ntold to go to the devil,\" I cried, forcing the note of indignation. He\nwas startled, smiled, and I pressed my attack home. \"It isn't a question\nof money at all. You are too superficial,\" I said (and at the same time\nI was thinking to myself: Well, here goes! And perhaps he is, after\nall). \"Look at the letter I want you to take. I am writing to a man of\nwhom I've never asked a favour, and I am writing about you in terms that\none only ventures to use when speaking of an intimate friend. I make\nmyself unreservedly responsible for you. That's what I am doing. And\nreally if you will only reflect a little what that means . . .\"\n\n'He lifted his head. The rain had passed away; only the water-pipe went\non shedding tears with an absurd drip, drip outside the window. It was\nvery quiet in the room, whose shadows huddled together in corners, away\nfrom the still flame of the candle flaring upright in the shape of a\ndagger; his face after a while seemed suffused by a reflection of a soft\nlight as if the dawn had broken already.\n\n'\"Jove!\" he gasped out. \"It is noble of you!\"\n\n'Had he suddenly put out his tongue at me in derision, I could not have\nfelt more humiliated. I thought to myself--Serve me right for a sneaking\nhumbug. . . . His eyes shone straight into my face, but I perceived\nit was not a mocking brightness. All at once he sprang into jerky\nagitation, like one of those flat wooden figures that are worked by a\nstring. His arms went up, then came down with a slap. He became another\nman altogether. \"And I had never seen,\" he shouted; then suddenly bit\nhis lip and frowned. \"What a bally ass I've been,\" he said very slow\nin an awed tone. . . . \"You are a brick!\" he cried next in a muffled\nvoice. He snatched my hand as though he had just then seen it for the\nfirst time, and dropped it at once. \"Why! this is what I--you--I . . .\"\nhe stammered, and then with a return of his old stolid, I may say\nmulish, manner he began heavily, \"I would be a brute now if I . . .\" and\nthen his voice seemed to break. \"That's all right,\" I said. I was almost\nalarmed by this display of feeling, through which pierced a strange\nelation. I had pulled the string accidentally, as it were; I did not\nfully understand the working of the toy. \"I must go now,\" he said.\n\"Jove! You _have_ helped me. Can't sit still. The very thing . . .\" He\nlooked at me with puzzled admiration. \"The very thing . . .\"\n\n'Of course it was the thing. It was ten to one that I had saved him from\nstarvation--of that peculiar sort that is almost invariably associated\nwith drink. This was all. I had not a single illusion on that score, but\nlooking at him, I allowed myself to wonder at the nature of the one he\nhad, within the last three minutes, so evidently taken into his bosom.\nI had forced into his hand the means to carry on decently the serious\nbusiness of life, to get food, drink, and shelter of the customary kind\nwhile his wounded spirit, like a bird with a broken wing, might hop and\nflutter into some hole to die quietly of inanition there. This is what\nI had thrust upon him: a definitely small thing; and--behold!--by the\nmanner of its reception it loomed in the dim light of the candle like\na big, indistinct, perhaps a dangerous shadow. \"You don't mind me not\nsaying anything appropriate,\" he burst out. \"There isn't anything one\ncould say. Last night already you had done me no end of good. Listening\nto me--you know. I give you my word I've thought more than once the top\nof my head would fly off. . .\" He darted--positively darted--here and\nthere, rammed his hands into his pockets, jerked them out again, flung\nhis cap on his head. I had no idea it was in him to be so airily\nbrisk. I thought of a dry leaf imprisoned in an eddy of wind, while a\nmysterious apprehension, a load of indefinite doubt, weighed me down in\nmy chair. He stood stock-still, as if struck motionless by a discovery.\n\"You have given me confidence,\" he declared, soberly. \"Oh! for God's\nsake, my dear fellow--don't!\" I entreated, as though he had hurt me.\n\"All right. I'll shut up now and henceforth. Can't prevent me thinking\nthough. . . . Never mind! . . . I'll show yet . . .\" He went to the\ndoor in a hurry, paused with his head down, and came back, stepping\ndeliberately. \"I always thought that if a fellow could begin with a\nclean slate . . . And now you . . . in a measure . . . yes . . . clean\nslate.\" I waved my hand, and he marched out without looking back; the\nsound of his footfalls died out gradually behind the closed door--the\nunhesitating tread of a man walking in broad daylight.\n\n'But as to me, left alone with the solitary candle, I remained strangely\nunenlightened. I was no longer young enough to behold at every turn\nthe magnificence that besets our insignificant footsteps in good and in\nevil. I smiled to think that, after all, it was yet he, of us two, who\nhad the light. And I felt sad. A clean slate, did he say? As if the\ninitial word of each our destiny were not graven in imperishable\ncharacters upon the face of a rock.'", "summary": "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", "document": "\n'The conquest of love, honour, men's confidence--the pride of it, the\npower of it, are fit materials for a heroic tale; only our minds are\nstruck by the externals of such a success, and to Jim's successes there\nwere no externals. Thirty miles of forest shut it off from the sight of\nan indifferent world, and the noise of the white surf along the coast\noverpowered the voice of fame. The stream of civilisation, as if divided\non a headland a hundred miles north of Patusan, branches east and\nsouth-east, leaving its plains and valleys, its old trees and its old\nmankind, neglected and isolated, such as an insignificant and crumbling\nislet between the two branches of a mighty, devouring stream. You find\nthe name of the country pretty often in collections of old voyages. The\nseventeenth-century traders went there for pepper, because the passion\nfor pepper seemed to burn like a flame of love in the breast of Dutch\nand English adventurers about the time of James the First. Where\nwouldn't they go for pepper! For a bag of pepper they would cut each\nother's throats without hesitation, and would forswear their souls,\nof which they were so careful otherwise: the bizarre obstinacy of that\ndesire made them defy death in a thousand shapes--the unknown seas, the\nloathsome and strange diseases; wounds, captivity, hunger, pestilence,\nand despair. It made them great! By heavens! it made them heroic; and\nit made them pathetic too in their craving for trade with the inflexible\ndeath levying its toll on young and old. It seems impossible to believe\nthat mere greed could hold men to such a steadfastness of purpose, to\nsuch a blind persistence in endeavour and sacrifice. And indeed those\nwho adventured their persons and lives risked all they had for a slender\nreward. They left their bones to lie bleaching on distant shores, so\nthat wealth might flow to the living at home. To us, their less tried\nsuccessors, they appear magnified, not as agents of trade but as\ninstruments of a recorded destiny, pushing out into the unknown in\nobedience to an inward voice, to an impulse beating in the blood, to a\ndream of the future. They were wonderful; and it must be owned they\nwere ready for the wonderful. They recorded it complacently in their\nsufferings, in the aspect of the seas, in the customs of strange\nnations, in the glory of splendid rulers.\n\n'In Patusan they had found lots of pepper, and had been impressed by the\nmagnificence and the wisdom of the Sultan; but somehow, after a century\nof chequered intercourse, the country seems to drop gradually out of the\ntrade. Perhaps the pepper had given out. Be it as it may, nobody cares\nfor it now; the glory has departed, the Sultan is an imbecile youth\nwith two thumbs on his left hand and an uncertain and beggarly revenue\nextorted from a miserable population and stolen from him by his many\nuncles.\n\n'This of course I have from Stein. He gave me their names and a short\nsketch of the life and character of each. He was as full of information\nabout native states as an official report, but infinitely more amusing.\nHe _had_ to know. He traded in so many, and in some districts--as in\nPatusan, for instance--his firm was the only one to have an agency by\nspecial permit from the Dutch authorities. The Government trusted his\ndiscretion, and it was understood that he took all the risks. The men\nhe employed understood that too, but he made it worth their while\napparently. He was perfectly frank with me over the breakfast-table in\nthe morning. As far as he was aware (the last news was thirteen months\nold, he stated precisely), utter insecurity for life and property was\nthe normal condition. There were in Patusan antagonistic forces, and one\nof them was Rajah Allang, the worst of the Sultan's uncles, the governor\nof the river, who did the extorting and the stealing, and ground down\nto the point of extinction the country-born Malays, who, utterly\ndefenceless, had not even the resource of emigrating--\"For indeed,\" as\nStein remarked, \"where could they go, and how could they get away?\"\nNo doubt they did not even desire to get away. The world (which is\ncircumscribed by lofty impassable mountains) has been given into the\nhand of the high-born, and _this_ Rajah they knew: he was of their own\nroyal house. I had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman later on. He\nwas a dirty, little, used-up old man with evil eyes and a weak mouth,\nwho swallowed an opium pill every two hours, and in defiance of common\ndecency wore his hair uncovered and falling in wild stringy locks about\nhis wizened grimy face. When giving audience he would clamber upon a\nsort of narrow stage erected in a hall like a ruinous barn with a rotten\nbamboo floor, through the cracks of which you could see, twelve or\nfifteen feet below, the heaps of refuse and garbage of all kinds lying\nunder the house. That is where and how he received us when, accompanied\nby Jim, I paid him a visit of ceremony. There were about forty people in\nthe room, and perhaps three times as many in the great courtyard below.\nThere was constant movement, coming and going, pushing and murmuring,\nat our backs. A few youths in gay silks glared from the distance; the\nmajority, slaves and humble dependants, were half naked, in ragged\nsarongs, dirty with ashes and mud-stains. I had never seen Jim look so\ngrave, so self-possessed, in an impenetrable, impressive way. In the\nmidst of these dark-faced men, his stalwart figure in white apparel,\nthe gleaming clusters of his fair hair, seemed to catch all the sunshine\nthat trickled through the cracks in the closed shutters of that dim\nhall, with its walls of mats and a roof of thatch. He appeared like a\ncreature not only of another kind but of another essence. Had they not\nseen him come up in a canoe they might have thought he had descended\nupon them from the clouds. He did, however, come in a crazy dug-out,\nsitting (very still and with his knees together, for fear of overturning\nthe thing)--sitting on a tin box--which I had lent him--nursing on his\nlap a revolver of the Navy pattern--presented by me on parting--which,\nthrough an interposition of Providence, or through some wrong-headed\nnotion, that was just like him, or else from sheer instinctive sagacity,\nhe had decided to carry unloaded. That's how he ascended the Patusan\nriver. Nothing could have been more prosaic and more unsafe, more\nextravagantly casual, more lonely. Strange, this fatality that would\ncast the complexion of a flight upon all his acts, of impulsive\nunreflecting desertion of a jump into the unknown.\n\n'It is precisely the casualness of it that strikes me most. Neither\nStein nor I had a clear conception of what might be on the other side\nwhen we, metaphorically speaking, took him up and hove him over the\nwall with scant ceremony. At the moment I merely wished to achieve his\ndisappearance; Stein characteristically enough had a sentimental motive.\nHe had a notion of paying off (in kind, I suppose) the old debt he had\nnever forgotten. Indeed he had been all his life especially friendly to\nanybody from the British Isles. His late benefactor, it is true, was a\nScot--even to the length of being called Alexander McNeil--and Jim came\nfrom a long way south of the Tweed; but at the distance of six or\nseven thousand miles Great Britain, though never diminished, looks\nforeshortened enough even to its own children to rob such details of\ntheir importance. Stein was excusable, and his hinted intentions were\nso generous that I begged him most earnestly to keep them secret for\na time. I felt that no consideration of personal advantage should be\nallowed to influence Jim; that not even the risk of such influence\nshould be run. We had to deal with another sort of reality. He wanted\na refuge, and a refuge at the cost of danger should be offered\nhim--nothing more.\n\n'Upon every other point I was perfectly frank with him, and I even (as\nI believed at the time) exaggerated the danger of the undertaking. As\na matter of fact I did not do it justice; his first day in Patusan was\nnearly his last--would have been his last if he had not been so reckless\nor so hard on himself and had condescended to load that revolver. I\nremember, as I unfolded our precious scheme for his retreat, how his\nstubborn but weary resignation was gradually replaced by surprise,\ninterest, wonder, and by boyish eagerness. This was a chance he had been\ndreaming of. He couldn't think how he merited that I . . . He would be\nshot if he could see to what he owed . . . And it was Stein, Stein the\nmerchant, who . . . but of course it was me he had to . . . I cut him\nshort. He was not articulate, and his gratitude caused me inexplicable\npain. I told him that if he owed this chance to any one especially, it\nwas to an old Scot of whom he had never heard, who had died many years\nago, of whom little was remembered besides a roaring voice and a rough\nsort of honesty. There was really no one to receive his thanks. Stein\nwas passing on to a young man the help he had received in his own young\ndays, and I had done no more than to mention his name. Upon this he\ncoloured, and, twisting a bit of paper in his fingers, he remarked\nbashfully that I had always trusted him.\n\n'I admitted that such was the case, and added after a pause that I\nwished he had been able to follow my example. \"You think I don't?\" he\nasked uneasily, and remarked in a mutter that one had to get some sort\nof show first; then brightening up, and in a loud voice he protested he\nwould give me no occasion to regret my confidence, which--which . . .\n\n'\"Do not misapprehend,\" I interrupted. \"It is not in your power to make\nme regret anything.\" There would be no regrets; but if there were, it\nwould be altogether my own affair: on the other hand, I wished him to\nunderstand clearly that this arrangement, this--this--experiment, was\nhis own doing; he was responsible for it and no one else. \"Why? Why,\" he\nstammered, \"this is the very thing that I . . .\" I begged him not to\nbe dense, and he looked more puzzled than ever. He was in a fair way\nto make life intolerable to himself . . . \"Do you think so?\" he asked,\ndisturbed; but in a moment added confidently, \"I was going on though.\nWas I not?\" It was impossible to be angry with him: I could not help a\nsmile, and told him that in the old days people who went on like\nthis were on the way of becoming hermits in a wilderness. \"Hermits be\nhanged!\" he commented with engaging impulsiveness. Of course he didn't\nmind a wilderness. . . . \"I was glad of it,\" I said. That was where\nhe would be going to. He would find it lively enough, I ventured to\npromise. \"Yes, yes,\" he said, keenly. He had shown a desire, I continued\ninflexibly, to go out and shut the door after him. . . . \"Did I?\" he\ninterrupted in a strange access of gloom that seemed to envelop him\nfrom head to foot like the shadow of a passing cloud. He was wonderfully\nexpressive after all. Wonderfully! \"Did I?\" he repeated bitterly. \"You\ncan't say I made much noise about it. And I can keep it up, too--only,\nconfound it! you show me a door.\" . . . \"Very well. Pass on,\" I struck\nin. I could make him a solemn promise that it would be shut behind him\nwith a vengeance. His fate, whatever it was, would be ignored,\nbecause the country, for all its rotten state, was not judged ripe\nfor interference. Once he got in, it would be for the outside world as\nthough he had never existed. He would have nothing but the soles of his\ntwo feet to stand upon, and he would have first to find his ground at\nthat. \"Never existed--that's it, by Jove,\" he murmured to himself. His\neyes, fastened upon my lips, sparkled. If he had thoroughly understood\nthe conditions, I concluded, he had better jump into the first gharry he\ncould see and drive on to Stein's house for his final instructions. He\nflung out of the room before I had fairly finished speaking.'\n", "summary": "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", "document": "'The coast of Patusan (I saw it nearly two years afterwards) is straight\nand sombre, and faces a misty ocean. Red trails are seen like cataracts\nof rust streaming under the dark-green foliage of bushes and creepers\nclothing the low cliffs. Swampy plains open out at the mouth of rivers,\nwith a view of jagged blue peaks beyond the vast forests. In the offing\na chain of islands, dark, crumbling shapes, stand out in the everlasting\nsunlit haze like the remnants of a wall breached by the sea.\n\n'There is a village of fisher-folk at the mouth of the Batu Kring branch\nof the estuary. The river, which had been closed so long, was open then,\nand Stein's little schooner, in which I had my passage, worked her\nway up in three tides without being exposed to a fusillade from\n\"irresponsive parties.\" Such a state of affairs belonged already to\nancient history, if I could believe the elderly headman of the fishing\nvillage, who came on board to act as a sort of pilot. He talked to me\n(the second white man he had ever seen) with confidence, and most of his\ntalk was about the first white man he had ever seen. He called him Tuan\nJim, and the tone of his references was made remarkable by a strange\nmixture of familiarity and awe. They, in the village, were under that\nlord's special protection, which showed that Jim bore no grudge. If\nhe had warned me that I would hear of him it was perfectly true. I was\nhearing of him. There was already a story that the tide had turned\ntwo hours before its time to help him on his journey up the river. The\ntalkative old man himself had steered the canoe and had marvelled at the\nphenomenon. Moreover, all the glory was in his family. His son and his\nson-in-law had paddled; but they were only youths without experience,\nwho did not notice the speed of the canoe till he pointed out to them\nthe amazing fact.\n\n'Jim's coming to that fishing village was a blessing; but to them, as to\nmany of us, the blessing came heralded by terrors. So many generations\nhad been released since the last white man had visited the river that\nthe very tradition had been lost. The appearance of the being that\ndescended upon them and demanded inflexibly to be taken up to Patusan\nwas discomposing; his insistence was alarming; his generosity more than\nsuspicious. It was an unheard-of request. There was no precedent. What\nwould the Rajah say to this? What would he do to them? The best part\nof the night was spent in consultation; but the immediate risk from the\nanger of that strange man seemed so great that at last a cranky dug-out\nwas got ready. The women shrieked with grief as it put off. A fearless\nold hag cursed the stranger.\n\n'He sat in it, as I've told you, on his tin box, nursing the unloaded\nrevolver on his lap. He sat with precaution--than which there is nothing\nmore fatiguing--and thus entered the land he was destined to fill with\nthe fame of his virtues, from the blue peaks inland to the white ribbon\nof surf on the coast. At the first bend he lost sight of the sea with\nits labouring waves for ever rising, sinking, and vanishing to rise\nagain--the very image of struggling mankind--and faced the immovable\nforests rooted deep in the soil, soaring towards the sunshine,\neverlasting in the shadowy might of their tradition, like life itself.\nAnd his opportunity sat veiled by his side like an Eastern bride waiting\nto be uncovered by the hand of the master. He too was the heir of a\nshadowy and mighty tradition! He told me, however, that he had never in\nhis life felt so depressed and tired as in that canoe. All the movement\nhe dared to allow himself was to reach, as it were by stealth, after the\nshell of half a cocoa-nut floating between his shoes, and bale some of\nthe water out with a carefully restrained action. He discovered how hard\nthe lid of a block-tin case was to sit upon. He had heroic health; but\nseveral times during that journey he experienced fits of giddiness, and\nbetween whiles he speculated hazily as to the size of the blister the\nsun was raising on his back. For amusement he tried by looking ahead to\ndecide whether the muddy object he saw lying on the water's edge was a\nlog of wood or an alligator. Only very soon he had to give that up. No\nfun in it. Always alligator. One of them flopped into the river and all\nbut capsized the canoe. But this excitement was over directly. Then in\na long empty reach he was very grateful to a troop of monkeys who came\nright down on the bank and made an insulting hullabaloo on his passage.\nSuch was the way in which he was approaching greatness as genuine as any\nman ever achieved. Principally, he longed for sunset; and meantime\nhis three paddlers were preparing to put into execution their plan of\ndelivering him up to the Rajah.\n\n'\"I suppose I must have been stupid with fatigue, or perhaps I did doze\noff for a time,\" he said. The first thing he knew was his canoe coming\nto the bank. He became instantaneously aware of the forest having been\nleft behind, of the first houses being visible higher up, of a stockade\non his left, and of his boatmen leaping out together upon a low point of\nland and taking to their heels. Instinctively he leaped out after them.\nAt first he thought himself deserted for some inconceivable reason, but\nhe heard excited shouts, a gate swung open, and a lot of people poured\nout, making towards him. At the same time a boat full of armed men\nappeared on the river and came alongside his empty canoe, thus shutting\noff his retreat.\n\n'\"I was too startled to be quite cool--don't you know? and if that\nrevolver had been loaded I would have shot somebody--perhaps two, three\nbodies, and that would have been the end of me. But it wasn't. . . .\"\n\"Why not?\" I asked. \"Well, I couldn't fight the whole population, and\nI wasn't coming to them as if I were afraid of my life,\" he said, with\njust a faint hint of his stubborn sulkiness in the glance he gave me.\nI refrained from pointing out to him that they could not have known the\nchambers were actually empty. He had to satisfy himself in his own way.\n. . . \"Anyhow it wasn't,\" he repeated good-humouredly, \"and so I just\nstood still and asked them what was the matter. That seemed to strike\nthem dumb. I saw some of these thieves going off with my box. That\nlong-legged old scoundrel Kassim (I'll show him to you to-morrow)\nran out fussing to me about the Rajah wanting to see me. I said, 'All\nright.' I too wanted to see the Rajah, and I simply walked in through\nthe gate and--and--here I am.\" He laughed, and then with unexpected\nemphasis, \"And do you know what's the best in it?\" he asked. \"I'll tell\nyou. It's the knowledge that had I been wiped out it is this place that\nwould have been the loser.\"\n\n'He spoke thus to me before his house on that evening I've\nmentioned--after we had watched the moon float away above the chasm\nbetween the hills like an ascending spirit out of a grave; its sheen\ndescended, cold and pale, like the ghost of dead sunlight. There\nis something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the\ndispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its\ninconceivable mystery. It is to our sunshine, which--say what you\nlike--is all we have to live by, what the echo is to the sound:\nmisleading and confusing whether the note be mocking or sad. It robs all\nforms of matter--which, after all, is our domain--of their substance,\nand gives a sinister reality to shadows alone. And the shadows were\nvery real around us, but Jim by my side looked very stalwart, as though\nnothing--not even the occult power of moonlight--could rob him of his\nreality in my eyes. Perhaps, indeed, nothing could touch him since he\nhad survived the assault of the dark powers. All was silent, all was\nstill; even on the river the moonbeams slept as on a pool. It was the\nmoment of high water, a moment of immobility that accentuated the utter\nisolation of this lost corner of the earth. The houses crowding along\nthe wide shining sweep without ripple or glitter, stepping into the\nwater in a line of jostling, vague, grey, silvery forms mingled with\nblack masses of shadow, were like a spectral herd of shapeless creatures\npressing forward to drink in a spectral and lifeless stream. Here and\nthere a red gleam twinkled within the bamboo walls, warm, like a living\nspark, significant of human affections, of shelter, of repose.\n\n'He confessed to me that he often watched these tiny warm gleams go\nout one by one, that he loved to see people go to sleep under his eyes,\nconfident in the security of to-morrow. \"Peaceful here, eh?\" he asked.\nHe was not eloquent, but there was a deep meaning in the words that\nfollowed. \"Look at these houses; there's not one where I am not trusted.\nJove! I told you I would hang on. Ask any man, woman, or child . . .\" He\npaused. \"Well, I am all right anyhow.\"\n\n'I observed quickly that he had found that out in the end. I had been\nsure of it, I added. He shook his head. \"Were you?\" He pressed my arm\nlightly above the elbow. \"Well, then--you were right.\"\n\n'There was elation and pride, there was awe almost, in that low\nexclamation. \"Jove!\" he cried, \"only think what it is to me.\" Again he\npressed my arm. \"And you asked me whether I thought of leaving. Good\nGod! I! want to leave! Especially now after what you told me of Mr.\nStein's . . . Leave! Why! That's what I was afraid of. It would have\nbeen--it would have been harder than dying. No--on my word. Don't\nlaugh. I must feel--every day, every time I open my eyes--that I am\ntrusted--that nobody has a right--don't you know? Leave! For where? What\nfor? To get what?\"\n\n'I had told him (indeed it was the main object of my visit) that it was\nStein's intention to present him at once with the house and the stock\nof trading goods, on certain easy conditions which would make the\ntransaction perfectly regular and valid. He began to snort and plunge at\nfirst. \"Confound your delicacy!\" I shouted. \"It isn't Stein at all. It's\ngiving you what you had made for yourself. And in any case keep your\nremarks for McNeil--when you meet him in the other world. I hope it\nwon't happen soon. . . .\" He had to give in to my arguments, because all\nhis conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these\nthings that made him master had made him a captive, too. He looked with\nan owner's eye at the peace of the evening, at the river, at the houses,\nat the everlasting life of the forests, at the life of the old mankind,\nat the secrets of the land, at the pride of his own heart; but it was\nthey that possessed him and made him their own to the innermost thought,\nto the slightest stir of blood, to his last breath.\n\n'It was something to be proud of. I, too, was proud--for him, if not so\ncertain of the fabulous value of the bargain. It was wonderful. It was\nnot so much of his fearlessness that I thought. It is strange how little\naccount I took of it: as if it had been something too conventional to be\nat the root of the matter. No. I was more struck by the other gifts he\nhad displayed. He had proved his grasp of the unfamiliar situation,\nhis intellectual alertness in that field of thought. There was his\nreadiness, too! Amazing. And all this had come to him in a manner like\nkeen scent to a well-bred hound. He was not eloquent, but there was a\ndignity in this constitutional reticence, there was a high seriousness\nin his stammerings. He had still his old trick of stubborn blushing. Now\nand then, though, a word, a sentence, would escape him that showed how\ndeeply, how solemnly, he felt about that work which had given him the\ncertitude of rehabilitation. That is why he seemed to love the land\nand the people with a sort of fierce egoism, with a contemptuous\ntenderness.'\n", "summary": "Two years later, Marlow goes to Patusan to visit Jim. He wants to offer Jim the trading post house on the island, as a gift from Stein. He arrives to find that Jim has become a local hero, and everyone there calls him Tuan Jim, or Lord Jim. When Jim gives Marlow a brief tour, we learn that when Jim first arrived, the natives of Patusan didn't exactly lay out the red carpet. He was taken to Rajah Allang, who promptly locked him up."}, {"": "90", "document": "\n'Doramin was one of the most remarkable men of his race I had ever seen.\nHis bulk for a Malay was immense, but he did not look merely fat; he\nlooked imposing, monumental. This motionless body, clad in rich stuffs,\ncoloured silks, gold embroideries; this huge head, enfolded in a\nred-and-gold headkerchief; the flat, big, round face, wrinkled,\nfurrowed, with two semicircular heavy folds starting on each side of\nwide, fierce nostrils, and enclosing a thick-lipped mouth; the throat\nlike a bull; the vast corrugated brow overhanging the staring proud\neyes--made a whole that, once seen, can never be forgotten. His\nimpassive repose (he seldom stirred a limb when once he sat down) was\nlike a display of dignity. He was never known to raise his voice. It\nwas a hoarse and powerful murmur, slightly veiled as if heard from a\ndistance. When he walked, two short, sturdy young fellows, naked to the\nwaist, in white sarongs and with black skull-caps on the backs of their\nheads, sustained his elbows; they would ease him down and stand behind\nhis chair till he wanted to rise, when he would turn his head slowly,\nas if with difficulty, to the right and to the left, and then they would\ncatch him under his armpits and help him up. For all that, there was\nnothing of a cripple about him: on the contrary, all his ponderous\nmovements were like manifestations of a mighty deliberate force. It\nwas generally believed he consulted his wife as to public affairs; but\nnobody, as far as I know, had ever heard them exchange a single word.\nWhen they sat in state by the wide opening it was in silence. They could\nsee below them in the declining light the vast expanse of the forest\ncountry, a dark sleeping sea of sombre green undulating as far as the\nviolet and purple range of mountains; the shining sinuosity of the river\nlike an immense letter S of beaten silver; the brown ribbon of houses\nfollowing the sweep of both banks, overtopped by the twin hills uprising\nabove the nearer tree-tops. They were wonderfully contrasted: she,\nlight, delicate, spare, quick, a little witch-like, with a touch of\nmotherly fussiness in her repose; he, facing her, immense and heavy,\nlike a figure of a man roughly fashioned of stone, with something\nmagnanimous and ruthless in his immobility. The son of these old people\nwas a most distinguished youth.\n\n'They had him late in life. Perhaps he was not really so young as he\nlooked. Four- or five-and-twenty is not so young when a man is already\nfather of a family at eighteen. When he entered the large room, lined\nand carpeted with fine mats, and with a high ceiling of white sheeting,\nwhere the couple sat in state surrounded by a most deferential retinue,\nhe would make his way straight to Doramin, to kiss his hand--which the\nother abandoned to him, majestically--and then would step across to\nstand by his mother's chair. I suppose I may say they idolised him, but\nI never caught them giving him an overt glance. Those, it is true, were\npublic functions. The room was generally thronged. The solemn formality\nof greetings and leave-takings, the profound respect expressed in\ngestures, on the faces, in the low whispers, is simply indescribable.\n\"It's well worth seeing,\" Jim had assured me while we were crossing the\nriver, on our way back. \"They are like people in a book, aren't they?\"\nhe said triumphantly. \"And Dain Waris--their son--is the best\nfriend (barring you) I ever had. What Mr. Stein would call a good\n'war-comrade.' I was in luck. Jove! I was in luck when I tumbled amongst\nthem at my last gasp.\" He meditated with bowed head, then rousing\nhimself he added--'\"Of course I didn't go to sleep over it, but . . .\"\nHe paused again. \"It seemed to come to me,\" he murmured. \"All at once I\nsaw what I had to do . . .\"\n\n'There was no doubt that it had come to him; and it had come through\nwar, too, as is natural, since this power that came to him was the power\nto make peace. It is in this sense alone that might so often is right.\nYou must not think he had seen his way at once. When he arrived the\nBugis community was in a most critical position. \"They were all afraid,\"\nhe said to me--\"each man afraid for himself; while I could see as plain\nas possible that they must do something at once, if they did not want\nto go under one after another, what between the Rajah and that vagabond\nSherif.\" But to see that was nothing. When he got his idea he had\nto drive it into reluctant minds, through the bulwarks of fear, of\nselfishness. He drove it in at last. And that was nothing. He had to\ndevise the means. He devised them--an audacious plan; and his task\nwas only half done. He had to inspire with his own confidence a lot\nof people who had hidden and absurd reasons to hang back; he had to\nconciliate imbecile jealousies, and argue away all sorts of senseless\nmistrusts. Without the weight of Doramin's authority, and his son's\nfiery enthusiasm, he would have failed. Dain Waris, the distinguished\nyouth, was the first to believe in him; theirs was one of those strange,\nprofound, rare friendships between brown and white, in which the very\ndifference of race seems to draw two human beings closer by some mystic\nelement of sympathy. Of Dain Waris, his own people said with pride that\nhe knew how to fight like a white man. This was true; he had that\nsort of courage--the courage in the open, I may say--but he had also a\nEuropean mind. You meet them sometimes like that, and are surprised to\ndiscover unexpectedly a familiar turn of thought, an unobscured vision,\na tenacity of purpose, a touch of altruism. Of small stature, but\nadmirably well proportioned, Dain Waris had a proud carriage, a\npolished, easy bearing, a temperament like a clear flame. His dusky\nface, with big black eyes, was in action expressive, and in repose\nthoughtful. He was of a silent disposition; a firm glance, an ironic\nsmile, a courteous deliberation of manner seemed to hint at great\nreserves of intelligence and power. Such beings open to the Western eye,\nso often concerned with mere surfaces, the hidden possibilities of races\nand lands over which hangs the mystery of unrecorded ages. He not only\ntrusted Jim, he understood him, I firmly believe. I speak of him because\nhe had captivated me. His--if I may say so--his caustic placidity,\nand, at the same time, his intelligent sympathy with Jim's aspirations,\nappealed to me. I seemed to behold the very origin of friendship. If\nJim took the lead, the other had captivated his leader. In fact, Jim\nthe leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the\nfriendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body.\nEvery day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom. I felt\nconvinced of it, as from day to day I learned more of the story.\n\n'The story! Haven't I heard the story? I've heard it on the march, in\ncamp (he made me scour the country after invisible game); I've listened\nto a good part of it on one of the twin summits, after climbing the last\nhundred feet or so on my hands and knees. Our escort (we had volunteer\nfollowers from village to village) had camped meantime on a bit of level\nground half-way up the slope, and in the still breathless evening the\nsmell of wood-smoke reached our nostrils from below with the penetrating\ndelicacy of some choice scent. Voices also ascended, wonderful in their\ndistinct and immaterial clearness. Jim sat on the trunk of a felled\ntree, and pulling out his pipe began to smoke. A new growth of grass and\nbushes was springing up; there were traces of an earthwork under a mass\nof thorny twigs. \"It all started from here,\" he said, after a long and\nmeditative silence. On the other hill, two hundred yards across a sombre\nprecipice, I saw a line of high blackened stakes, showing here and there\nruinously--the remnants of Sherif Ali's impregnable camp.\n\n'But it had been taken, though. That had been his idea. He had\nmounted Doramin's old ordnance on the top of that hill; two rusty iron\n7-pounders, a lot of small brass cannon--currency cannon. But if the\nbrass guns represent wealth, they can also, when crammed recklessly to\nthe muzzle, send a solid shot to some little distance. The thing was\nto get them up there. He showed me where he had fastened the cables,\nexplained how he had improvised a rude capstan out of a hollowed log\nturning upon a pointed stake, indicated with the bowl of his pipe the\noutline of the earthwork. The last hundred feet of the ascent had been\nthe most difficult. He had made himself responsible for success on his\nown head. He had induced the war party to work hard all night. Big\nfires lighted at intervals blazed all down the slope, \"but up here,\" he\nexplained, \"the hoisting gang had to fly around in the dark.\" From the\ntop he saw men moving on the hillside like ants at work. He himself on\nthat night had kept on rushing down and climbing up like a squirrel,\ndirecting, encouraging, watching all along the line. Old Doramin had\nhimself carried up the hill in his arm-chair. They put him down on the\nlevel place upon the slope, and he sat there in the light of one of the\nbig fires--\"amazing old chap--real old chieftain,\" said Jim, \"with his\nlittle fierce eyes--a pair of immense flintlock pistols on his knees.\nMagnificent things, ebony, silver-mounted, with beautiful locks and\na calibre like an old blunderbuss. A present from Stein, it seems--in\nexchange for that ring, you know. Used to belong to good old McNeil. God\nonly knows how _he_ came by them. There he sat, moving neither hand nor\nfoot, a flame of dry brushwood behind him, and lots of people rushing\nabout, shouting and pulling round him--the most solemn, imposing old\nchap you can imagine. He wouldn't have had much chance if Sherif Ali had\nlet his infernal crew loose at us and stampeded my lot. Eh? Anyhow, he\nhad come up there to die if anything went wrong. No mistake! Jove! It\nthrilled me to see him there--like a rock. But the Sherif must have\nthought us mad, and never troubled to come and see how we got on. Nobody\nbelieved it could be done. Why! I think the very chaps who pulled and\nshoved and sweated over it did not believe it could be done! Upon my\nword I don't think they did. . . .\"\n\n'He stood erect, the smouldering brier-wood in his clutch, with a smile\non his lips and a sparkle in his boyish eyes. I sat on the stump of a\ntree at his feet, and below us stretched the land, the great expanse of\nthe forests, sombre under the sunshine, rolling like a sea, with glints\nof winding rivers, the grey spots of villages, and here and there a\nclearing, like an islet of light amongst the dark waves of continuous\ntree-tops. A brooding gloom lay over this vast and monotonous landscape;\nthe light fell on it as if into an abyss. The land devoured the\nsunshine; only far off, along the coast, the empty ocean, smooth and\npolished within the faint haze, seemed to rise up to the sky in a wall\nof steel.\n\n'And there I was with him, high in the sunshine on the top of that\nhistoric hill of his. He dominated the forest, the secular gloom, the\nold mankind. He was like a figure set up on a pedestal, to represent in\nhis persistent youth the power, and perhaps the virtues, of races that\nnever grow old, that have emerged from the gloom. I don't know why he\nshould always have appeared to me symbolic. Perhaps this is the real\ncause of my interest in his fate. I don't know whether it was exactly\nfair to him to remember the incident which had given a new direction to\nhis life, but at that very moment I remembered very distinctly. It was\nlike a shadow in the light.'\n", "summary": "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", "document": "'This was the theory of Jim's marital evening walks. I made a third on\nmore than one occasion, unpleasantly aware every time of Cornelius,\nwho nursed the aggrieved sense of his legal paternity, slinking in\nthe neighbourhood with that peculiar twist of his mouth as if he were\nperpetually on the point of gnashing his teeth. But do you notice how,\nthree hundred miles beyond the end of telegraph cables and mail-boat\nlines, the haggard utilitarian lies of our civilisation wither and die,\nto be replaced by pure exercises of imagination, that have the futility,\noften the charm, and sometimes the deep hidden truthfulness, of works of\nart? Romance had singled Jim for its own--and that was the true part of\nthe story, which otherwise was all wrong. He did not hide his jewel. In\nfact, he was extremely proud of it.\n\n'It comes to me now that I had, on the whole, seen very little of her.\nWhat I remember best is the even, olive pallor of her complexion, and\nthe intense blue-black gleams of her hair, flowing abundantly from under\na small crimson cap she wore far back on her shapely head. Her movements\nwere free, assured, and she blushed a dusky red. While Jim and I were\ntalking, she would come and go with rapid glances at us, leaving on her\npassage an impression of grace and charm and a distinct suggestion of\nwatchfulness. Her manner presented a curious combination of shyness and\naudacity. Every pretty smile was succeeded swiftly by a look of silent,\nrepressed anxiety, as if put to flight by the recollection of some\nabiding danger. At times she would sit down with us and, with her soft\ncheek dimpled by the knuckles of her little hand, she would listen\nto our talk; her big clear eyes would remain fastened on our lips, as\nthough each pronounced word had a visible shape. Her mother had taught\nher to read and write; she had learned a good bit of English from\nJim, and she spoke it most amusingly, with his own clipping, boyish\nintonation. Her tenderness hovered over him like a flutter of wings. She\nlived so completely in his contemplation that she had acquired something\nof his outward aspect, something that recalled him in her movements, in\nthe way she stretched her arm, turned her head, directed her glances.\nHer vigilant affection had an intensity that made it almost perceptible\nto the senses; it seemed actually to exist in the ambient matter\nof space, to envelop him like a peculiar fragrance, to dwell in the\nsunshine like a tremulous, subdued, and impassioned note. I suppose you\nthink that I too am romantic, but it is a mistake. I am relating to you\nthe sober impressions of a bit of youth, of a strange uneasy romance\nthat had come in my way. I observed with interest the work of\nhis--well--good fortune. He was jealously loved, but why she should\nbe jealous, and of what, I could not tell. The land, the people, the\nforests were her accomplices, guarding him with vigilant accord, with\nan air of seclusion, of mystery, of invincible possession. There was\nno appeal, as it were; he was imprisoned within the very freedom of his\npower, and she, though ready to make a footstool of her head for his\nfeet, guarded her conquest inflexibly--as though he were hard to keep.\nThe very Tamb' Itam, marching on our journeys upon the heels of his\nwhite lord, with his head thrown back, truculent and be-weaponed like a\njanissary, with kriss, chopper, and lance (besides carrying Jim's gun);\neven Tamb' Itam allowed himself to put on the airs of uncompromising\nguardianship, like a surly devoted jailer ready to lay down his life for\nhis captive. On the evenings when we sat up late, his silent, indistinct\nform would pass and repass under the verandah, with noiseless footsteps,\nor lifting my head I would unexpectedly make him out standing rigidly\nerect in the shadow. As a general rule he would vanish after a time,\nwithout a sound; but when we rose he would spring up close to us as if\nfrom the ground, ready for any orders Jim might wish to give. The girl\ntoo, I believe, never went to sleep till we had separated for the night.\nMore than once I saw her and Jim through the window of my room come out\ntogether quietly and lean on the rough balustrade--two white forms very\nclose, his arm about her waist, her head on his shoulder. Their soft\nmurmurs reached me, penetrating, tender, with a calm sad note in the\nstillness of the night, like a self-communion of one being carried on\nin two tones. Later on, tossing on my bed under the mosquito-net, I\nwas sure to hear slight creakings, faint breathing, a throat cleared\ncautiously--and I would know that Tamb' Itam was still on the prowl.\nThough he had (by the favour of the white lord) a house in the compound,\nhad \"taken wife,\" and had lately been blessed with a child, I believe\nthat, during my stay at all events, he slept on the verandah every\nnight. It was very difficult to make this faithful and grim retainer\ntalk. Even Jim himself was answered in jerky short sentences, under\nprotest as it were. Talking, he seemed to imply, was no business of his.\nThe longest speech I heard him volunteer was one morning when, suddenly\nextending his hand towards the courtyard, he pointed at Cornelius and\nsaid, \"Here comes the Nazarene.\" I don't think he was addressing me,\nthough I stood at his side; his object seemed rather to awaken the\nindignant attention of the universe. Some muttered allusions, which\nfollowed, to dogs and the smell of roast-meat, struck me as singularly\nfelicitous. The courtyard, a large square space, was one torrid blaze of\nsunshine, and, bathed in intense light, Cornelius was creeping across\nin full view with an inexpressible effect of stealthiness, of dark and\nsecret slinking. He reminded one of everything that is unsavoury. His\nslow laborious walk resembled the creeping of a repulsive beetle, the\nlegs alone moving with horrid industry while the body glided evenly. I\nsuppose he made straight enough for the place where he wanted to get to,\nbut his progress with one shoulder carried forward seemed oblique. He\nwas often seen circling slowly amongst the sheds, as if following\na scent; passing before the verandah with upward stealthy glances;\ndisappearing without haste round the corner of some hut. That he seemed\nfree of the place demonstrated Jim's absurd carelessness or else his\ninfinite disdain, for Cornelius had played a very dubious part (to say\nthe least of it) in a certain episode which might have ended fatally for\nJim. As a matter of fact, it had redounded to his glory. But everything\nredounded to his glory; and it was the irony of his good fortune that\nhe, who had been too careful of it once, seemed to bear a charmed life.\n\n'You must know he had left Doramin's place very soon after his\narrival--much too soon, in fact, for his safety, and of course a long\ntime before the war. In this he was actuated by a sense of duty; he had\nto look after Stein's business, he said. Hadn't he? To that end, with an\nutter disregard of his personal safety, he crossed the river and took up\nhis quarters with Cornelius. How the latter had managed to exist through\nthe troubled times I can't say. As Stein's agent, after all, he must\nhave had Doramin's protection in a measure; and in one way or another\nhe had managed to wriggle through all the deadly complications, while I\nhave no doubt that his conduct, whatever line he was forced to take, was\nmarked by that abjectness which was like the stamp of the man. That was\nhis characteristic; he was fundamentally and outwardly abject, as other\nmen are markedly of a generous, distinguished, or venerable appearance.\nIt was the element of his nature which permeated all his acts and\npassions and emotions; he raged abjectly, smiled abjectly, was abjectly\nsad; his civilities and his indignations were alike abject. I am sure\nhis love would have been the most abject of sentiments--but can one\nimagine a loathsome insect in love? And his loathsomeness, too, was\nabject, so that a simply disgusting person would have appeared noble\nby his side. He has his place neither in the background nor in the\nforeground of the story; he is simply seen skulking on its outskirts,\nenigmatical and unclean, tainting the fragrance of its youth and of its\nnaiveness.\n\n'His position in any case could not have been other than extremely\nmiserable, yet it may very well be that he found some advantages in it.\nJim told me he had been received at first with an abject display of\nthe most amicable sentiments. \"The fellow apparently couldn't contain\nhimself for joy,\" said Jim with disgust. \"He flew at me every morning to\nshake both my hands--confound him!--but I could never tell whether there\nwould be any breakfast. If I got three meals in two days I considered\nmyself jolly lucky, and he made me sign a chit for ten dollars every\nweek. Said he was sure Mr. Stein did not mean him to keep me for\nnothing. Well--he kept me on nothing as near as possible. Put it down to\nthe unsettled state of the country, and made as if to tear his hair out,\nbegging my pardon twenty times a day, so that I had at last to entreat\nhim not to worry. It made me sick. Half the roof of his house had\nfallen in, and the whole place had a mangy look, with wisps of dry grass\nsticking out and the corners of broken mats flapping on every wall. He\ndid his best to make out that Mr. Stein owed him money on the last three\nyears' trading, but his books were all torn, and some were missing. He\ntried to hint it was his late wife's fault. Disgusting scoundrel! At\nlast I had to forbid him to mention his late wife at all. It made Jewel\ncry. I couldn't discover what became of all the trade-goods; there was\nnothing in the store but rats, having a high old time amongst a litter\nof brown paper and old sacking. I was assured on every hand that he had\na lot of money buried somewhere, but of course could get nothing out of\nhim. It was the most miserable existence I led there in that wretched\nhouse. I tried to do my duty by Stein, but I had also other matters to\nthink of. When I escaped to Doramin old Tunku Allang got frightened and\nreturned all my things. It was done in a roundabout way, and with no end\nof mystery, through a Chinaman who keeps a small shop here; but as soon\nas I left the Bugis quarter and went to live with Cornelius it began\nto be said openly that the Rajah had made up his mind to have me killed\nbefore long. Pleasant, wasn't it? And I couldn't see what there was to\nprevent him if he really _had_ made up his mind. The worst of it was,\nI couldn't help feeling I wasn't doing any good either for Stein or for\nmyself. Oh! it was beastly--the whole six weeks of it.\"'", "summary": "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", "document": "\n'He told me further that he didn't know what made him hang on--but of\ncourse we may guess. He sympathised deeply with the defenceless girl, at\nthe mercy of that \"mean, cowardly scoundrel.\" It appears Cornelius led\nher an awful life, stopping only short of actual ill-usage, for which\nhe had not the pluck, I suppose. He insisted upon her calling him\nfather--\"and with respect, too--with respect,\" he would scream, shaking\na little yellow fist in her face. \"I am a respectable man, and what are\nyou? Tell me--what are you? You think I am going to bring up somebody\nelse's child and not be treated with respect? You ought to be glad I let\nyou. Come--say Yes, father. . . . No? . . . You wait a bit.\" Thereupon\nhe would begin to abuse the dead woman, till the girl would run off with\nher hands to her head. He pursued her, dashing in and out and round the\nhouse and amongst the sheds, would drive her into some corner, where she\nwould fall on her knees stopping her ears, and then he would stand at a\ndistance and declaim filthy denunciations at her back for half an hour\nat a stretch. \"Your mother was a devil, a deceitful devil--and you too\nare a devil,\" he would shriek in a final outburst, pick up a bit of dry\nearth or a handful of mud (there was plenty of mud around the house),\nand fling it into her hair. Sometimes, though, she would hold out full\nof scorn, confronting him in silence, her face sombre and contracted,\nand only now and then uttering a word or two that would make the other\njump and writhe with the sting. Jim told me these scenes were terrible.\nIt was indeed a strange thing to come upon in a wilderness. The\nendlessness of such a subtly cruel situation was appalling--if you think\nof it. The respectable Cornelius (Inchi 'Nelyus the Malays called him,\nwith a grimace that meant many things) was a much-disappointed man. I\ndon't know what he had expected would be done for him in consideration\nof his marriage; but evidently the liberty to steal, and embezzle, and\nappropriate to himself for many years and in any way that suited him\nbest, the goods of Stein's Trading Company (Stein kept the supply up\nunfalteringly as long as he could get his skippers to take it there) did\nnot seem to him a fair equivalent for the sacrifice of his honourable\nname. Jim would have enjoyed exceedingly thrashing Cornelius within an\ninch of his life; on the other hand, the scenes were of so painful\na character, so abominable, that his impulse would be to get out of\nearshot, in order to spare the girl's feelings. They left her agitated,\nspeechless, clutching her bosom now and then with a stony,\ndesperate face, and then Jim would lounge up and say unhappily,\n\"Now--come--really--what's the use--you must try to eat a bit,\" or give\nsome such mark of sympathy. Cornelius would keep on slinking through\nthe doorways, across the verandah and back again, as mute as a fish, and\nwith malevolent, mistrustful, underhand glances. \"I can stop his game,\"\nJim said to her once. \"Just say the word.\" And do you know what she\nanswered? She said--Jim told me impressively--that if she had not been\nsure he was intensely wretched himself, she would have found the courage\nto kill him with her own hands. \"Just fancy that! The poor devil of a\ngirl, almost a child, being driven to talk like that,\" he exclaimed in\nhorror. It seemed impossible to save her not only from that mean\nrascal but even from herself! It wasn't that he pitied her so much, he\naffirmed; it was more than pity; it was as if he had something on his\nconscience, while that life went on. To leave the house would have\nappeared a base desertion. He had understood at last that there was\nnothing to expect from a longer stay, neither accounts nor money, nor\ntruth of any sort, but he stayed on, exasperating Cornelius to the\nverge, I won't say of insanity, but almost of courage. Meantime he felt\nall sorts of dangers gathering obscurely about him. Doramin had sent\nover twice a trusty servant to tell him seriously that he could do\nnothing for his safety unless he would recross the river again and live\namongst the Bugis as at first. People of every condition used to call,\noften in the dead of night, in order to disclose to him plots for\nhis assassination. He was to be poisoned. He was to be stabbed in the\nbath-house. Arrangements were being made to have him shot from a boat\non the river. Each of these informants professed himself to be his very\ngood friend. It was enough--he told me--to spoil a fellow's rest for\never. Something of the kind was extremely possible--nay, probable--but\nthe lying warnings gave him only the sense of deadly scheming going on\nall around him, on all sides, in the dark. Nothing more calculated to\nshake the best of nerve. Finally, one night, Cornelius himself, with a\ngreat apparatus of alarm and secrecy, unfolded in solemn wheedling tones\na little plan wherein for one hundred dollars--or even for eighty; let's\nsay eighty--he, Cornelius, would procure a trustworthy man to smuggle\nJim out of the river, all safe. There was nothing else for it now--if\nJim cared a pin for his life. What's eighty dollars? A trifle. An\ninsignificant sum. While he, Cornelius, who had to remain behind, was\nabsolutely courting death by this proof of devotion to Mr. Stein's young\nfriend. The sight of his abject grimacing was--Jim told me--very hard\nto bear: he clutched at his hair, beat his breast, rocked himself to\nand fro with his hands pressed to his stomach, and actually pretended to\nshed tears. \"Your blood be on your own head,\" he squeaked at last, and\nrushed out. It is a curious question how far Cornelius was sincere in\nthat performance. Jim confessed to me that he did not sleep a wink after\nthe fellow had gone. He lay on his back on a thin mat spread over the\nbamboo flooring, trying idly to make out the bare rafters, and listening\nto the rustlings in the torn thatch. A star suddenly twinkled through a\nhole in the roof. His brain was in a whirl; but, nevertheless, it was on\nthat very night that he matured his plan for overcoming Sherif Ali. It\nhad been the thought of all the moments he could spare from the hopeless\ninvestigation into Stein's affairs, but the notion--he says--came to him\nthen all at once. He could see, as it were, the guns mounted on the top\nof the hill. He got very hot and excited lying there; sleep was out of\nthe question more than ever. He jumped up, and went out barefooted\non the verandah. Walking silently, he came upon the girl, motionless\nagainst the wall, as if on the watch. In his then state of mind it did\nnot surprise him to see her up, nor yet to hear her ask in an anxious\nwhisper where Cornelius could be. He simply said he did not know. She\nmoaned a little, and peered into the campong. Everything was very quiet.\nHe was possessed by his new idea, and so full of it that he could not\nhelp telling the girl all about it at once. She listened, clapped her\nhands lightly, whispered softly her admiration, but was evidently on the\nalert all the time. It seems he had been used to make a confidant of\nher all along--and that she on her part could and did give him a lot of\nuseful hints as to Patusan affairs there is no doubt. He assured me more\nthan once that he had never found himself the worse for her advice. At\nany rate, he was proceeding to explain his plan fully to her there and\nthen, when she pressed his arm once, and vanished from his side. Then\nCornelius appeared from somewhere, and, perceiving Jim, ducked sideways,\nas though he had been shot at, and afterwards stood very still in the\ndusk. At last he came forward prudently, like a suspicious cat. \"There\nwere some fishermen there--with fish,\" he said in a shaky voice. \"To\nsell fish--you understand.\" . . . It must have been then two o'clock in\nthe morning--a likely time for anybody to hawk fish about!\n\n'Jim, however, let the statement pass, and did not give it a single\nthought. Other matters occupied his mind, and besides he had neither\nseen nor heard anything. He contented himself by saying, \"Oh!\" absently,\ngot a drink of water out of a pitcher standing there, and leaving\nCornelius a prey to some inexplicable emotion--that made him embrace\nwith both arms the worm-eaten rail of the verandah as if his legs had\nfailed--went in again and lay down on his mat to think. By-and-by he\nheard stealthy footsteps. They stopped. A voice whispered tremulously\nthrough the wall, \"Are you asleep?\" \"No! What is it?\" he answered\nbriskly, and there was an abrupt movement outside, and then all was\nstill, as if the whisperer had been startled. Extremely annoyed at this,\nJim came out impetuously, and Cornelius with a faint shriek fled\nalong the verandah as far as the steps, where he hung on to the broken\nbanister. Very puzzled, Jim called out to him from the distance to know\nwhat the devil he meant. \"Have you given your consideration to what\nI spoke to you about?\" asked Cornelius, pronouncing the words with\ndifficulty, like a man in the cold fit of a fever. \"No!\" shouted Jim in\na passion. \"I have not, and I don't intend to. I am going to live here,\nin Patusan.\" \"You shall d-d-die h-h-here,\" answered Cornelius,\nstill shaking violently, and in a sort of expiring voice. The whole\nperformance was so absurd and provoking that Jim didn't know whether he\nought to be amused or angry. \"Not till I have seen you tucked away,\nyou bet,\" he called out, exasperated yet ready to laugh. Half seriously\n(being excited with his own thoughts, you know) he went on shouting,\n\"Nothing can touch me! You can do your damnedest.\" Somehow the shadowy\nCornelius far off there seemed to be the hateful embodiment of all the\nannoyances and difficulties he had found in his path. He let himself\ngo--his nerves had been over-wrought for days--and called him many\npretty names,--swindler, liar, sorry rascal: in fact, carried on in an\nextraordinary way. He admits he passed all bounds, that he was quite\nbeside himself--defied all Patusan to scare him away--declared he would\nmake them all dance to his own tune yet, and so on, in a menacing,\nboasting strain. Perfectly bombastic and ridiculous, he said. His ears\nburned at the bare recollection. Must have been off his chump in some\nway. . . . The girl, who was sitting with us, nodded her little head at\nme quickly, frowned faintly, and said, \"I heard him,\" with child-like\nsolemnity. He laughed and blushed. What stopped him at last, he said,\nwas the silence, the complete deathlike silence, of the indistinct\nfigure far over there, that seemed to hang collapsed, doubled over the\nrail in a weird immobility. He came to his senses, and ceasing suddenly,\nwondered greatly at himself. He watched for a while. Not a stir, not a\nsound. \"Exactly as if the chap had died while I had been making all that\nnoise,\" he said. He was so ashamed of himself that he went indoors in a\nhurry without another word, and flung himself down again. The row seemed\nto have done him good though, because he went to sleep for the rest of\nthe night like a baby. Hadn't slept like that for weeks. \"But _I_ didn't\nsleep,\" struck in the girl, one elbow on the table and nursing her\ncheek. \"I watched.\" Her big eyes flashed, rolling a little, and then she\nfixed them on my face intently.'", "summary": "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", "document": "'Jim took up an advantageous position and shepherded them out in a bunch\nthrough the doorway: all that time the torch had remained vertical in\nthe grip of a little hand, without so much as a tremble. The three men\nobeyed him, perfectly mute, moving automatically. He ranged them in a\nrow. \"Link arms!\" he ordered. They did so. \"The first who withdraws his\narm or turns his head is a dead man,\" he said. \"March!\" They stepped out\ntogether, rigidly; he followed, and at the side the girl, in a trailing\nwhite gown, her black hair falling as low as her waist, bore the light.\nErect and swaying, she seemed to glide without touching the earth; the\nonly sound was the silky swish and rustle of the long grass. \"Stop!\"\ncried Jim.\n\n'The river-bank was steep; a great freshness ascended, the light fell on\nthe edge of smooth dark water frothing without a ripple; right and left\nthe shapes of the houses ran together below the sharp outlines of the\nroofs. \"Take my greetings to Sherif Ali--till I come myself,\" said\nJim. Not one head of the three budged. \"Jump!\" he thundered. The\nthree splashes made one splash, a shower flew up, black heads bobbed\nconvulsively, and disappeared; but a great blowing and spluttering went\non, growing faint, for they were diving industriously in great fear of\na parting shot. Jim turned to the girl, who had been a silent and\nattentive observer. His heart seemed suddenly to grow too big for his\nbreast and choke him in the hollow of his throat. This probably made\nhim speechless for so long, and after returning his gaze she flung the\nburning torch with a wide sweep of the arm into the river. The ruddy\nfiery glare, taking a long flight through the night, sank with a vicious\nhiss, and the calm soft starlight descended upon them, unchecked.\n\n'He did not tell me what it was he said when at last he recovered his\nvoice. I don't suppose he could be very eloquent. The world was still,\nthe night breathed on them, one of those nights that seem created for\nthe sheltering of tenderness, and there are moments when our souls, as\nif freed from their dark envelope, glow with an exquisite sensibility\nthat makes certain silences more lucid than speeches. As to the girl,\nhe told me, \"She broke down a bit. Excitement--don't you know.\nReaction. Deucedly tired she must have been--and all that kind of thing.\nAnd--and--hang it all--she was fond of me, don't you see. . . . I\ntoo . . . didn't know, of course . . . never entered my head . . .\"\n\n'Then he got up and began to walk about in some agitation. \"I--I love\nher dearly. More than I can tell. Of course one cannot tell. You take a\ndifferent view of your actions when you come to understand, when you\nare _made_ to understand every day that your existence is necessary--you\nsee, absolutely necessary--to another person. I am made to feel that.\nWonderful! But only try to think what her life has been. It is too\nextravagantly awful! Isn't it? And me finding her here like this--as you\nmay go out for a stroll and come suddenly upon somebody drowning in a\nlonely dark place. Jove! No time to lose. Well, it is a trust too . . .\nI believe I am equal to it . . .\"\n\n'I must tell you the girl had left us to ourselves some time before. He\nslapped his chest. \"Yes! I feel that, but I believe I am equal to all my\nluck!\" He had the gift of finding a special meaning in everything that\nhappened to him. This was the view he took of his love affair; it was\nidyllic, a little solemn, and also true, since his belief had all the\nunshakable seriousness of youth. Some time after, on another occasion,\nhe said to me, \"I've been only two years here, and now, upon my word, I\ncan't conceive being able to live anywhere else. The very thought of the\nworld outside is enough to give me a fright; because, don't you see,\" he\ncontinued, with downcast eyes watching the action of his boot busied in\nsquashing thoroughly a tiny bit of dried mud (we were strolling on the\nriver-bank)--\"because I have not forgotten why I came here. Not yet!\"\n\n'I refrained from looking at him, but I think I heard a short sigh; we\ntook a turn or two in silence. \"Upon my soul and conscience,\" he began\nagain, \"if such a thing can be forgotten, then I think I have a right to\ndismiss it from my mind. Ask any man here\" . . . his voice changed. \"Is\nit not strange,\" he went on in a gentle, almost yearning tone, \"that all\nthese people, all these people who would do anything for me, can never\nbe made to understand? Never! If you disbelieved me I could not call\nthem up. It seems hard, somehow. I am stupid, am I not? What more can I\nwant? If you ask them who is brave--who is true--who is just--who is it\nthey would trust with their lives?--they would say, Tuan Jim. And yet\nthey can never know the real, real truth . . .\"\n\n'That's what he said to me on my last day with him. I did not let a\nmurmur escape me: I felt he was going to say more, and come no nearer\nto the root of the matter. The sun, whose concentrated glare dwarfs the\nearth into a restless mote of dust, had sunk behind the forest, and\nthe diffused light from an opal sky seemed to cast upon a world without\nshadows and without brilliance the illusion of a calm and pensive\ngreatness. I don't know why, listening to him, I should have noted\nso distinctly the gradual darkening of the river, of the air; the\nirresistible slow work of the night settling silently on all the visible\nforms, effacing the outlines, burying the shapes deeper and deeper, like\na steady fall of impalpable black dust.\n\n'\"Jove!\" he began abruptly, \"there are days when a fellow is too absurd\nfor anything; only I know I can tell you what I like. I talk about\nbeing done with it--with the bally thing at the back of my head . . .\nForgetting . . . Hang me if I know! I can think of it quietly. After\nall, what has it proved? Nothing. I suppose you don't think so . . .\"\n\n'I made a protesting murmur.\n\n'\"No matter,\" he said. \"I am satisfied . . . nearly. I've got to\nlook only at the face of the first man that comes along, to regain my\nconfidence. They can't be made to understand what is going on in me.\nWhat of that? Come! I haven't done so badly.\"\n\n'\"Not so badly,\" I said.\n\n'\"But all the same, you wouldn't like to have me aboard your own ship\nhey?\"\n\n'\"Confound you!\" I cried. \"Stop this.\"\n\n'\"Aha! You see,\" he said, crowing, as it were, over me placidly. \"Only,\"\nhe went on, \"you just try to tell this to any of them here. They would\nthink you a fool, a liar, or worse. And so I can stand it. I've done a\nthing or two for them, but this is what they have done for me.\"\n\n'\"My dear chap,\" I cried, \"you shall always remain for them an insoluble\nmystery.\" Thereupon we were silent.\n\n'\"Mystery,\" he repeated, before looking up. \"Well, then let me always\nremain here.\"\n\n'After the sun had set, the darkness seemed to drive upon us, borne in\nevery faint puff of the breeze. In the middle of a hedged path I saw the\narrested, gaunt, watchful, and apparently one-legged silhouette of Tamb'\nItam; and across the dusky space my eye detected something white moving\nto and fro behind the supports of the roof. As soon as Jim, with Tamb'\nItam at his heels, had started upon his evening rounds, I went up to the\nhouse alone, and, unexpectedly, found myself waylaid by the girl, who\nhad been clearly waiting for this opportunity.\n\n'It is hard to tell you what it was precisely she wanted to wrest\nfrom me. Obviously it would be something very simple--the simplest\nimpossibility in the world; as, for instance, the exact description of\nthe form of a cloud. She wanted an assurance, a statement, a promise, an\nexplanation--I don't know how to call it: the thing has no name. It was\ndark under the projecting roof, and all I could see were the flowing\nlines of her gown, the pale small oval of her face, with the white flash\nof her teeth, and, turned towards me, the big sombre orbits of her eyes,\nwhere there seemed to be a faint stir, such as you may fancy you can\ndetect when you plunge your gaze to the bottom of an immensely deep\nwell. What is it that moves there? you ask yourself. Is it a blind\nmonster or only a lost gleam from the universe? It occurred to me--don't\nlaugh--that all things being dissimilar, she was more inscrutable in\nher childish ignorance than the Sphinx propounding childish riddles\nto wayfarers. She had been carried off to Patusan before her eyes\nwere open. She had grown up there; she had seen nothing, she had known\nnothing, she had no conception of anything. I ask myself whether she\nwere sure that anything else existed. What notions she may have formed\nof the outside world is to me inconceivable: all that she knew of its\ninhabitants were a betrayed woman and a sinister pantaloon. Her lover\nalso came to her from there, gifted with irresistible seductions; but\nwhat would become of her if he should return to these inconceivable\nregions that seemed always to claim back their own? Her mother had\nwarned her of this with tears, before she died . . .\n\n'She had caught hold of my arm firmly, and as soon as I had stopped she\nhad withdrawn her hand in haste. She was audacious and shrinking. She\nfeared nothing, but she was checked by the profound incertitude and the\nextreme strangeness--a brave person groping in the dark. I belonged to\nthis Unknown that might claim Jim for its own at any moment. I was,\nas it were, in the secret of its nature and of its intentions--the\nconfidant of a threatening mystery--armed with its power perhaps! I\nbelieve she supposed I could with a word whisk Jim away out of her very\narms; it is my sober conviction she went through agonies of apprehension\nduring my long talks with Jim; through a real and intolerable anguish\nthat might have conceivably driven her into plotting my murder, had the\nfierceness of her soul been equal to the tremendous situation it had\ncreated. This is my impression, and it is all I can give you: the whole\nthing dawned gradually upon me, and as it got clearer and clearer I was\noverwhelmed by a slow incredulous amazement. She made me believe her,\nbut there is no word that on my lips could render the effect of the\nheadlong and vehement whisper, of the soft, passionate tones, of the\nsudden breathless pause and the appealing movement of the white arms\nextended swiftly. They fell; the ghostly figure swayed like a slender\ntree in the wind, the pale oval of the face drooped; it was impossible\nto distinguish her features, the darkness of the eyes was unfathomable;\ntwo wide sleeves uprose in the dark like unfolding wings, and she stood\nsilent, holding her head in her hands.'\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nWith these words Marlow had ended his narrative, and his audience had\nbroken up forthwith, under his abstract, pensive gaze. Men drifted off\nthe verandah in pairs or alone without loss of time, without offering\na remark, as if the last image of that incomplete story, its\nincompleteness itself, and the very tone of the speaker, had made\ndiscussion in vain and comment impossible. Each of them seemed to carry\naway his own impression, to carry it away with him like a secret; but\nthere was only one man of all these listeners who was ever to hear the\nlast word of the story. It came to him at home, more than two years\nlater, and it came contained in a thick packet addressed in Marlow's\nupright and angular handwriting.\n\nThe privileged man opened the packet, looked in, then, laying it down,\nwent to the window. His rooms were in the highest flat of a lofty\nbuilding, and his glance could travel afar beyond the clear panes of\nglass, as though he were looking out of the lantern of a lighthouse.\nThe slopes of the roofs glistened, the dark broken ridges succeeded each\nother without end like sombre, uncrested waves, and from the depths of\nthe town under his feet ascended a confused and unceasing mutter. The\nspires of churches, numerous, scattered haphazard, uprose like beacons\non a maze of shoals without a channel; the driving rain mingled with the\nfalling dusk of a winter's evening; and the booming of a big clock on a\ntower, striking the hour, rolled past in voluminous, austere bursts\nof sound, with a shrill vibrating cry at the core. He drew the heavy\ncurtains.\n\nThe light of his shaded reading-lamp slept like a sheltered pool, his\nfootfalls made no sound on the carpet, his wandering days were over. No\nmore horizons as boundless as hope, no more twilights within the forests\nas solemn as temples, in the hot quest for the Ever-undiscovered\nCountry over the hill, across the stream, beyond the wave. The hour\nwas striking! No more! No more!--but the opened packet under the lamp\nbrought back the sounds, the visions, the very savour of the past--a\nmultitude of fading faces, a tumult of low voices, dying away upon the\nshores of distant seas under a passionate and unconsoling sunshine. He\nsighed and sat down to read.\n\nAt first he saw three distinct enclosures. A good many pages closely\nblackened and pinned together; a loose square sheet of greyish paper\nwith a few words traced in a handwriting he had never seen before, and\nan explanatory letter from Marlow. From this last fell another letter,\nyellowed by time and frayed on the folds. He picked it up and, laying it\naside, turned to Marlow's message, ran swiftly over the opening lines,\nand, checking himself, thereafter read on deliberately, like one\napproaching with slow feet and alert eyes the glimpse of an undiscovered\ncountry.\n\n'. . . I don't suppose you've forgotten,' went on the letter. 'You alone\nhave showed an interest in him that survived the telling of his story,\nthough I remember well you would not admit he had mastered his fate.\nYou prophesied for him the disaster of weariness and of disgust with\nacquired honour, with the self-appointed task, with the love sprung from\npity and youth. You had said you knew so well \"that kind of thing,\" its\nillusory satisfaction, its unavoidable deception. You said also--I call\nto mind--that \"giving your life up to them\" (them meaning all of mankind\nwith skins brown, yellow, or black in colour) \"was like selling your\nsoul to a brute.\" You contended that \"that kind of thing\" was only\nendurable and enduring when based on a firm conviction in the truth of\nideas racially our own, in whose name are established the order, the\nmorality of an ethical progress. \"We want its strength at our backs,\"\nyou had said. \"We want a belief in its necessity and its justice, to\nmake a worthy and conscious sacrifice of our lives. Without it the\nsacrifice is only forgetfulness, the way of offering is no better than\nthe way to perdition.\" In other words, you maintained that we must fight\nin the ranks or our lives don't count. Possibly! You ought to know--be\nit said without malice--you who have rushed into one or two places\nsingle-handed and came out cleverly, without singeing your wings. The\npoint, however, is that of all mankind Jim had no dealings but with\nhimself, and the question is whether at the last he had not confessed to\na faith mightier than the laws of order and progress.\n\n'I affirm nothing. Perhaps you may pronounce--after you've read. There\nis much truth--after all--in the common expression \"under a cloud.\" It\nis impossible to see him clearly--especially as it is through the eyes\nof others that we take our last look at him. I have no hesitation in\nimparting to you all I know of the last episode that, as he used to say,\nhad \"come to him.\" One wonders whether this was perhaps that supreme\nopportunity, that last and satisfying test for which I had always\nsuspected him to be waiting, before he could frame a message to the\nimpeccable world. You remember that when I was leaving him for the last\ntime he had asked whether I would be going home soon, and suddenly cried\nafter me, \"Tell them . . .\" I had waited--curious I'll own, and hopeful\ntoo--only to hear him shout, \"No--nothing.\" That was all then--and there\nwill be nothing more; there will be no message, unless such as each of\nus can interpret for himself from the language of facts, that are so\noften more enigmatic than the craftiest arrangement of words. He made,\nit is true, one more attempt to deliver himself; but that too failed, as\nyou may perceive if you look at the sheet of greyish foolscap enclosed\nhere. He had tried to write; do you notice the commonplace hand? It is\nheaded \"The Fort, Patusan.\" I suppose he had carried out his intention\nof making out of his house a place of defence. It was an excellent plan:\na deep ditch, an earth wall topped by a palisade, and at the angles\nguns mounted on platforms to sweep each side of the square. Doramin had\nagreed to furnish him the guns; and so each man of his party would know\nthere was a place of safety, upon which every faithful partisan could\nrally in case of some sudden danger. All this showed his judicious\nforesight, his faith in the future. What he called \"my own people\"--the\nliberated captives of the Sherif--were to make a distinct quarter of\nPatusan, with their huts and little plots of ground under the walls of\nthe stronghold. Within he would be an invincible host in himself \"The\nFort, Patusan.\" No date, as you observe. What is a number and a name to\na day of days? It is also impossible to say whom he had in his mind when\nhe seized the pen: Stein--myself--the world at large--or was this only\nthe aimless startled cry of a solitary man confronted by his fate? \"An\nawful thing has happened,\" he wrote before he flung the pen down for the\nfirst time; look at the ink blot resembling the head of an arrow under\nthese words. After a while he had tried again, scrawling heavily, as if\nwith a hand of lead, another line. \"I must now at once . . .\" The pen\nhad spluttered, and that time he gave it up. There's nothing more;\nhe had seen a broad gulf that neither eye nor voice could span. I\ncan understand this. He was overwhelmed by the inexplicable; he was\noverwhelmed by his own personality--the gift of that destiny which he\nhad done his best to master.\n\n'I send you also an old letter--a very old letter. It was found\ncarefully preserved in his writing-case. It is from his father, and\nby the date you can see he must have received it a few days before he\njoined the Patna. Thus it must be the last letter he ever had from home.\nHe had treasured it all these years. The good old parson fancied his\nsailor son. I've looked in at a sentence here and there. There is\nnothing in it except just affection. He tells his \"dear James\" that the\nlast long letter from him was very \"honest and entertaining.\" He would\nnot have him \"judge men harshly or hastily.\" There are four pages of it,\neasy morality and family news. Tom had \"taken orders.\" Carrie's husband\nhad \"money losses.\" The old chap goes on equably trusting Providence and\nthe established order of the universe, but alive to its small dangers\nand its small mercies. One can almost see him, grey-haired and serene in\nthe inviolable shelter of his book-lined, faded, and comfortable study,\nwhere for forty years he had conscientiously gone over and over again\nthe round of his little thoughts about faith and virtue, about the\nconduct of life and the only proper manner of dying; where he had\nwritten so many sermons, where he sits talking to his boy, over there,\non the other side of the earth. But what of the distance? Virtue is one\nall over the world, and there is only one faith, one conceivable conduct\nof life, one manner of dying. He hopes his \"dear James\" will never\nforget that \"who once gives way to temptation, in the very instant\nhazards his total depravity and everlasting ruin. Therefore resolve\nfixedly never, through any possible motives, to do anything which you\nbelieve to be wrong.\" There is also some news of a favourite dog; and a\npony, \"which all you boys used to ride,\" had gone blind from old age and\nhad to be shot. The old chap invokes Heaven's blessing; the mother and\nall the girls then at home send their love. . . . No, there is nothing\nmuch in that yellow frayed letter fluttering out of his cherishing\ngrasp after so many years. It was never answered, but who can say what\nconverse he may have held with all these placid, colourless forms of men\nand women peopling that quiet corner of the world as free of danger\nor strife as a tomb, and breathing equably the air of undisturbed\nrectitude. It seems amazing that he should belong to it, he to whom so\nmany things \"had come.\" Nothing ever came to them; they would never be\ntaken unawares, and never be called upon to grapple with fate. Here they\nall are, evoked by the mild gossip of the father, all these brothers\nand sisters, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, gazing with clear\nunconscious eyes, while I seem to see him, returned at last, no longer\na mere white speck at the heart of an immense mystery, but of full\nstature, standing disregarded amongst their untroubled shapes, with a\nstern and romantic aspect, but always mute, dark--under a cloud.\n\n'The story of the last events you will find in the few pages enclosed\nhere. You must admit that it is romantic beyond the wildest dreams\nof his boyhood, and yet there is to my mind a sort of profound and\nterrifying logic in it, as if it were our imagination alone that could\nset loose upon us the might of an overwhelming destiny. The imprudence\nof our thoughts recoils upon our heads; who toys with the sword shall\nperish by the sword. This astounding adventure, of which the most\nastounding part is that it is true, comes on as an unavoidable\nconsequence. Something of the sort had to happen. You repeat this to\nyourself while you marvel that such a thing could happen in the year of\ngrace before last. But it has happened--and there is no disputing its\nlogic.\n\n'I put it down here for you as though I had been an eyewitness. My\ninformation was fragmentary, but I've fitted the pieces together, and\nthere is enough of them to make an intelligible picture. I wonder how\nhe would have related it himself. He has confided so much in me that at\ntimes it seems as though he must come in presently and tell the story\nin his own words, in his careless yet feeling voice, with his offhand\nmanner, a little puzzled, a little bothered, a little hurt, but now and\nthen by a word or a phrase giving one of these glimpses of his very\nown self that were never any good for purposes of orientation. It's\ndifficult to believe he will never come. I shall never hear his voice\nagain, nor shall I see his smooth tan-and-pink face with a white line\non the forehead, and the youthful eyes darkened by excitement to a\nprofound, unfathomable blue.'\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\n'To the very last moment, till the full day came upon them with a\nspring, the fires on the west bank blazed bright and clear; and then\nBrown saw in a knot of coloured figures motionless between the advanced\nhouses a man in European clothes, in a helmet, all white. \"That's him;\nlook! look!\" Cornelius said excitedly. All Brown's men had sprung up and\ncrowded at his back with lustreless eyes. The group of vivid colours\nand dark faces with the white figure in their midst were observing the\nknoll. Brown could see naked arms being raised to shade the eyes and\nother brown arms pointing. What should he do? He looked around, and the\nforests that faced him on all sides walled the cock-pit of an unequal\ncontest. He looked once more at his men. A contempt, a weariness, the\ndesire of life, the wish to try for one more chance--for some other\ngrave--struggled in his breast. From the outline the figure presented\nit seemed to him that the white man there, backed up by all the power of\nthe land, was examining his position through binoculars. Brown jumped up\non the log, throwing his arms up, the palms outwards. The coloured group\nclosed round the white man, and fell back twice before he got clear of\nthem, walking slowly alone. Brown remained standing on the log till\nJim, appearing and disappearing between the patches of thorny scrub, had\nnearly reached the creek; then Brown jumped off and went down to meet\nhim on his side.\n\n'They met, I should think, not very far from the place, perhaps on the\nvery spot, where Jim took the second desperate leap of his life--the\nleap that landed him into the life of Patusan, into the trust, the love,\nthe confidence of the people. They faced each other across the creek,\nand with steady eyes tried to understand each other before they opened\ntheir lips. Their antagonism must have been expressed in their glances;\nI know that Brown hated Jim at first sight. Whatever hopes he might have\nhad vanished at once. This was not the man he had expected to see. He\nhated him for this--and in a checked flannel shirt with sleeves cut\noff at the elbows, grey bearded, with a sunken, sun-blackened face--he\ncursed in his heart the other's youth and assurance, his clear eyes and\nhis untroubled bearing. That fellow had got in a long way before him!\nHe did not look like a man who would be willing to give anything for\nassistance. He had all the advantages on his side--possession, security,\npower; he was on the side of an overwhelming force! He was not hungry\nand desperate, and he did not seem in the least afraid. And there was\nsomething in the very neatness of Jim's clothes, from the white helmet\nto the canvas leggings and the pipeclayed shoes, which in Brown's sombre\nirritated eyes seemed to belong to things he had in the very shaping of\nhis life condemned and flouted.\n\n'\"Who are you?\" asked Jim at last, speaking in his usual voice. \"My\nname's Brown,\" answered the other loudly; \"Captain Brown. What's yours?\"\nand Jim after a little pause went on quietly, as If he had not heard:\n\"What made you come here?\" \"You want to know,\" said Brown bitterly.\n\"It's easy to tell. Hunger. And what made you?\"\n\n'\"The fellow started at this,\" said Brown, relating to me the opening of\nthis strange conversation between those two men, separated only by\nthe muddy bed of a creek, but standing on the opposite poles of that\nconception of life which includes all mankind--\"The fellow started at\nthis and got very red in the face. Too big to be questioned, I suppose.\nI told him that if he looked upon me as a dead man with whom you may\ntake liberties, he himself was not a whit better off really. I had\na fellow up there who had a bead drawn on him all the time, and only\nwaited for a sign from me. There was nothing to be shocked at in this.\nHe had come down of his own free will. 'Let us agree,' said I, 'that we\nare both dead men, and let us talk on that basis, as equals. We are\nall equal before death,' I said. I admitted I was there like a rat in\na trap, but we had been driven to it, and even a trapped rat can give\na bite. He caught me up in a moment. 'Not if you don't go near the trap\ntill the rat is dead.' I told him that sort of game was good enough for\nthese native friends of his, but I would have thought him too white to\nserve even a rat so. Yes, I had wanted to talk with him. Not to beg\nfor my life, though. My fellows were--well--what they were--men like\nhimself, anyhow. All we wanted from him was to come on in the devil's\nname and have it out. 'God d--n it,' said I, while he stood there as\nstill as a wooden post, 'you don't want to come out here every day with\nyour glasses to count how many of us are left on our feet. Come. Either\nbring your infernal crowd along or let us go out and starve in the open\nsea, by God! You have been white once, for all your tall talk of this\nbeing your own people and you being one with them. Are you? And what the\ndevil do you get for it; what is it you've found here that is so d--d\nprecious? Hey? You don't want us to come down here perhaps--do you? You\nare two hundred to one. You don't want us to come down into the open.\nAh! I promise you we shall give you some sport before you've done. You\ntalk about me making a cowardly set upon unoffending people. What's\nthat to me that they are unoffending, when I am starving for next to no\noffence? But I am not a coward. Don't you be one. Bring them along or,\nby all the fiends, we shall yet manage to send half your unoffending\ntown to heaven with us in smoke!'\"\n\n'He was terrible--relating this to me--this tortured skeleton of a man\ndrawn up together with his face over his knees, upon a miserable bed in\nthat wretched hovel, and lifting his head to look at me with malignant\ntriumph.\n\n'\"That's what I told him--I knew what to say,\" he began again, feebly\nat first, but working himself up with incredible speed into a fiery\nutterance of his scorn. \"We aren't going into the forest to wander like\na string of living skeletons dropping one after another for ants to\ngo to work upon us before we are fairly dead. Oh no! . . . 'You don't\ndeserve a better fate,' he said. 'And what do you deserve,' I shouted\nat him, 'you that I find skulking here with your mouth full of your\nresponsibility, of innocent lives, of your infernal duty? What do\nyou know more of me than I know of you? I came here for food. D'ye\nhear?--food to fill our bellies. And what did _you_ come for? What did\nyou ask for when you came here? We don't ask you for anything but to\ngive us a fight or a clear road to go back whence we came. . . .' 'I\nwould fight with you now,' says he, pulling at his little moustache.\n'And I would let you shoot me, and welcome,' I said. 'This is as good a\njumping-off place for me as another. I am sick of my infernal luck. But\nit would be too easy. There are my men in the same boat--and, by God, I\nam not the sort to jump out of trouble and leave them in a d--d lurch,'\nI said. He stood thinking for a while and then wanted to know what I\nhad done ('out there' he says, tossing his head down-stream) to be hazed\nabout so. 'Have we met to tell each other the story of our lives?' I\nasked him. 'Suppose you begin. No? Well, I am sure I don't want to hear.\nKeep it to yourself. I know it is no better than mine. I've lived--and\nso did you, though you talk as if you were one of those people that\nshould have wings so as to go about without touching the dirty earth.\nWell--it is dirty. I haven't got any wings. I am here because I was\nafraid once in my life. Want to know what of? Of a prison. That scares\nme, and you may know it--if it's any good to you. I won't ask you what\nscared you into this infernal hole, where you seem to have found pretty\npickings. That's your luck and this is mine--the privilege to beg for\nthe favour of being shot quickly, or else kicked out to go free and\nstarve in my own way.' . . .\"\n\n'His debilitated body shook with an exultation so vehement, so assured,\nand so malicious that it seemed to have driven off the death waiting for\nhim in that hut. The corpse of his mad self-love uprose from rags and\ndestitution as from the dark horrors of a tomb. It is impossible to say\nhow much he lied to Jim then, how much he lied to me now--and to himself\nalways. Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of\nevery passion wants some pretence to make it live. Standing at the gate\nof the other world in the guise of a beggar, he had slapped this world's\nface, he had spat on it, he had thrown upon it an immensity of scorn\nand revolt at the bottom of his misdeeds. He had overcome them all--men,\nwomen, savages, traders, ruffians, missionaries--and Jim--\"that\nbeefy-faced beggar.\" I did not begrudge him this triumph in articulo\nmortis, this almost posthumous illusion of having trampled all the earth\nunder his feet. While he was boasting to me, in his sordid and repulsive\nagony, I couldn't help thinking of the chuckling talk relating to the\ntime of his greatest splendour when, during a year or more, Gentleman\nBrown's ship was to be seen, for many days on end, hovering off an islet\nbefringed with green upon azure, with the dark dot of the mission-house\non a white beach; while Gentleman Brown, ashore, was casting his spells\nover a romantic girl for whom Melanesia had been too much, and giving\nhopes of a remarkable conversion to her husband. The poor man, some time\nor other, had been heard to express the intention of winning \"Captain\nBrown to a better way of life.\" . . . \"Bag Gentleman Brown for\nGlory\"--as a leery-eyed loafer expressed it once--\"just to let them see\nup above what a Western Pacific trading skipper looks like.\" And this\nwas the man, too, who had run off with a dying woman, and had shed tears\nover her body. \"Carried on like a big baby,\" his then mate was never\ntired of telling, \"and where the fun came in may I be kicked to death by\ndiseased Kanakas if _I_ know. Why, gents! she was too far gone when he\nbrought her aboard to know him; she just lay there on her back in his\nbunk staring at the beam with awful shining eyes--and then she died.\nDam' bad sort of fever, I guess. . . .\" I remembered all these stories\nwhile, wiping his matted lump of a beard with a livid hand, he was\ntelling me from his noisome couch how he got round, got in, got home,\non that confounded, immaculate, don't-you-touch-me sort of fellow. He\nadmitted that he couldn't be scared, but there was a way, \"as broad as\na turnpike, to get in and shake his twopenny soul around and inside out\nand upside down--by God!\"'", "summary": "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", "document": "\n'I don't think they spoke together again. The boat entered a narrow\nby-channel, where it was pushed by the oar-blades set into crumbling\nbanks, and there was a gloom as if enormous black wings had been\noutspread above the mist that filled its depth to the summits of the\ntrees. The branches overhead showered big drops through the gloomy fog.\nAt a mutter from Cornelius, Brown ordered his men to load. \"I'll\ngive you a chance to get even with them before we're done, you dismal\ncripples, you,\" he said to his gang. \"Mind you don't throw it away--you\nhounds.\" Low growls answered that speech. Cornelius showed much fussy\nconcern for the safety of his canoe.\n\n'Meantime Tamb' Itam had reached the end of his journey. The fog had\ndelayed him a little, but he had paddled steadily, keeping in touch with\nthe south bank. By-and-by daylight came like a glow in a ground glass\nglobe. The shores made on each side of the river a dark smudge, in which\none could detect hints of columnar forms and shadows of twisted branches\nhigh up. The mist was still thick on the water, but a good watch was\nbeing kept, for as Iamb' Itam approached the camp the figures of two men\nemerged out of the white vapour, and voices spoke to him boisterously.\nHe answered, and presently a canoe lay alongside, and he exchanged news\nwith the paddlers. All was well. The trouble was over. Then the men in\nthe canoe let go their grip on the side of his dug-out and incontinently\nfell out of sight. He pursued his way till he heard voices coming to him\nquietly over the water, and saw, under the now lifting, swirling mist,\nthe glow of many little fires burning on a sandy stretch, backed by\nlofty thin timber and bushes. There again a look-out was kept, for he\nwas challenged. He shouted his name as the two last sweeps of his paddle\nran his canoe up on the strand. It was a big camp. Men crouched in many\nlittle knots under a subdued murmur of early morning talk. Many thin\nthreads of smoke curled slowly on the white mist. Little shelters,\nelevated above the ground, had been built for the chiefs. Muskets were\nstacked in small pyramids, and long spears were stuck singly into the\nsand near the fires.\n\n'Tamb' Itam, assuming an air of importance, demanded to be led to Dain\nWaris. He found the friend of his white lord lying on a raised couch\nmade of bamboo, and sheltered by a sort of shed of sticks covered with\nmats. Dain Waris was awake, and a bright fire was burning before his\nsleeping-place, which resembled a rude shrine. The only son of nakhoda\nDoramin answered his greeting kindly. Tamb' Itam began by handing him\nthe ring which vouched for the truth of the messenger's words. Dain\nWaris, reclining on his elbow, bade him speak and tell all the news.\nBeginning with the consecrated formula, \"The news is good,\" Tamb' Itam\ndelivered Jim's own words. The white men, deputing with the consent of\nall the chiefs, were to be allowed to pass down the river. In answer to\na question or two Tamb' Itam then reported the proceedings of the last\ncouncil. Dain Waris listened attentively to the end, toying with the\nring which ultimately he slipped on the forefinger of his right hand.\nAfter hearing all he had to say he dismissed Tamb' Itam to have food\nand rest. Orders for the return in the afternoon were given immediately.\nAfterwards Dain Waris lay down again, open-eyed, while his personal\nattendants were preparing his food at the fire, by which Tamb' Itam also\nsat talking to the men who lounged up to hear the latest intelligence\nfrom the town. The sun was eating up the mist. A good watch was kept\nupon the reach of the main stream where the boat of the whites was\nexpected to appear every moment.\n\n'It was then that Brown took his revenge upon the world which, after\ntwenty years of contemptuous and reckless bullying, refused him the\ntribute of a common robber's success. It was an act of cold-blooded\nferocity, and it consoled him on his deathbed like a memory of an\nindomitable defiance. Stealthily he landed his men on the other side\nof the island opposite to the Bugis camp, and led them across. After a\nshort but quite silent scuffle, Cornelius, who had tried to slink away\nat the moment of landing, resigned himself to show the way where the\nundergrowth was most sparse. Brown held both his skinny hands together\nbehind his back in the grip of one vast fist, and now and then impelled\nhim forward with a fierce push. Cornelius remained as mute as a fish,\nabject but faithful to his purpose, whose accomplishment loomed before\nhim dimly. At the edge of the patch of forest Brown's men spread\nthemselves out in cover and waited. The camp was plain from end to end\nbefore their eyes, and no one looked their way. Nobody even dreamed that\nthe white men could have any knowledge of the narrow channel at the back\nof the island. When he judged the moment come, Brown yelled, \"Let them\nhave it,\" and fourteen shots rang out like one.\n\n'Tamb' Itam told me the surprise was so great that, except for those who\nfell dead or wounded, not a soul of them moved for quite an appreciable\ntime after the first discharge. Then a man screamed, and after that\nscream a great yell of amazement and fear went up from all the throats.\nA blind panic drove these men in a surging swaying mob to and fro along\nthe shore like a herd of cattle afraid of the water. Some few jumped\ninto the river then, but most of them did so only after the last\ndischarge. Three times Brown's men fired into the ruck, Brown, the only\none in view, cursing and yelling, \"Aim low! aim low!\"\n\n'Tamb' Itam says that, as for him, he understood at the first volley\nwhat had happened. Though untouched he fell down and lay as if dead,\nbut with his eyes open. At the sound of the first shots Dain Waris,\nreclining on the couch, jumped up and ran out upon the open shore, just\nin time to receive a bullet in his forehead at the second discharge.\nTamb' Itam saw him fling his arms wide open before he fell. Then, he\nsays, a great fear came upon him--not before. The white men retired as\nthey had come--unseen.\n\n'Thus Brown balanced his account with the evil fortune. Notice that even\nin this awful outbreak there is a superiority as of a man who carries\nright--the abstract thing--within the envelope of his common desires.\nIt was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a\nretribution--a demonstration of some obscure and awful attribute of our\nnature which, I am afraid, is not so very far under the surface as we\nlike to think.\n\n'Afterwards the whites depart unseen by Tamb' Itam, and seem to vanish\nfrom before men's eyes altogether; and the schooner, too, vanishes after\nthe manner of stolen goods. But a story is told of a white long-boat\npicked up a month later in the Indian Ocean by a cargo steamer. Two\nparched, yellow, glassy-eyed, whispering skeletons in her recognised\nthe authority of a third, who declared that his name was Brown. His\nschooner, he reported, bound south with a cargo of Java sugar, had\nsprung a bad leak and sank under his feet. He and his companions were\nthe survivors of a crew of six. The two died on board the steamer which\nrescued them. Brown lived to be seen by me, and I can testify that he\nhad played his part to the last.\n\n'It seems, however, that in going away they had neglected to cast off\nCornelius's canoe. Cornelius himself Brown had let go at the beginning\nof the shooting, with a kick for a parting benediction. Tamb' Itam,\nafter arising from amongst the dead, saw the Nazarene running up and\ndown the shore amongst the corpses and the expiring fires. He uttered\nlittle cries. Suddenly he rushed to the water, and made frantic efforts\nto get one of the Bugis boats into the water. \"Afterwards, till he had\nseen me,\" related Tamb' Itam, \"he stood looking at the heavy canoe and\nscratching his head.\" \"What became of him?\" I asked. Tamb' Itam, staring\nhard at me, made an expressive gesture with his right arm. \"Twice I\nstruck, Tuan,\" he said. \"When he beheld me approaching he cast himself\nviolently on the ground and made a great outcry, kicking. He screeched\nlike a frightened hen till he felt the point; then he was still, and lay\nstaring at me while his life went out of his eyes.\"\n\n'This done, Tamb' Itam did not tarry. He understood the importance of\nbeing the first with the awful news at the fort. There were, of course,\nmany survivors of Dain Waris's party; but in the extremity of panic some\nhad swum across the river, others had bolted into the bush. The fact is\nthat they did not know really who struck that blow--whether more white\nrobbers were not coming, whether they had not already got hold of\nthe whole land. They imagined themselves to be the victims of a vast\ntreachery, and utterly doomed to destruction. It is said that some small\nparties did not come in till three days afterwards. However, a few tried\nto make their way back to Patusan at once, and one of the canoes that\nwere patrolling the river that morning was in sight of the camp at\nthe very moment of the attack. It is true that at first the men in her\nleaped overboard and swam to the opposite bank, but afterwards they\nreturned to their boat and started fearfully up-stream. Of these Tamb'\nItam had an hour's advance.'", "summary": "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", "document": "'The time was coming when I should see him loved, trusted, admired, with\na legend of strength and prowess forming round his name as though he\nhad been the stuff of a hero. It's true--I assure you; as true as\nI'm sitting here talking about him in vain. He, on his side, had that\nfaculty of beholding at a hint the face of his desire and the shape\nof his dream, without which the earth would know no lover and no\nadventurer. He captured much honour and an Arcadian happiness (I won't\nsay anything about innocence) in the bush, and it was as good to him\nas the honour and the Arcadian happiness of the streets to another man.\nFelicity, felicity--how shall I say it?--is quaffed out of a golden cup\nin every latitude: the flavour is with you--with you alone, and you can\nmake it as intoxicating as you please. He was of the sort that would\ndrink deep, as you may guess from what went before. I found him, if not\nexactly intoxicated, then at least flushed with the elixir at his lips.\nHe had not obtained it at once. There had been, as you know, a period of\nprobation amongst infernal ship-chandlers, during which he had suffered\nand I had worried about--about--my trust--you may call it. I don't\nknow that I am completely reassured now, after beholding him in all his\nbrilliance. That was my last view of him--in a strong light, dominating,\nand yet in complete accord with his surroundings--with the life of the\nforests and with the life of men. I own that I was impressed, but I must\nadmit to myself that after all this is not the lasting impression. He\nwas protected by his isolation, alone of his own superior kind, in close\ntouch with Nature, that keeps faith on such easy terms with her lovers.\nBut I cannot fix before my eye the image of his safety. I shall always\nremember him as seen through the open door of my room, taking, perhaps,\ntoo much to heart the mere consequences of his failure. I am pleased,\nof course, that some good--and even some splendour--came out of my\nendeavours; but at times it seems to me it would have been better for my\npeace of mind if I had not stood between him and Chester's confoundedly\ngenerous offer. I wonder what his exuberant imagination would have made\nof Walpole islet--that most hopelessly forsaken crumb of dry land on the\nface of the waters. It is not likely I would ever have heard, for I must\ntell you that Chester, after calling at some Australian port to patch\nup his brig-rigged sea-anachronism, steamed out into the Pacific with a\ncrew of twenty-two hands all told, and the only news having a possible\nbearing upon the mystery of his fate was the news of a hurricane which\nis supposed to have swept in its course over the Walpole shoals, a month\nor so afterwards. Not a vestige of the Argonauts ever turned up; not a\nsound came out of the waste. Finis! The Pacific is the most discreet of\nlive, hot-tempered oceans: the chilly Antarctic can keep a secret too,\nbut more in the manner of a grave.\n\n'And there is a sense of blessed finality in such discretion, which is\nwhat we all more or less sincerely are ready to admit--for what else is\nit that makes the idea of death supportable? End! Finis! the potent word\nthat exorcises from the house of life the haunting shadow of fate. This\nis what--notwithstanding the testimony of my eyes and his own earnest\nassurances--I miss when I look back upon Jim's success. While there's\nlife there is hope, truly; but there is fear too. I don't mean to say\nthat I regret my action, nor will I pretend that I can't sleep o' nights\nin consequence; still, the idea obtrudes itself that he made so much of\nhis disgrace while it is the guilt alone that matters. He was not--if I\nmay say so--clear to me. He was not clear. And there is a suspicion he\nwas not clear to himself either. There were his fine sensibilities,\nhis fine feelings, his fine longings--a sort of sublimated, idealised\nselfishness. He was--if you allow me to say so--very fine; very\nfine--and very unfortunate. A little coarser nature would not have borne\nthe strain; it would have had to come to terms with itself--with a sigh,\nwith a grunt, or even with a guffaw; a still coarser one would have\nremained invulnerably ignorant and completely uninteresting.\n\n'But he was too interesting or too unfortunate to be thrown to the dogs,\nor even to Chester. I felt this while I sat with my face over the paper\nand he fought and gasped, struggling for his breath in that terribly\nstealthy way, in my room; I felt it when he rushed out on the verandah\nas if to fling himself over--and didn't; I felt it more and more all the\ntime he remained outside, faintly lighted on the background of night, as\nif standing on the shore of a sombre and hopeless sea.\n\n'An abrupt heavy rumble made me lift my head. The noise seemed to roll\naway, and suddenly a searching and violent glare fell on the blind face\nof the night. The sustained and dazzling flickers seemed to last for an\nunconscionable time. The growl of the thunder increased steadily while I\nlooked at him, distinct and black, planted solidly upon the shores of a\nsea of light. At the moment of greatest brilliance the darkness leaped\nback with a culminating crash, and he vanished before my dazzled eyes as\nutterly as though he had been blown to atoms. A blustering sigh passed;\nfurious hands seemed to tear at the shrubs, shake the tops of the\ntrees below, slam doors, break window-panes, all along the front of\nthe building. He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and found me\nbending over the table: my sudden anxiety as to what he would say was\nvery great, and akin to a fright. \"May I have a cigarette?\" he asked. I\ngave a push to the box without raising my head. \"I want--want--tobacco,\"\nhe muttered. I became extremely buoyant. \"Just a moment.\" I grunted\npleasantly. He took a few steps here and there. \"That's over,\" I heard\nhim say. A single distant clap of thunder came from the sea like a\ngun of distress. \"The monsoon breaks up early this year,\" he remarked\nconversationally, somewhere behind me. This encouraged me to turn round,\nwhich I did as soon as I had finished addressing the last envelope. He\nwas smoking greedily in the middle of the room, and though he heard the\nstir I made, he remained with his back to me for a time.\n\n'\"Come--I carried it off pretty well,\" he said, wheeling suddenly.\n\"Something's paid off--not much. I wonder what's to come.\" His face did\nnot show any emotion, only it appeared a little darkened and swollen, as\nthough he had been holding his breath. He smiled reluctantly as it\nwere, and went on while I gazed up at him mutely. . . . \"Thank you,\nthough--your room--jolly convenient--for a chap--badly hipped.\" . . .\nThe rain pattered and swished in the garden; a water-pipe (it must\nhave had a hole in it) performed just outside the window a parody of\nblubbering woe with funny sobs and gurgling lamentations, interrupted\nby jerky spasms of silence. . . . \"A bit of shelter,\" he mumbled and\nceased.\n\n'A flash of faded lightning darted in through the black framework of the\nwindows and ebbed out without any noise. I was thinking how I had best\napproach him (I did not want to be flung off again) when he gave a\nlittle laugh. \"No better than a vagabond now\" . . . the end of\nthe cigarette smouldered between his fingers . . . \"without a\nsingle--single,\" he pronounced slowly; \"and yet . . .\" He paused; the\nrain fell with redoubled violence. \"Some day one's bound to come upon\nsome sort of chance to get it all back again. Must!\" he whispered\ndistinctly, glaring at my boots.\n\n'I did not even know what it was he wished so much to regain, what it\nwas he had so terribly missed. It might have been so much that it was\nimpossible to say. A piece of ass's skin, according to Chester. . . .\nHe looked up at me inquisitively. \"Perhaps. If life's long enough,\" I\nmuttered through my teeth with unreasonable animosity. \"Don't reckon too\nmuch on it.\"\n\n'\"Jove! I feel as if nothing could ever touch me,\" he said in a tone\nof sombre conviction. \"If this business couldn't knock me over, then\nthere's no fear of there being not enough time to--climb out, and . . .\"\nHe looked upwards.\n\n'It struck me that it is from such as he that the great army of waifs\nand strays is recruited, the army that marches down, down into all the\ngutters of the earth. As soon as he left my room, that \"bit of shelter,\"\nhe would take his place in the ranks, and begin the journey towards the\nbottomless pit. I at least had no illusions; but it was I, too, who a\nmoment ago had been so sure of the power of words, and now was afraid to\nspeak, in the same way one dares not move for fear of losing a slippery\nhold. It is when we try to grapple with another man's intimate need that\nwe perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings\nthat share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun. It\nis as if loneliness were a hard and absolute condition of existence; the\nenvelope of flesh and blood on which our eyes are fixed melts before the\noutstretched hand, and there remains only the capricious, unconsolable,\nand elusive spirit that no eye can follow, no hand can grasp. It was\nthe fear of losing him that kept me silent, for it was borne upon me\nsuddenly and with unaccountable force that should I let him slip away\ninto the darkness I would never forgive myself.\n\n'\"Well. Thanks--once more. You've been--er--uncommonly--really there's\nno word to . . . Uncommonly! I don't know why, I am sure. I am afraid\nI don't feel as grateful as I would if the whole thing hadn't been so\nbrutally sprung on me. Because at bottom . . . you, yourself . . .\" He\nstuttered.\n\n'\"Possibly,\" I struck in. He frowned.\n\n'\"All the same, one is responsible.\" He watched me like a hawk.\n\n'\"And that's true, too,\" I said.\n\n'\"Well. I've gone with it to the end, and I don't intend to let any man\ncast it in my teeth without--without--resenting it.\" He clenched his\nfist.\n\n'\"There's yourself,\" I said with a smile--mirthless enough, God\nknows--but he looked at me menacingly. \"That's my business,\" he said.\nAn air of indomitable resolution came and went upon his face like a vain\nand passing shadow. Next moment he looked a dear good boy in trouble,\nas before. He flung away the cigarette. \"Good-bye,\" he said, with the\nsudden haste of a man who had lingered too long in view of a pressing\nbit of work waiting for him; and then for a second or so he made not the\nslightest movement. The downpour fell with the heavy uninterrupted rush\nof a sweeping flood, with a sound of unchecked overwhelming fury that\ncalled to one's mind the images of collapsing bridges, of uprooted\ntrees, of undermined mountains. No man could breast the colossal and\nheadlong stream that seemed to break and swirl against the dim stillness\nin which we were precariously sheltered as if on an island. The\nperforated pipe gurgled, choked, spat, and splashed in odious ridicule\nof a swimmer fighting for his life. \"It is raining,\" I remonstrated,\n\"and I . . .\" \"Rain or shine,\" he began brusquely, checked himself, and\nwalked to the window. \"Perfect deluge,\" he muttered after a while: he\nleaned his forehead on the glass. \"It's dark, too.\"\n\n'\"Yes, it is very dark,\" I said.\n\n'He pivoted on his heels, crossed the room, and had actually opened the\ndoor leading into the corridor before I leaped up from my chair. \"Wait,\"\nI cried, \"I want you to . . .\" \"I can't dine with you again to-night,\"\nhe flung at me, with one leg out of the room already. \"I haven't the\nslightest intention to ask you,\" I shouted. At this he drew back his\nfoot, but remained mistrustfully in the very doorway. I lost no time\nin entreating him earnestly not to be absurd; to come in and shut the\ndoor.'\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nThe sea-coast.\n\n[Enter VIOLA, CAPTAIN, and Sailors.]\n\nVIOLA.\nWhat country, friends, is this?\n\nCAPTAIN.\nThis is Illyria, lady.\n\nVIOLA.\nAnd what should I do in Illyria?\nMy brother he is in Elysium.\nPerchance he is not drown'd--What think you, sailors?\n\nCAPTAIN.\nIt is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.\n\nVIOLA.\nO my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.\n\nCAPTAIN.\nTrue, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,\nAssure yourself, after our ship did split,\nWhen you, and those poor number sav'd with you,\nHung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,\nMost provident in peril, bind himself,---\nCourage and hope both teaching him the practice,--\nTo a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;\nWhere, like Arion on the dolphin's back,\nI saw him hold acquaintance with the waves\nSo long as I could see.\n\nVIOLA.\nFor saying so, there's gold!\nMine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,\nWhereto thy speech serves for authority,\nThe like of him. Know'st thou this country?\n\nCAPTAIN.\nAy, madam, well; for I was bred and born\nNot three hours' travel from this very place.\n\nVIOLA.\nWho governs here?\n\nCAPTAIN.\nA noble duke, in nature\nAs in name.\n\nVIOLA.\nWhat is his name?\n\nCAPTAIN.\nOrsino.\n\nVIOLA.\nOrsino! I have heard my father name him.\nHe was a bachelor then.\n\nCAPTAIN.\nAnd so is now,\nOr was so very late; for but a month\nAgo I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh\nIn murmur,--as, you know, what great ones do,\nThe less will prattle of,--that he did seek\nThe love of fair Olivia.\n\nVIOLA.\nWhat's she?\n\nCAPTAIN.\nA virtuous maid, the daughter of a count\nThat died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her\nIn the protection of his son, her brother,\nWho shortly also died; for whose dear love,\nThey say, she hath abjured the company\nAnd sight of men.\n\nVIOLA.\nO that I served that lady!\nAnd might not be delivered to the world,\nTill I had made mine own occasion mellow,\nWhat my estate is.\n\nCAPTAIN.\nThat were hard to compass:\nBecause she will admit no kind of suit,\nNo, not the duke's.\n\nVIOLA.\nThere is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;\nAnd though that nature with a beauteous wall\nDoth oft close in pollution, yet of thee\nI will believe thou hast a mind that suits\nWith this thy fair and outward character.\nI pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,\nConceal me what I am; and be my aid\nFor such disguise as, haply, shall become\nThe form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;\nThou shalt present me as an eunuch to him;\nIt may be worth thy pains, for I can sing,\nAnd speak to him in many sorts of music,\nThat will allow me very worth his service.\nWhat else may hap to time I will commit;\nOnly shape thou silence to my wit.\n\nCAPTAIN.\nBe you his eunuch and your mute I'll be;\nWhen my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.\n\nVIOLA.\nI thank thee. Lead me on.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IV.\n\nA Room in the DUKE'S Palace.\n\n[Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire.]\n\nVALENTINE.\nIf the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario,\nyou are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three\ndays, and already you are no stranger.\n\nVIOLA.\nYou either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call\nin question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir,\nin his favours?\n\nVALENTINE.\nNo, believe me.\n\n[Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.]\n\nVIOLA.\nI thank you. Here comes the count.\n\nDUKE.\nWho saw Cesario, ho?\n\nVIOLA.\nOn your attendance, my lord; here.\n\nDUKE.\nStand you awhile aloof.--Cesario,\nThou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd\nTo thee the book even of my secret soul:\nTherefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;\nBe not denied access, stand at her doors,\nAnd tell them there thy fixed foot shall grow\nTill thou have audience.\n\nVIOLA.\nSure, my noble lord,\nIf she be so abandon'd to her sorrow\nAs it is spoke, she never will admit me.\n\nDUKE.\nBe clamorous and leap all civil bounds,\nRather than make unprofited return.\n\nVIOLA.\nSay I do speak with her, my lord. What then?\n\nDUKE.\nO, then unfold the passion of my love,\nSurprise her with discourse of my dear faith:\nIt shall become thee well to act my woes;\nShe will attend it better in thy youth\nThan in a nuncio of more grave aspect.\n\nVIOLA.\nI think not so, my lord.\n\nDUKE.\nDear lad, believe it,\nFor they shall yet belie thy happy years\nThat say thou art a man: Diana's lip\nIs not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe\nIs as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,\nAnd all is semblative a woman's part.\nI know thy constellation is right apt\nFor this affair:--some four or five attend him:\nAll, if you will; for I myself am best\nWhen least in company:--prosper well in this,\nAnd thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,\nTo call his fortunes thine.\n\nVIOLA.\nI'll do my best\nTo woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife!\nWhoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT II. SCENE I.\n\nThe sea-coast.\n\n[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]\n\nANTONIO.\nWill you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with you?\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nBy your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the\nmalignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore\nI shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone.\nIt were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on\nyou.\n\nANTONIO.\nLet me know of you whither you are bound.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nNo, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere\nextravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of\nmodesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to\nkeep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express\nmyself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,\nwhich I called Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of\nMessaline whom I know you have heard of: he left behind him\nmyself and a sister, both born in an hour; if the heavens had\nbeen pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;\nfor some hours before you took me from the breach of the sea was\nmy sister drowned.\n\nANTONIO.\nAlas the day!\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nA lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me,\nwas yet of many accounted beautiful: but though I could not, with\nsuch estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will\nboldly publish her,--she bore mind that envy could not but call\nfair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem\nto drown her remembrance again with more.\n\nANTONIO.\nPardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nO, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.\n\nANTONIO.\nIf you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nIf you will not undo what you have done--that is, kill\nhim whom you have recovered--desire it not. Fare ye well at once;\nmy bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of\nmy mother that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell\ntales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nANTONIO.\nThe gentleness of all the gods go with thee!\nI have many cnemies in Orsino's court,\nElse would I very shortly see thee there:\nBut come what may, I do adore thee so\nThat danger shall seem sport, and I will go.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nA street.\n\n[Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following.]\n\nMALVOLIO.\nWere you not even now with the Countess Olivia?\n\nVIOLA.\nEven now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but\nhither.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nShe returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved\nme my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover,\nthat you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will\nnone of him: and one thing more: that you be never so hardy to\ncome again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's\ntaking of this. Receive it so.\n\nVIOLA.\nShe took the ring of me: I'll none of it.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nCome, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is\nit should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it\nlies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nVIOLA.\nI left no ring with her; what means this lady?\nFortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!\nShe made good view of me; indeed, so much,\nThat methought her eyes had lost her tongue,\nFor she did speak in starts distractedly.\nShe loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion\nInvites me in this churlish messenger.\nNone of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.\nI am the man; --if it be so,--as 'tis,--\nPoor lady, she were better love a dream.\nDisguise, I see thou art a wickedness\nWherein the pregnant enemy does much.\nHow easy is it for the proper-false\nIn women's waxen hearts to set their forms!\nAlas, our frailty is the cause, not we;\nFor such as we are made of, such we be.\nHow will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,\nAnd I, poor monster, fond as much on him;\nAnd she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.\nWhat will become of this? As I am man,\nMy state is desperate for my master's love;\nAs I am woman, now alas the day!\nWhat thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!\nO time, thou must untangle this, not I;\nIt is too hard a knot for me to untie!\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IV.\n\nA Room in the DUKE'S Palace.\n\n[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.]\n\nDUKE.\nGive me some music:--Now, good morrow, friends:--\nNow, good Cesario, but that piece of song,\nThat old and antique song we heard last night;\nMethought it did relieve my passion much;\nMore than light airs and recollected terms\nOf these most brisk and giddy-paced times:--\nCome, but one verse.\n\nCURIO.\nHe is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.\n\nDUKE.\nWho was it?\n\nCURIO.\nFeste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia's\nfather took much delight in: he is about the house.\n\nDUKE.\nSeek him out, and play the tune the while.\n\n[Exit CURIO.  Music.]\n\nCome hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,\nIn the sweet pangs of it remember me:\nFor, such as I am, all true lovers are;\nUnstaid and skittish in all motions else,\nSave in the constant image of the creature\nThat is belov'd.--How dost thou like this tune?\n\nVIOLA.\nIt gives a very echo to the seat\nWhere Love is throned.\n\nDUKE.\nThou dost speak masterly:\nMy life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye\nHath stayed upon some favour that it loves;\nHath it not, boy?\n\nVIOLA.\nA little, by your favour.\n\nDUKE.\nWhat kind of woman is't?\n\nVIOLA.\nOf your complexion.\n\nDUKE.\nShe is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?\n\nVIOLA.\nAbout your years, my lord.\n\nDUKE.\nToo old, by heaven! Let still the woman take\nAn elder than herself; so wears she to him,\nSo sways she level in her husband's heart.\nFor, boy, however we do praise ourselves,\nOur fancies are more giddy and unfirm,\nMore longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,\nThan women's are.\n\nVIOLA.\nI think it well, my lord.\n\nDUKE.\nThen let thy love be younger than thyself,\nOr thy affection cannot hold the bent:\nFor women are as roses, whose fair flower,\nBeing once display'd, doth fall that very hour.\n\nVIOLA.\nAnd so they are: alas, that they are so;\nTo die, even when they to perfection grow!\n\n[Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN.]\n\nDUKE.\nO, fellow, come, the song we had last night:--\nMark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:\nThe spinsters and the knitters in the sun,\nAnd the free maids, that weave their thread with bones,\nDo use to chant it: it is silly sooth,\nAnd dallies with the innocence of love\nLike the old age.\n\nCLOWN.\nAre you ready, sir?\n\nDUKE.\nAy; pr'ythee, sing.  [Music]\n\nCLOWN.\n      SONG\n    Come away, come away, death.\n  And in sad cypress let me be laid;\n    Fly away, fly away, breath;\n  I am slain by a fair cruel maid.\n  My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,\n       O, prepare it!\n  My part of death no one so true\n      Did share it.\n\n   Not a flower, not a flower sweet,\n On my black coffin let there be strown:\n   Not a friend, not a friend greet\n My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown:\n A thousand thousand sighs to save,\n       Lay me, O, where\n Sad true lover never find my grave,\n       To weep there!\n\nDUKE.\nThere's for thy pains.\n\nCLOWN.\nNo pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.\n\nDUKE.\nI'll pay thy pleasure, then.\n\nCLOWN.\nTruly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.\n\nDUKE.\nGive me now leave to leave thee.\n\nCLOWN.\nNow the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy\ndoublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal!--I\nwould have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business\nmight be everything, and their intent everywhere; for that's it\nthat always makes a good voyage of nothing.--Farewell.\n\n[Exit CLOWN.]\n\nDUKE.\nLet all the rest give place.--\n\n[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.]\n\nOnce more, Cesario,\nGet thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:\nTell her my love, more noble than the world,\nPrizes not quantity of dirty lands;\nThe parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,\nTell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;\nBut 'tis that miracle and queen of gems\nThat Nature pranks her in attracts my soul.\n\nVIOLA.\nBut if she cannot love you, sir?\n\nDUKE.\nI cannot be so answer'd.\n\nVIOLA.\n'Sooth, but you must.\nSay that some lady, as perhaps there is,\nHath for your love as great a pang of heart\nAs you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;\nYou tell her so. Must she not then be answer'd?\n\nDUKE.\nThere is no woman's sides\nCan bide the beating of so strong a passion\nAs love doth give my heart: no woman's heart\nSo big to hold so much; they lack retention.\nAlas, their love may be called appetite,--\nNo motion of the liver, but the palate,--\nThat suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;\nBut mine is all as hungry as the sea,\nAnd can digest as much: make no compare\nBetween that love a woman can bear me\nAnd that I owe Olivia.\n\nVIOLA.\nAy, but I know,--\n\nDUKE.\nWhat dost thou know?\n\nVIOLA.\nToo well what love women to men may owe.\nIn faith, they are as true of heart as we.\nMy father had a daughter loved a man,\nAs it might be perhaps, were I a woman,\nI should your lordship.\n\nDUKE.\nAnd what's her history?\n\nVIOLA.\nA blank, my lord. She never told her love,\nBut let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,\nFeed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;\nAnd with a green and yellow melancholy,\nShe sat like patience on a monument,\nSmiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?\nWe men may say more, swear more; but indeed,\nOur shows are more than will; for still we prove\nMuch in our vows, but little in our love.\n\nDUKE.\nBut died thy sister of her love, my boy?\n\nVIOLA.\nI am all the daughters of my father's house,\nAnd all the brothers too;--and yet I know not.--\nSir, shall I to this lady?\n\nDUKE.\nAy, that's the theme.\nTo her in haste: give her this jewel; say\nMy love can give no place, bide no denay.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE V.\n\nOLIVIA'S garden.\n\n[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]\n\nSIR TOBY.\nCome thy ways, Signior Fabian.\n\nFABIAN.\nNay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be\nboiled to death with melancholy.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nWouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally\nsheep-biter come by some notable shame?\n\nFABIAN.\nI would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour\nwith my lady about a bear-baiting here.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nTo anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool\nhim black and blue:--shall we not, Sir Andrew?\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nAn we do not, it is pity of our lives.\n\n[Enter MARIA.]\n\nSIR TOBY.\nHere comes the little villain:--How now, my nettle of India?\n\nMARIA.\nGet ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down\nthis walk; he has been yonder i' the sun practising behaviour to\nhis own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of\nmockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot\nof him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.]\n\nLie thou there; [Throws down a letter] for here comes the trout\nthat must be caught with tickling.\n\n[Exit Maria.]\n\n[Enter MALVOLIO.]\n\nMALVOLIO.\n'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she\ndid affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that,\nshould she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she\nuses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that\nfollows her. What should I think on't?\n\nSIR TOBY.\nHere's an overweening rogue!\n\nFABIAN.\nO, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him;\nhow he jets under his advanced plumes!\n\nSIR ANDREW.\n'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:--\n\nSIR TOBY.\nPeace, I say.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nTo be Count Malvolio;--\n\nSIR TOBY.\nAh, rogue!\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nPistol him, pistol him.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nPeace, peace.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nThere is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married\nthe yeoman of the wardrobe.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nFie on him, Jezebel!\n\nFABIAN.\nO, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nHaving been three months married to her, sitting in my state,--\n\nSIR TOBY.\nO for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!\n\nMALVOLIO.\nCalling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown;\nhaving come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nFire and brimstone!\n\nFABIAN.\nO, peace, peace.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nAnd then to have the humour of state: and after a demure\ntravel of regard,--telling them I know my place as I would they\nshould do theirs,--to ask for my kinsman Toby.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nBolts and shackles!\n\nFABIAN.\nO, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nSeven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for\nhim: I frown the while, and perchance, wind up my watch, or play\nwith some rich jewel. Toby approaches; court'sies there to me:\n\nSIR TOBY.\nShall this fellow live?\n\nFABIAN.\nThough our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nI extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an\naustere regard of control:\n\nSIR TOBY.\nAnd does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?\n\nMALVOLIO.\nSaying 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your\nniece, give me this prerogative of speech':--\n\nSIR TOBY.\nWhat, what?\n\nMALVOLIO.\n'You must amend your drunkenness.'\n\nSIR TOBY.\nOut, scab!\n\nFABIAN.\nNay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.\n\nMALVOLIO.\n'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a\nfoolish knight';\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nThat's me, I warrant you.\n\nMALVOLIO.\n'One Sir Andrew':\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nI knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nWhat employment have we here?\n\n[Taking up the letter.]\n\nFABIAN.\nNow is the woodcock near the gin.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nO, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to\nhim!\n\nMALVOLIO.\nBy my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very\nC's, her U's, and her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It\nis in contempt of question, her hand.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nHer C's, her U's, and her T's. Why that?\n\nMALVOLIO.\n[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good\nwishes.' Her very phrases!--By your leave, wax.--Soft!--and the\nimpressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my\nlady. To whom should this be?\n\nFABIAN.\nThis wins him, liver and all.\n\nMALVOLIO.\n[Reads]\n  'Jove knows I love,\n    But who?\n  Lips, do not move,\n  No man must know.'\n\n'No man must know.'--What follows? the numbers alter'd!--'No man\nmust know':--If this should be thee, Malvolio?\n\nSIR TOBY.\nMarry, hang thee, brock!\n\nMALVOLIO.\n  'I may command where I adore:\n     But silence, like a Lucrece knife,\n  With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore;\n    M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'\n\nFABIAN.\nA fustian riddle!\n\nSIR TOBY.\nExcellent wench, say I.\n\nMALVOLIO.\n'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'--Nay, but first let me see,--let\nme see,--let me see.\n\nFABIAN.\nWhat dish of poison has she dressed him!\n\nSIR TOBY.\nAnd with what wing the stannyel checks at it!\n\nMALVOLIO.\n'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command me: I\nserve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal\ncapacity; there is no obstruction in this;--And the end,--What\nshould that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that\nresemble something in me.--Softly!--M, O, A, I.--\n\nSIR TOBY.\nO, ay, make up that:--he is now at a cold scent.\n\nFABIAN.\nSowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank as a\nfox.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nM,--Malvolio; M,--why, that begins my name.\n\nFABIAN.\nDid not I say he would work it out?\nThe cur is excellent at faults.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nM,--But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that\nsuffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.\n\nFABIAN.\nAnd O shall end, I hope.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nAy, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'\n\nMALVOLIO.\nAnd then I comes behind.\n\nFABIAN.\nAy, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more\ndetraction at your heels than fortunes before you.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nM, O, A, I;--This simulation is not as the former:--and\nyet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of\nthese letters are in my name. Soft; here follows prose.--\n'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above\nthee; but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some\nachieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy\nfates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them.\nAnd, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy\nhumble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly\nwith servants: let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put\nthyself into the trick of singularity: She thus advises thee that\nsighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and\nwished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to;\nthou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee\na steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch\nfortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with\nthee,\n     'The fortunate-unhappy.'\n\nDaylight and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be\nproud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I\nwill wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the\nvery man. I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade me;\nfor every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did\ncommend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being\ncross-gartered; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and\nwith a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her\nliking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in\nyellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of\nputting on. Jove and my stars be praised!--Here is yet a\npostscript. 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou\nentertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles\nbecome thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my\nsweet, I pr'ythee.' Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do\neverything that thou wilt have me.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nFABIAN.\nI will not give my part of this sport for a pension of\nthousands to be paid from the Sophy.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nI could marry this wench for this device:\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nSo could I too.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nAnd ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.\n\n[Enter MARIA.]\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nNor I neither.\n\nFABIAN.\nHere comes my noble gull-catcher.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nWilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nOr o' mine either?\n\nSIR TOBY.\nShall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nI' faith, or I either?\n\nSIR TOBY.\nWhy, thou hast put him in such a dream, that, when the\nimage of it leaves him, he must run mad.\n\nMARIA.\nNay, but say true; does it work upon him?\n\nSIR TOBY.\nLike aqua-vitae with a midwife.\n\nMARIA.\nIf you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his\nfirst approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow\nstockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a\nfashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now\nbe so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a\nmelancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable\ncontempt; if you will see it, follow me.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nTo the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nI'll make one too.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT III. SCENE I.\n\nOLIVIA'S garden.\n\n[Enter VIOLA, and CLOWN with a tabor.]\n\nVIOLA.\nSave thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor?\n\nCLOWN.\nNo, sir, I live by the church.\n\nVIOLA.\nArt thou a churchman?\n\nCLOWN.\nNo such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live\nat my house, and my house doth stand by the church.\n\nVIOLA.\nSo thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar\ndwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor\nstand by the church.\n\nCLOWN.\nYou have said, sir.--To see this age!--A sentence is but a\ncheveril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be\nturned outward!\n\nVIOLA.\nNay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words may\nquickly make them wanton.\n\nCLOWN.\nI would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.\n\nVIOLA.\nWhy, man?\n\nCLOWN.\nWhy, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that word\nmight make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals,\nsince bonds disgraced them.\n\nVIOLA.\nThy reason, man?\n\nCLOWN.\nTroth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words\nare grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them.\n\nVIOLA.\nI warrant, thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing.\n\nCLOWN.\nNot so, sir, I do care for something: but in my conscience,\nsir, I do not care for you; if that be to care for nothing, sir,\nI would it would make you invisible.\n\nVIOLA.\nArt not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?\n\nCLOWN.\nNo, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep\nno fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands\nas pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am,\nindeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words.\n\nVIOLA.\nI saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.\n\nCLOWN.\nFoolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it\nshines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be\nas oft with your master as with my mistress: I think I saw your\nwisdom there.\n\nVIOLA.\nNay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.\nHold, there's expenses for thee.\n\nCLOWN.\nNow Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!\n\nVIOLA.\nBy my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one; though I\nwould not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?\n\nCLOWN.\nWould not a pair of these have bred, sir?\n\nVIOLA.\nYes, being kept together and put to use.\n\nCLOWN.\nI would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a\nCressida to this Troilus.\n\nVIOLA.\nI understand you, sir; 'tis well begged.\n\nCLOWN.\nThe matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar:\nCressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to\nthem whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of\nmy welkin: I might say element; but the word is overworn.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nVIOLA.\nThis fellow's wise enough to play the fool;\nAnd, to do that well, craves a kind of wit:\nHe must observe their mood on whom he jests,\nThe quality of persons, and the time;\nAnd, like the haggard, check at every feather\nThat comes before his eye. This is a practice\nAs full of labour as a wise man's art:\nFor folly, that he wisely shows, is fit;\nBut wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.\n\n[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]\n\nSIR TOBY.\nSave you, gentleman.\n\nVIOLA.\nAnd you, sir.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nDieu vous garde, monsieur.\n\nVIOLA.\nEt vous aussi; votre serviteur.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nI hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nWill you encounter the house? my niece is desirous you\nshould enter, if your trade be to her.\n\nVIOLA.\nI am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my\nvoyage.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nTaste your legs, sir; put them to motion.\n\nVIOLA.\nMy legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what\nyou mean by bidding me taste my legs.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nI mean, to go, sir, to enter.\n\nVIOLA.\nI will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented.\n\n[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.]\n\nMost excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nThat youth's a rare courtier- 'Rain odours'! well.\n\nVIOLA.\nMy matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant\nand vouchsafed car.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\n'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and 'vouchsafed':--I'll get 'em all\nthree ready.\n\nOLIVIA.\nLet the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.\n\n[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and MARIA.]\n\nGive me your hand, sir.\n\nVIOLA.\nMy duty, madam, and most humble service.\n\nOLIVIA.\nWhat is your name?\n\nVIOLA.\nCesario is your servant's name, fair princess.\n\nOLIVIA.\nMy servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world,\nSince lowly feigning was call'd compliment:\nYou are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.\n\nVIOLA.\nAnd he is yours, and his must needs be yours;\nYour servant's servant is your servant, madam.\n\nOLIVIA.\nFor him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,\nWould they were blanks rather than fill'd with me!\n\nVIOLA.\nMadam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts\nOn his behalf:--\n\nOLIVIA.\nO, by your leave, I pray you:\nI bade you never speak again of him:\nBut, would you undertake another suit,\nI had rather hear you to solicit that\nThan music from the spheres.\n\nVIOLA.\nDear lady,--\n\nOLIVIA.\nGive me leave, beseech you: I did send,\nAfter the last enchantment you did here,\nA ring in chase of you; so did I abuse\nMyself, my servant, and, I fear me, you:\nUnder your hard construction must I sit;\nTo force that on you, in a shameful cunning,\nWhich you knew none of yours. What might you think?\nHave you not set mine honour at the stake,\nAnd baited it with all the unmuzzl'd thoughts\nThat tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving\nEnough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,\nHides my heart: so let me hear you speak.\n\nVIOLA.\nI Pity you.\n\nOLIVIA.\nThat's a degree to love.\n\nVIOLA.\nNo, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof\nThat very oft we pity enemies.\n\nOLIVIA.\nWhy, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again:\nO world, how apt the poor are to be proud!\nIf one should be a prey, how much the better\nTo fall before the lion than the wolf!  [Clock strikes.]\nThe clock upbraids me with the waste of time.--\nBe not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:\nAnd yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,\nYour wife is like to reap a proper man.\nThere lies your way, due-west.\n\nVIOLA.\nThen westward-ho:\nGrace and good disposition 'tend your ladyship!\nYou'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?\n\nOLIVIA.\nStay:\nI pr'ythee tell me what thou think'st of me.\n\nVIOLA.\nThat you do think you are not what you are.\n\nOLIVIA.\nIf I think so, I think the same of you.\n\nVIOLA.\nThen think you right; I am not what I am.\n\nOLIVIA.\nI would you were as I would have you be!\n\nVIOLA.\nWould it be better, madam, than I am,\nI wish it might; for now I am your fool.\n\nOLIVIA.\nO what a deal of scorn looks beautiful\nIn the contempt and anger of his lip!\nA murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon\nThan love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.\nCesario, by the roses of the spring,\nBy maidhood, honour, truth, and everything,\nI love thee so that, maugre all thy pride,\nNor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.\nDo not extort thy reasons from this clause,\nFor, that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause:\nBut rather reason thus with reason fetter:\nLove sought is good, but given unsought is better.\n\nVIOLA.\nBy innocence I swear, and by my youth,\nI have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,\nAnd that no woman has; nor never none\nShall mistress be of it, save I alone.\nAnd so adieu, good madam; never more\nWill I my master's tears to you deplore.\n\nOLIVIA.\nYet come again: for thou, perhaps, mayst move\nThat heart, which now abhors, to like his love.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nA Room in OLIVIA'S House.\n\n[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nNo, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nThy reason, dear venom: give thy reason.\n\nFABIAN.\nYou must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nMarry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count's\nservingman than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw't i' the\norchard.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nDid she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nAs plain as I see you now.\n\nFABIAN.\nThis was a great argument of love in her toward you.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\n'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?\n\nFABIAN.\nI will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment\nand reason.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nAnd they have been grand jurymen since before Noah was a\nsailor.\n\nFABIAN.\nShe did show favour to the youth in your sight only to\nexasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in\nyour heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have\naccosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the\nmint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was\nlooked for at your hand, and this was baulked: the double gilt of\nthis opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed\ninto the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an\nicicle on Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some\nlaudable attempt either of valour or policy.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nAnd't be any way, it must be with valour: for policy I\nhate; I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nWhy, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of\nvalour. Challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt\nhim in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it: and assure\nthyself there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in\nman's commendation with woman than report of valour.\n\nFABIAN.\nThere is no way but this, Sir Andrew.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nWill either of you bear me a challenge to him?\n\nSIR TOBY.\nGo, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is\nno matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention;\ntaunt him with the licence of ink; if thou 'thou'st' him some\nthrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in\nthy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the\nbed of Ware in England, set 'em down; go about it. Let there be\ngall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no\nmatter. About it.\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nWhere shall I find you?\n\nSIR TOBY.\nWe'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.\n\n[Exit SIR ANDREW.]\n\nFABIAN.\nThis is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nI have been dear to him, lad; some two thousand strong, or so.\n\nFABIAN.\nWe shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver it.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nNever trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth\nto an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them\ntogether. For Andrew, if he were opened and you find so much\nblood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the\nrest of the anatomy.\n\nFABIAN.\nAnd his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great\npresage of cruelty.\n\n[Enter MARIA.]\n\nSIR TOBY.\nLook where the youngest wren of nine comes.\n\nMARIA.\nIf you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into\nstitches, follow me: yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very\nrenegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by\nbelieving rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of\ngrossness. He's in yellow stockings.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nAnd cross-gartered?\n\nMARIA.\nMost villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the\nchurch.--I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every\npoint of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile\nhis face into more lines than is in the new map, with the\naugmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such a thing as\n'tis; I  can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady\nwill strike him; if she do, he'll smile and take't for a great\nfavour.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nCome, bring us, bring us where he is.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE III.\n\nA street.\n\n[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nI would not by my will have troubled you;\nBut since you make your pleasure of your pains,\nI will no further chide you.\n\nANTONIO.\nI could not stay behind you: my desire,\nMore sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;\nAnd not all love to see you,--though so much,\nAs might have drawn one to a longer voyage,--\nBut jealousy what might befall your travel,\nBeing skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,\nUnguided and unfriended, often prove\nRough and unhospitable. My willing love,\nThe rather by these arguments of fear,\nSet forth in your pursuit.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nMy kind Antonio,\nI can no other answer make but thanks,\nAnd thanks, and ever thanks. Often good turns\nAre shuffled off with such uncurrent pay;\nBut were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,\nYou should find better dealing. What's to do?\nShall we go see the reliques of this town?\n\nANTONIO.\nTo-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nI am not weary, and 'tis long to night;\nI pray you, let us satisfy our eyes\nWith the memorials and the things of fame\nThat do renown this city.\n\nANTONIO.\nWould you'd pardon me;\nI do not without danger walk these streets:\nOnce in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count, his galleys,\nI did some service; of such note, indeed,\nThat, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nBelike you slew great number of his people.\n\nANTONIO.\nThe offence is not of such a bloody nature;\nAlbeit the quality of the time and quarrel\nMight well have given us bloody argument.\nIt might have since been answered in repaying\nWhat we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,\nMost of our city did: only myself stood out;\nFor which, if I be lapsed in this place,\nI shall pay dear.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nDo not then walk too open.\n\nANTONIO.\nIt doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse;\nIn the south suburbs, at the Elephant,\nIs best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet\nWhiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge\nWith viewing of the town; there shall you have me.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nWhy I your purse?\n\nANTONIO.\nHaply your eye shall light upon some toy\nYou have desire to purchase; and your store,\nI think, is not for idle markets, sir.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nI'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour.\n\nANTONIO.\nTo the Elephant.--\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nI do remember.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT IV. SCENE I.\n\nThe Street before OLIVIA'S House.\n\n[Enter SEBASTIAN and CLOWN.]\n\nCLOWN.\nWill you make me believe that I am not sent for you?\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nGo to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow;\nLet me be clear of thee.\n\nCLOWN.\nWell held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not\nsent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your\nname is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither.--\nNothing that is so is so.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nI pr'ythee vent thy folly somewhere else. Thou know'st not me.\n\nCLOWN.\nVent my folly! he has heard that word of some great man, and\nnow applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great\nlubber, the world, will prove a cockney.--I pr'ythee now, ungird\nthy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall\nI vent to her that thou art coming?\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nI pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me;\nThere's money for thee; if you tarry longer\nI shall give worse payment.\n\nCLOWN.\nBy my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men that\ngive fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen\nyears' purchase.\n\n[Enter SIR ANDREW, SIR TOBY, and FABIAN.]\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nNow, sir, have I met you again? there's for you.\n\n[Striking SEBASTIAN.]\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nWhy, there's for thee, and there, and there.\nAre all the people mad?\n\n[Beating SIR ANDREW.]\n\nSIR TOBY.\nHold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.\n\nCLOWN.\nThis will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of\nyour coats for twopence.\n\n[Exit CLOWN.]\n\nSIR TOBY.\nCome on, sir; hold.\n\n[Holding SEBASTIAN.]\n\nSIR ANDREW.\nNay, let him alone; I'll go another way to work with\nhim; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any\nlaw in Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for\nthat.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nLet go thy hand.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nCome, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier,\nput up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nI will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now?\nIf thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword.\n\n[Draws.]\n\nSIR TOBY.\nWhat, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this\nmalapert blood from you.\n\n[Draws.]\n\n[Enter OLIVIA.]\n\nOLIVIA.\nHold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee hold.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nMadam?\n\nOLIVIA.\nWill it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,\nFit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,\nWhere manners ne'er were preach'd! Out of my sight!\nBe not offended, dear Cesario!--\nRudesby, be gone!--I pr'ythee, gentle friend,\n\n[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN.]\n\nLet thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway\nIn this uncivil and unjust extent\nAgainst thy peace. Go with me to my house,\nAnd hear thou there how many fruitless pranks\nThis ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby\nMayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go;\nDo not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,\nHe started one poor heart of mine in thee.\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nWhat relish is in this? how runs the stream?\nOr I am mad/ or else this is a dream:--\nLet fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;\nIf it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!\n\nOLIVIA.\nNay, come, I pr'ythee. Would thou'dst be ruled by me!\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nMadam, I will.\n\nOLIVIA.\nO, say so, and so be!\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nA Room in OLIVIA'S House.\n\n[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]\n\nMARIA.\nNay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and this beard; make him\nbelieve thou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly: I'll call\nSir Toby the whilst.\n\n[Exit MARIA.]\n\nCLOWN.\nWell, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and\nI would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I\nam not tall enough to become the function well: nor lean enough\nto be thought a good student: but to be said, an honest man and a\ngood housekeeper, goes as fairly as to say, a careful man and a\ngreat scholar. The competitors enter.\n\n[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]\n\nSIR TOBY.\nJove bless thee, Master Parson.\n\nCLOWN.\nBonos dies, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that\nnever saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King\nGorboduc, 'That that is, is'; so I, being master parson, am\nmaster parson: for what is that but that? and is but is?\n\nSIR TOBY.\nTo him, Sir Topas.\n\nCLOWN.\nWhat, hoa, I say,--Peace in this prison!\n\nSIR TOBY.\nThe knave counterfeits well; a good knave.\n\nMALVOLIO.\n[In an inner chamber.] Who calls there?\n\nCLOWN.\nSir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the\nlunatic.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nSir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.\n\nCLOWN.\nOut, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest thou\nnothing but of ladies?\n\nSIR TOBY.\nWell said, master parson.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nSir Topas, never was man thus wronged: good Sir Topas, do\nnot think I am mad; they have laid me here in hideous darkness.\n\nCLOWN.\nFie, thou dishonest Sathan! I call thee by the most modest\nterms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil\nhimself with courtesy. Say'st thou that house is dark?\n\nMALVOLIO.\nAs hell, Sir Topas.\n\nCLOWN.\nWhy, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the\nclear storeys toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony;\nand yet complainest thou of obstruction?\n\nMALVOLIO.\nI am not mad, Sir Topas; I say to you this house is dark.\n\nCLOWN.\nMadman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but\nignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in\ntheir fog.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nI say this house is as dark as ignorance, though\nignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man\nthus abused. I am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it\nin any constant question.\n\nCLOWN.\nWhat is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl?\n\nMALVOLIO.\nThat the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.\n\nCLOWN.\nWhat thinkest thou of his opinion?\n\nMALVOLIO.\nI think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.\n\nCLOWN.\nFare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt\n hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits; and\nfear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy\ngrandam. Fare thee well.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nSir Topas, Sir Topas!\n\nSIR TOBY.\nMy most exquisite Sir Topas!\n\nCLOWN.\nNay, I am for all waters.\n\nMARIA.\nThou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown: he\nsees thee not.\n\nSIR TOBY.\nTo him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou\nfindest him; I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may\nbe conveniently delivered, I would he were; for I am now so far\nin offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety\nthis sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.\n\n[Exeunt SIR TOBY and MARIA.]\n\nCLOWN.\n[Singing.] 'Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,\nTell me how thy lady does.'\n\nMALVOLIO.\nFool,--\n\nCLOWN.\n'My lady is unkind, perdy.'\n\nMALVOLIO.\nFool,--\n\nCLOWN.\n'Alas, why is she so?'\n\nMALVOLIO.\nFool, I say;--\n\nCLOWN.\n'She loves another'--Who calls, ha?\n\nMALVOLIO.\nGood fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand,\nhelp me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a\ngentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for't.\n\nCLOWN.\nMaster Malvolio!\n\nMALVOLIO.\nAy, good fool.\n\nCLOWN.\nAlas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?\n\nMALVOLIO.\nFool, there was never man so notoriously abused; I am as well in\nmy wits, fool, as thou art.\n\nCLOWN.\nBut as well? then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in\nyour wits than a fool.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nThey have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send\nministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my\nwits.\n\nCLOWN.\nAdvise you what you say: the minister is here.--Malvolio, thy\nwits the heavens restore! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave\nthy vain bibble-babble.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nSir Topas,--\n\nCLOWN.\nMaintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I, sir? not\nI, sir. God b' wi' you, good Sir Topas.--Marry, amen.--I will\nsir, I will.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nFool, fool, fool, I say,--\n\nCLOWN.\nAlas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for\nspeaking to you.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nGood fool, help me to some light and some paper;\nI tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.\n\nCLOWN.\nWell-a-day,--that you were, sir!\n\nMALVOLIO.\nBy this hand, I am: Good fool, some ink, paper, and\nlight, and convey what I will set down to my lady; it shall\nadvantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.\n\nCLOWN.\nI will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad\nindeed? or do you but counterfeit?\n\nMALVOLIO.\nBelieve me, I am not; I tell thee true.\n\nCLOWN.\nNay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his brains.\nI will fetch you light, and paper, and ink.\n\nMALVOLIO.\nFool, I'll requite it in the highest degree: I pr'ythee be\ngone.\n\nCLOWN.\n[Singing.]\n   'I am gone, sir,\n   And anon, sir,\n  I'll be with you again,\n   In a trice,\n   Like to the old vice,\n  Your need to sustain;\n\n  Who with dagger of lath,\n  In his rage and his wrath,\n   Cries ah, ha! to the devil:\n  Like a mad lad,\n  Pare thy nails, dad.\n   Adieu, goodman drivel.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE III.\n\nOLIVIA'S Garden.\n\n[Enter SEBASTIAN.]\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nThis is the air; that is the glorious sun;\nThis pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't:\nAnd though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,\nYet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then?\nI could not find him at the Elephant;\nYet there he was; and there I found this credit,\nThat he did range the town to seek me out.\nHis counsel now might do me golden service;\nFor though my soul disputes well with my sense,\nThat this may be some error, but no madness,\nYet doth this accident and flood of fortune\nSo far exceed all instance, all discourse,\nThat I am ready to distrust mine eyes\nAnd wrangle with my reason, that persuades me\nTo any other trust but that I am mad,\nOr else the lady's mad; yet if 'twere so,\nShe could not sway her house, command her followers,\nTake and give back affairs and their despatch\nWith such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,\nAs I perceive she does: there's something in't\nThat is deceivable. But here comes the lady.\n\n[Enter OLIVIA and a Priest.]\n\nOLIVIA.\nBlame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,\nNow go with me and with this holy man\nInto the chantry by: there, before him\nAnd underneath that consecrated roof,\nPlight me the full assurance of your faith,\nThat my most jealous and too doubtful soul\nMay live at peace. He shall conceal it\nWhiles you are willing it shall come to note;\nWhat time we will our celebration keep\nAccording to my birth.--What do you say?\n\nSEBASTIAN.\nI'll follow this good man, and go with you;\nAnd, having sworn truth, ever will be true.\n\nOLIVIA.\nThen lead the way, good father;--And heavens so shine\nThat they may fairly note this act of mine!\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In Olivia's garden, Sebastian can't believe his good fortune--Olivia, who he has just met, is totally into him and recently gave him a pearl as a token of her love. Sebastian wonders aloud where Antonio is--he sure wishes he could find his trusty pal because Antonio might be able to tell him if the rich, gorgeous Olivia is a dream or reality. Sebastian says that if he isn't crazy, it's possible Olivia is. Olivia enters the garden with a priest in tow. She still thinks Sebastian is \"Cesario,\" who now appears to be in love with her. She tells Sebastian they should get hitched ASAP before he changes his mind. Best to nail down this whole deal before he runs off with some other woman. Sebastian thinks this is a terrific idea and says he'll go along with whatever Olivia says."}, {"": "110", "document": "CHAPTER I\n\nA SMALL TOWN\n\n\n    Put thousands together less bad,\n    But the cage less gay.--_Hobbes_.\n\n\nThe little town of Verrieres can pass for one of the prettiest in\nFranche-Comte. Its white houses with their pointed red-tiled roofs\nstretch along the slope of a hill, whose slightest undulations are\nmarked by groups of vigorous chestnuts. The Doubs flows to within some\nhundred feet above its fortifications, which were built long ago by the\nSpaniards, and are now in ruins.\n\nVerrieres is sheltered on the north by a high mountain which is one of\nthe branches of the Jura. The jagged peaks of the Verra are covered\nwith snow from the beginning of the October frosts. A torrent which\nrushes down from the mountains traverses Verrieres before throwing\nitself into the Doubs, and supplies the motive power for a great number\nof saw mills. The industry is very simple, and secures a certain\nprosperity to the majority of the inhabitants who are more peasant than\nbourgeois. It is not, however, the wood saws which have enriched this\nlittle town. It is the manufacture of painted tiles, called Mulhouse\ntiles, that is responsible for that general affluence which has caused\nthe facades of nearly all the houses in Verrieres to be rebuilt since\nthe fall of Napoleon.\n\nOne has scarcely entered the town, before one is stunned by the din of\na strident machine of terrifying aspect. Twenty heavy hammers which\nfall with a noise that makes the paved floor tremble, are lifted\nup by a wheel set in motion by the torrent. Each of these hammers\nmanufactures every day I don't know how many thousands of nails. The\nlittle pieces of iron which are rapidly transformed into nails by these\nenormous hammers, are put in position by fresh pretty young girls. This\nlabour so rough at first sight is one of the industries which most\nsurprises the traveller who penetrates for the first time the mountains\nwhich separate France and Helvetia. If when he enters Verrieres, the\ntraveller asks who owns this fine nail factory which deafens everybody\nwho goes up the Grande-Rue, he is answered in a drawling tone \"Eh!\nit belongs to M. the Mayor.\"\n\nAnd if the traveller stops a few minutes in that Grande-Rue of\nVerrieres which goes on an upward incline from the bank of the Doubs to\nnearly as far as the summit of the hill, it is a hundred to one that he\nwill see a big man with a busy and important air.\n\nWhen he comes in sight all hats are quickly taken off. His hair is\ngrizzled and he is dressed in grey. He is a Knight of several Orders,\nhas a large forehead and an aquiline nose, and if you take him all\nround, his features are not devoid of certain regularity. One might\neven think on the first inspection that it combines with the dignity\nof the village mayor that particular kind of comfortableness which is\nappropriate to the age of forty-eight or fifty. But soon the traveller\nfrom Paris will be shocked by a certain air of self-satisfaction and\nself-complacency mingled with an almost indefinable narrowness and lack\nof inspiration. One realises at last that this man's talent is limited\nto seeing that he is paid exactly what he is owed, and in paying his\nown debts at the latest possible moment.\n\nSuch is M. de Renal, the mayor of Verrieres. After having crossed the\nroad with a solemn step, he enters the mayoral residence and disappears\nfrom the eye of the traveller. But if the latter continues to walk\na hundred steps further up, he will perceive a house with a fairly\nfine appearance, with some magnificent gardens behind an iron grill\nbelonging to the house. Beyond that is an horizon line formed by the\nhills of Burgundy, which seem ideally made to delight the eyes. This\nview causes the traveller to forget that pestilential atmosphere of\npetty money-grubbing by which he is beginning to be suffocated.\n\nHe is told that this house belongs to M. de Renal. It is to the\nprofits which he has made out of his big nail factory that the mayor\nof Verrieres owes this fine residence of hewn stone which he is just\nfinishing. His family is said to be Spanish and ancient, and is alleged\nto have been established in the country well before the conquest of\nLouis XIV.\n\nSince 1815, he blushes at being a manufacturer: 1815 made him mayor\nof Verrieres. The terraced walls of this magnificent garden which\ndescends to the Doubs, plateau by plateau, also represent the reward\nof M. de Renal's proficiency in the iron-trade. Do not expect to find\nin France those picturesque gardens which surround the manufacturing\ntowns of Germany, like Leipsic, Frankfurt and Nurenburgh, etc. The\nmore walls you build in Franche-Comte and the more you fortify your\nestate with piles of stone, the more claim you will acquire on the\nrespect of your neighbours. Another reason for the admiration due to\nM. de Renal's gardens and their numerous walls, is the fact that he\nhas purchased, through sheer power of the purse, certain small parcels\nof the ground on which they stand. That saw-mill, for instance, whose\nsingular position on the banks of the Doubs struck you when you entered\nVerrieres, and where you notice the name of SOREL written in gigantic\ncharacters on the chief beam of the roof, used to occupy six years\nago that precise space on which is now reared the wall of the fourth\nterrace in M. de Renal's gardens.\n\nProud man that he was, the mayor had none the less to negotiate with\nthat tough, stubborn peasant, old Sorel. He had to pay him in good\nsolid golden louis before he could induce him to transfer his workshop\nelsewhere. As to the _public_ stream which supplied the motive power\nfor the saw-mill, M. de Renal obtained its diversion, thanks to the\ninfluence which he enjoyed at Paris. This favour was accorded him after\nthe election of 182-.\n\nHe gave Sorel four acres for every one he had previously held, five\nhundred yards lower down on the banks of the Doubs. Although this\nposition was much more advantageous for his pine-plank trade, father\nSorel (as he is called since he has become rich) knew how to exploit\nthe impatience and _mania for landed ownership_ which animated his\nneighbour to the tune of six thousand francs.\n\nIt is true that this arrangement was criticised by the wiseacres of the\nlocality. One day, it was on a Sunday four years later, as M. de Renal\nwas coming back from church in his mayor's uniform, he saw old Sorel\nsmiling at him, as he stared at him some distance away surrounded by\nhis three sons. That smile threw a fatal flood of light into the soul\nof the mayor. From that time on, he is of opinion that he could have\nobtained the exchange at a cheaper rate.\n\nIn order to win the public esteem of Verrieres it is essential that,\nthough you should build as many walls as you can, you should not adopt\nsome plan imported from Italy by those masons who cross the passes\nof the Jura in the spring on their way to Paris. Such an innovation\nwould bring down upon the head of the imprudent builder an eternal\nreputation for _wrongheadedness_, and he will be lost for ever in the\nsight of those wise, well-balanced people who dispense public esteem in\nFranche-Comte.\n\nAs a matter of fact, these prudent people exercise in the place the\nmost offensive despotism. It is by reason of this awful word, that\nanyone who has lived in that great republic which is called Paris,\nfinds living in little towns quite intolerable. The tyranny of public\nopinion (and what public opinion!) is as _stupid_ in the little towns\nof France as in the United States of America.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER II\n\nA MAYOR\n\n\n        Importance! What is it, sir after all? The respect of\n        fools, the wonder of children, the envy of the rich, the\n        contempt of the wise man.--_Barnave_\n\n\nHappily for the reputation of M. de Renal as an administrator an\nimmense wall of support was necessary for the public promenade which\ngoes along the hill, a hundred steps above the course of the Doubs.\nThis admirable position secures for the promenade one of the most\npicturesque views in the whole of France. But the rain water used to\nmake furrows in the walk every spring, caused ditches to appear, and\nrendered it generally impracticable. This nuisance, which was felt\nby the whole town, put M. de Renal in the happy position of being\ncompelled to immortalise his administration by building a wall twenty\nfeet high and thirty to forty yards long.\n\nThe parapet of this wall, which occasioned M. de Renal three journeys\nto Paris (for the last Minister of the Interior but one had declared\nhimself the mortal enemy of the promenade of Verrieres), is now raised\nto a height of four feet above the ground, and as though to defy all\nministers whether past or present, it is at present adorned with tiles\nof hewn stone.\n\nHow many times have my looks plunged into the valley of the Doubs, as I\nthought of the Paris balls which I had abandoned on the previous night,\nand leant my breast against the great blocks of stone, whose beautiful\ngrey almost verged on blue. Beyond the left bank, there wind five\nor six valleys, at the bottom of which I could see quite distinctly\nseveral small streams. There is a view of them falling into the Doubs,\nafter a series of cascades. The sun is very warm in these mountains.\nWhen it beats straight down, the pensive traveller on the terrace\nfinds shelter under some magnificent plane trees. They owe their rapid\ngrowth and their fine verdure with its almost bluish shade to the new\nsoil, which M. the mayor has had placed behind his immense wall of\nsupport for (in spite of the opposition of the Municipal Council) he\nhas enlarged the promenade by more than six feet (and although he is an\nUltra and I am a Liberal, I praise him for it), and that is why both in\nhis opinion and in that of M. Valenod, the fortunate Director of the\nworkhouse of Verrieres, this terrace can brook comparison with that of\nSaint-Germain en Laye.\n\nI find personally only one thing at which to cavil in the COURS DE LA\nFIDELITE, (this official name is to be read in fifteen to twenty places\non those immortal tiles which earned M. de Renal an extra cross.) The\ngrievance I find in the Cours de la Fidelite is the barbarous manner in\nwhich the authorities have cut these vigorous plane trees and clipped\nthem to the quick. In fact they really resemble with their dwarfed,\nrounded and flattened heads the most vulgar plants of the vegetable\ngarden, while they are really capable of attaining the magnificent\ndevelopment of the English plane trees. But the wish of M. the mayor\nis despotic, and all the trees belonging to the municipality are\nruthlessly pruned twice a year. The local Liberals suggest, but they\nare probably exaggerating, that the hand of the official gardener\nhas become much more severe, since M. the Vicar Maslon started\nappropriating the clippings. This young ecclesiastic was sent to\nBesancon some years ago to keep watch on the abbe Chelan and some cures\nin the neighbouring districts. An old Surgeon-Major of Napoleon's\nItalian Army, who was living in retirement at Verrieres, and who had\nbeen in his time described by M. the mayor as both a Jacobin and a\nBonapartiste, dared to complain to the mayor one day of the periodical\nmutilation of these fine trees.\n\n\"I like the shade,\" answered M. de Renal, with just a tinge of that\nhauteur which becomes a mayor when he is talking to a surgeon, who is\na member of the Legion of Honour. \"I like the shade, I have _my_ trees\nclipped in order to give shade, and I cannot conceive that a tree can\nhave any other purpose, provided of course _it is not bringing in any\nprofit_, like the useful walnut tree.\"\n\nThis is the great word which is all decisive at Verrieres. \"BRINGING IN\nPROFIT,\" this word alone sums up the habitual trend of thought of more\nthan three-quarters of the inhabitants.\n\n_Bringing in profit_ is the consideration which decides everything in\nthis little town which you thought so pretty. The stranger who arrives\nin the town is fascinated by the beauty of the fresh deep valleys which\nsurround it, and he imagines at first that the inhabitants have an\nappreciation of the beautiful. They talk only too frequently of the\nbeauty of their country, and it cannot be denied that they lay great\nstress on it, but the reason is that it attracts a number of strangers,\nwhose money enriches the inn-keepers, a process which _brings in\nprofit_ to the town, owing to the machinery of the octroi.\n\nIt was on a fine, autumn day that M. de Renal was taking a promenade\non the Cours de la Fidelite with his wife on his arm. While listening\nto her husband (who was talking in a somewhat solemn manner) Madame de\nRenal followed anxiously with her eyes the movements of three little\nboys. The eldest, who might have been eleven years old, went too\nfrequently near the parapet and looked as though he was going to climb\nup it. A sweet voice then pronounced the name of Adolphe and the child\ngave up his ambitious project. Madame de Renal seemed a woman of thirty\nyears of age but still fairly pretty.\n\n\"He may be sorry for it, may this fine gentleman from Paris,\" said\nM. de Renal, with an offended air and a face even paler than usual.\n\"I am not without a few friends at court!\" But though I want to\ntalk to you about the provinces for two hundred pages, I lack the\nrequisite barbarity to make you undergo all the long-windedness and\ncircumlocutions of a provincial dialogue.\n\nThis fine gentleman from Paris, who was so odious to the mayor of\nVerrieres, was no other than the M. Appert, who had two days previously\nmanaged to find his way not only into the prison and workhouse of\nVerrieres, but also into the hospital, which was gratuitously conducted\nby the mayor and the principal proprietors of the district.\n\n\"But,\" said Madame de Renal timidly, \"what harm can this Paris\ngentleman do you, since you administer the poor fund with the utmost\nscrupulous honesty?\"\n\n\"He only comes to _throw_ blame and afterwards he will get some\narticles into the Liberal press.\"\n\n\"You never read them, my dear.\"\n\n\"But they always talk to us about those Jacobin articles, all that\ndistracts us and prevents us from doing good.[1] Personally, I shall\nnever forgive the cure.\"\n\n[1] Historically true.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER III\n\nTHE POOR FUND\n\n\n        A virtuous cure who does not intrigue is a providence\n        for the village.--_Fleury_\n\n\nIt should be mentioned that the cure of Verrieres, an old man of\nninety, who owed to the bracing mountain air an iron constitution and\nan iron character, had the right to visit the prison, the hospital and\nthe workhouse at any hour. It had been at precisely six o'clock in the\nmorning that M. Appert, who had a Paris recommendation to the cure,\nhad been shrewd enough to arrive at a little inquisitive town. He had\nimmediately gone on to the cure's house.\n\nThe cure Chelan became pensive as he read the letter written to him by\nthe M. le Marquis de La Mole, Peer of France, and the richest landed\nproprietor of the province.\n\n\"I am old and beloved here,\" he said to himself in a whisper, \"they\nwould not dare!\" Then he suddenly turned to the gentleman from Paris,\nwith eyes, which in spite of his great age, shone with that sacred fire\nwhich betokens the delight of doing a fine but slightly dangerous act.\n\n\"Come with me, sir,\" he said, \"but please do not express any opinion of\nthe things which we shall see, in the presence of the jailer, and above\nall not in the presence of the superintendents of the workhouse.\"\n\nM. Appert realised that he had to do with a man of spirit. He followed\nthe venerable cure, visited the hospital and workhouse, put a lot of\nquestions, but in spite of somewhat extraordinary answers, did not\nindulge in the slightest expression of censure.\n\nThis visit lasted several hours; the cure invited M. Appert to dine,\nbut the latter made the excuse of having some letters to write; as a\nmatter of fact, he did not wish to compromise his generous companion to\nany further extent. About three o'clock these gentlemen went to finish\ntheir inspection of the workhouse and then returned to the prison.\nThere they found the jailer by the gate, a kind of giant, six feet\nhigh, with bow legs. His ignoble face had become hideous by reason of\nhis terror.\n\n\"Ah, monsieur,\" he said to the cure as soon as he saw him, \"is not the\ngentleman whom I see there, M. Appert?\"\n\n\"What does that matter?\" said the cure.\n\n\"The reason is that I received yesterday the most specific orders, and\nM. the Prefect sent a message by a gendarme who must have galloped\nduring the whole of the night, that M. Appert was not to be allowed in\nthe prisons.\"\n\n\"I can tell you, M. Noiroud,\" said the cure, \"that the traveller who is\nwith me is M. Appert, but do you or do you not admit that I have the\nright to enter the prison at any hour of the day or night accompanied\nby anybody I choose?\"\n\n\"Yes, M. the cure,\" said the jailer in a low voice, lowering his head\nlike a bull-dog, induced to a grudging obedience by fear of the stick,\n\"only, M. the cure, I have a wife and children, and shall be turned out\nif they inform against me. I only have my place to live on.\"\n\n\"I, too, should be sorry enough to lose mine,\" answered the good cure,\nwith increasing emotion in his voice.\n\n\"What a difference!\" answered the jailer keenly. \"As for you, M. le\ncure, we all know that you have eight hundred francs a year, good solid\nmoney.\"\n\nSuch were the facts which, commented upon and exaggerated in twenty\ndifferent ways, had been agitating for the last two days all the odious\npassions of the little town of Verrieres.\n\nAt the present time they served as the text for the little discussion\nwhich M. de Renal was having with his wife. He had visited the cure\nearlier in the morning accompanied by M. Valenod, the director of the\nworkhouse, in order to convey their most emphatic displeasure. M.\nChelan had no protector, and felt all the weight of their words.\n\n\"Well, gentlemen, I shall be the third cure of eighty years of age who\nhas been turned out in this district. I have been here for fifty-six\nyears. I have baptized nearly all the inhabitants of the town, which\nwas only a hamlet when I came to it. Every day I marry young people\nwhose grandparents I have married in days gone by. Verrieres is my\nfamily, but I said to myself when I saw the stranger, 'This man from\nParis may as a matter of fact be a Liberal, there are only too many of\nthem about, but what harm can he do to our poor and to our prisoners?'\"\n\nThe reproaches of M. de Renal, and above all, those of M. Valenod, the\ndirector of the workhouse, became more and more animated.\n\n\"Well, gentlemen, turn me out then,\" the old cure exclaimed in a\ntrembling voice; \"I shall still continue to live in the district. As\nyou know, I inherited forty-eight years ago a piece of land that brings\nin eight hundred francs a year; I shall live on that income. I do not\nsave anything out of my living, gentlemen; and that is perhaps why,\nwhen you talk to me about it, I am not particularly frightened.\"\n\nM. de Renal always got on very well with his wife, but he did not know\nwhat to answer when she timidly repeated the phrase of M. le cure,\n\"What harm can this Paris gentleman do the prisoners?\" He was on the\npoint of quite losing his temper when she gave a cry. Her second son\nhad mounted the parapet of the terrace wall and was running along it,\nalthough the wall was raised to a height of more than twenty feet above\nthe vineyard on the other side. The fear of frightening her son and\nmaking him fall prevented Madame de Renal speaking to him. But at last\nthe child, who was smiling at his own pluck, looked at his mother, saw\nher pallor, jumped down on to the walk and ran to her. He was well\nscolded.\n\nThis little event changed the course of the conversation.\n\n\"I really mean to take Sorel, the son of the sawyer, into the house,\"\nsaid M. de Renal; \"he will look after the children, who are getting too\nnaughty for us to manage. He is a young priest, or as good as one, a\ngood Latin scholar, and will make the children get on. According to the\ncure, he has a steady character. I will give him three hundred francs a\nyear and his board. I have some doubts as to his morality, for he used\nto be the favourite of that old Surgeon-Major, Member of the Legion of\nHonour, who went to board with the Sorels, on the pretext that he was\ntheir cousin. It is quite possible that that man was really simply a\nsecret agent of the Liberals. He said that the mountain air did his\nasthma good, but that is something which has never been proved. He\nhas gone through all _Buonaparte's_ campaigns in Italy, and had even,\nit was said, voted against the Empire in the plebiscite. This Liberal\ntaught the Sorel boy Latin, and left him a number of books which he had\nbrought with him. Of course, in the ordinary way, I should have never\nthought of allowing a carpenter's son to come into contact with our\nchildren, but the cure told me, the very day before the scene which\nhas just estranged us for ever, that Sorel has been studying theology\nfor three years with the intention of entering a seminary. He is,\nconsequently, not a Liberal, and he certainly is a good Latin scholar.\n\n\"This arrangement will be convenient in more than one way,\" continued\nM. de Renal, looking at his wife with a diplomatic air. \"That Valenod\nis proud enough of his two fine Norman horses which he has just bought\nfor his carriage, but he hasn't a tutor for his children.\"\n\n\"He might take this one away from us.\"\n\n\"You approve of my plan, then?\" said M. de Renal, thanking his wife\nwith a smile for the excellent idea which she had just had. \"Well,\nthat's settled.\"\n\n\"Good gracious, my dear, how quickly you make up your mind!\"\n\n\"It is because I'm a man of character, as the cure found out right\nenough. Don't let us deceive ourselves; we are surrounded by Liberals\nin this place. All those cloth merchants are jealous of me, I am\ncertain of it; two or three are becoming rich men. Well, I should\nrather fancy it for them to see M. de Renal's children pass along the\nstreet as they go out for their walk, escorted by _their tutor_. It\nwill impress people. My grandfather often used to tell us that he had\na tutor when he was young. It may run me into a hundred crowns, but\nthat ought to be looked upon as an expense necessary for keeping up our\nposition.\"\n\nThis sudden resolution left Madame de Renal quite pensive. She was\na big, well-made woman, who had been the beauty of the country, to\nuse the local expression. She had a certain air of simplicity and\nyouthfulness in her deportment. This naive grace, with its innocence\nand its vivacity, might even have recalled to a Parisian some\nsuggestion of the sweets he had left behind him. If she had realised\nthis particular phase of her success, Madame de Renal would have been\nquite ashamed of it. All coquetry, all affectation, were absolutely\nalien to her temperament. M. Valenod, the rich director of the\nworkhouse, had the reputation of having paid her court, a fact which\nhad cast a singular glamour over her virtue; for this M. Valenod, a\nbig young man with a square, sturdy frame, florid face, and big, black\nwhiskers, was one of those coarse, blustering, and noisy people who\npass in the provinces for a \"fine man.\"\n\nMadame de Renal, who had a very shy, and apparently a very uneven\ntemperament, was particularly shocked by M. Valenod's lack of repose,\nand by his boisterous loudness. Her aloofness from what, in the\nVerrieres' jargon, was called \"having a good time,\" had earned her the\nreputation of being very proud of her birth. In fact, she never thought\nabout it, but she had been extremely glad to find the inhabitants of\nthe town visit her less frequently. We shall not deny that she passed\nfor a fool in the eyes of _their_ good ladies because she did not\nwheedle her husband, and allowed herself to miss the most splendid\nopportunities of getting fine hats from Paris or Besancon. Provided she\nwas allowed to wander in her beautiful garden, she never complained.\nShe was a naive soul, who had never educated herself up to the point\nof judging her husband and confessing to herself that he bored her.\nShe supposed, without actually formulating the thought, that there was\nno greater sweetness in the relationship between husband and wife than\nshe herself had experienced. She loved M. de Renal most when he talked\nabout his projects for their children. The elder he had destined for\nthe army, the second for the law, and the third for the Church. To sum\nup, she found M. de Renal much less boring than all the other men of\nher acquaintance.\n\nThis conjugal opinion was quite sound. The Mayor of Verrieres had a\nreputation for wit, and above all, a reputation for good form, on\nthe strength of half-a-dozen \"chestnuts\" which he had inherited from\nan uncle. Old Captain de Renal had served, before the Revolution, in\nthe infantry regiment of M. the Duke of Orleans, and was admitted\nto the Prince's salons when he went to Paris. He had seen Madame de\nMontesson, the famous Madame de Genlis, M. Ducret, the inventor, of the\nPalais-Royal. These personages would crop up only too frequently in M.\nde Renal's anecdotes. He found it, however, more and more of a strain\nto remember stories which required such delicacy in the telling, and\nfor some time past it had only been on great occasions that he would\ntrot out his anecdotes concerning the House of Orleans. As, moreover,\nhe was extremely polite, except on money matters, he passed, and justly\nso, for the most aristocratic personage in Verrieres.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER IV\n\nA FATHER AND A SON\n\n\n    E sara mia colpa\n    Se cosi e?\n                  --_Machiavelli_.\n\n\n\"My wife really has a head on her shoulders,\" said the mayor of\nVerrieres at six o'clock the following morning, as he went down to the\nsaw-mill of Father Sorel. \"It had never occurred to me that if I do not\ntake little Abbe Sorel, who, they say, knows Latin like an angel, that\nrestless spirit, the director of the workhouse, might have the same\nidea and snatch him away from me, though of course I told her that it\nhad, in order to preserve my proper superiority. And how smugly, to be\nsure, would he talk about his children's tutor!... The question is,\nonce the tutor's mine, shall he wear the cassock?\"\n\nM. de Renal was absorbed in this problem when he saw a peasant in the\ndistance, a man nearly six feet tall, who since dawn had apparently\nbeen occupied in measuring some pieces of wood which had been put\ndown alongside the Doubs on the towing-path. The peasant did not look\nparticularly pleased when he saw M. the Mayor approach, as these pieces\nof wood obstructed the road, and had been placed there in breach of the\nrules.\n\nFather Sorel (for it was he) was very surprised, and even more pleased\nat the singular offer which M. de Renal made him for his son Julien.\nNone the less, he listened to it with that air of sulky discontent and\napathy which the subtle inhabitants of these mountains know so well\nhow to assume. Slaves as they have been since the time of the Spanish\nConquest, they still preserve this feature, which is also found in the\ncharacter of the Egyptian fellah.\n\nSorel's answer was at first simply a long-winded recitation of\nall the formulas of respect which he knew by heart. While he was\nrepeating these empty words with an uneasy smile, which accentuated\nall the natural disingenuousness, if not, indeed, knavishness of his\nphysiognomy, the active mind of the old peasant tried to discover what\nreason could induce so important a man to take into his house his\ngood-for-nothing of a son. He was very dissatisfied with Julien, and\nit was for Julien that M. de Renal offered the undreamt-of salary of\n300 fcs. a year, with board and even clothing. This latter claim, which\nFather Sorel had had the genius to spring upon the mayor, had been\ngranted with equal suddenness by M. de Renal.\n\nThis demand made an impression on the mayor. It is clear, he said to\nhimself, that since Sorel is not beside himself with delight over my\nproposal, as in the ordinary way he ought to be, he must have had\noffers made to him elsewhere, and whom could they have come from, if\nnot from Valenod. It was in vain that M. de Renal pressed Sorel to\nclinch the matter then and there. The old peasant, astute man that\nhe was, stubbornly refused to do so. He wanted, he said, to consult\nhis son, as if in the provinces, forsooth, a rich father consulted a\npenniless son for any other reason than as a mere matter of form.\n\nA water saw-mill consists of a shed by the side of a stream. The roof\nis supported by a framework resting on four large timber pillars. A\nsaw can be seen going up and down at a height of eight to ten feet in\nthe middle of the shed, while a piece of wood is propelled against\nthis saw by a very simple mechanism. It is a wheel whose motive-power\nis supplied by the stream, which sets in motion this double piece of\nmechanism, the mechanism of the saw which goes up and down, and the\nmechanism which gently pushes the piece of wood towards the saw, which\ncuts it up into planks.\n\nApproaching his workshop, Father Sorel called Julien in his stentorian\nvoice; nobody answered. He only saw his giant elder sons, who, armed\nwith heavy axes, were cutting up the pine planks which they had to\ncarry to the saw. They were engrossed in following exactly the black\nmark traced on each piece of wood, from which every blow of their axes\nthrew off enormous shavings. They did not hear their father's voice.\nThe latter made his way towards the shed. He entered it and looked in\nvain for Julien in the place where he ought to have been by the side of\nthe saw. He saw him five or six feet higher up, sitting astride one of\nthe rafters of the roof. Instead of watching attentively the action of\nthe machinery, Julien was reading. Nothing was more anti-pathetic to\nold Sorel. He might possibly have forgiven Julien his puny physique,\nill adapted as it was to manual labour, and different as it was from\nthat of his elder brothers; but he hated this reading mania. He could\nnot read himself.\n\nIt was in vain that he called Julien two or three times. It was the\nyoung man's concentration on his book, rather than the din made by the\nsaw, which prevented him from hearing his father's terrible voice. At\nlast the latter, in spite of his age, jumped nimbly on to the tree\nthat was undergoing the action of the saw, and from there on to the\ncross-bar that supported the roof. A violent blow made the book which\nJulien held, go flying into the stream; a second blow on the head,\nequally violent, which took the form of a box on the ears, made him\nlose his balance. He was on the point of falling twelve or fifteen feet\nlower down into the middle of the levers of the running machinery which\nwould have cut him to pieces, but his father caught him as he fell, in\nhis left hand.\n\n\"So that's it, is it, lazy bones! always going to read your damned\nbooks are you, when you're keeping watch on the saw? You read them in\nthe evening if you want to, when you go to play the fool at the cure's,\nthat's the proper time.\"\n\nAlthough stunned by the force of the blow and bleeding profusely,\nJulien went back to his official post by the side of the saw. He had\ntears in his eyes, less by reason of the physical pain than on account\nof the loss of his beloved book.\n\n\"Get down, you beast, when I am talking to you,\" the noise of the\nmachinery prevented Julien from hearing this order. His father, who had\ngone down did not wish to give himself the trouble of climbing up on to\nthe machinery again, and went to fetch a long fork used for bringing\ndown nuts, with which he struck him on the shoulder. Julien had\nscarcely reached the ground, when old Sorel chased him roughly in front\nof him and pushed him roughly towards the house. \"God knows what he is\ngoing to do with me,\" said the young man to himself. As he passed, he\nlooked sorrowfully into the stream into which his book had fallen, it\nwas the one that he held dearest of all, the _Memorial of St. Helena_.\n\nHe had purple cheeks and downcast eyes. He was a young man of eighteen\nto nineteen years old, and of puny appearance, with irregular but\ndelicate features, and an aquiline nose. The big black eyes which\nbetokened in their tranquil moments a temperament at once fiery and\nreflective were at the present moment animated by an expression of\nthe most ferocious hate. Dark chestnut hair, which came low down over\nhis brow, made his forehead appear small and gave him a sinister look\nduring his angry moods. It is doubtful if any face out of all the\ninnumerable varieties of the human physiognomy was ever distinguished\nby a more arresting individuality.\n\nA supple well-knit figure, indicated agility rather than strength. His\nair of extreme pensiveness and his great pallor had given his father\nthe idea that he would not live, or that if he did, it would only be to\nbe a burden to his family. The butt of the whole house, he hated his\nbrothers and his father. He was regularly beaten in the Sunday sports\nin the public square.\n\nA little less than a year ago his pretty face had begun to win him some\nsympathy among the young girls. Universally despised as a weakling,\nJulien had adored that old Surgeon-Major, who had one day dared to talk\nto the mayor on the subject of the plane trees.\n\nThis Surgeon had sometimes paid Father Sorel for taking his son for\na day, and had taught him Latin and History, that is to say the 1796\nCampaign in Italy which was all the history he knew. When he died, he\nhad bequeathed his Cross of the Legion of Honour, his arrears of half\npay, and thirty or forty volumes, of which the most precious had just\nfallen into the public stream, which had been diverted owing to the\ninfluence of M. the Mayor.\n\nScarcely had he entered the house, when Julien felt his shoulder\ngripped by his father's powerful hand; he trembled, expecting some\nblows.\n\n\"Answer me without lying,\" cried the harsh voice of the old peasant in\nhis ears, while his hand turned him round and round, like a child's\nhand turns round a lead soldier. The big black eyes of Julien filled\nwith tears, and were confronted by the small grey eyes of the old\ncarpenter, who looked as if he meant to read to the very bottom of his\nsoul.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE ENGLISH SCISSORS\n\n\n        A young girl of sixteen had a pink complexion, and yet\n        used red rouge.--_Polidori_.\n\n\nFouque's offer had, as a matter of fact, taken away all Julien's\nhappiness; he could not make up his mind to any definite course. \"Alas!\nperhaps I am lacking in character. I should have been a bad soldier of\nNapoleon. At least,\" he added, \"my little intrigue with the mistress of\nthe house will distract me a little.\"\n\nHappily for him, even in this little subordinate incident, his inner\nemotions quite failed to correspond with his flippant words. He was\nfrightened of Madame de Renal because of her pretty dress. In his\neyes, that dress was a vanguard of Paris. His pride refused to leave\nanything to chance and the inspiration of the moment. He made himself\na very minute plan of campaign, moulded on the confidences of Fouque,\nand a little that he had read about love in the Bible. As he was very\nnervous, though he did not admit it to himself, he wrote down this plan.\n\nMadame de Renal was alone with him for a moment in the drawing-room on\nthe following morning.\n\n\"Have you no other name except Julien,\" she said.\n\nOur hero was at a loss to answer so nattering a question. This\ncircumstance had not been anticipated in his plan. If he had not been\nstupid enough to have made a plan, Julien's quick wit would have served\nhim well, and the surprise would only have intensified the quickness of\nhis perception.\n\nHe was clumsy, and exaggerated his clumsiness, Madame de Renal quickly\nforgave him. She attributed it to a charming frankness. And an air of\nfrankness was the very thing which in her view was just lacking in this\nman who was acknowledged to have so much genius.\n\n\"That little tutor of yours inspires me with a great deal of\nsuspicion,\" said Madame Derville to her sometimes. \"I think he looks as\nif he were always thinking, and he never acts without calculation. He\nis a sly fox.\"\n\nJulien remained profoundly humiliated by the misfortune of not having\nknown what answer to make to Madame de Renal.\n\n\"A man like I am ought to make up for this check!\" and seizing the\nmoment when they were passing from one room to another, he thought it\nwas his duty to give Madame de Renal a kiss.\n\nNothing could have been less tactful, nothing less agreeable, and\nnothing more imprudent both for him and for her. They were within\nan inch of being noticed. Madame de Renal thought him mad. She was\nfrightened, and above all, shocked. This stupidity reminded her of M.\nValenod.\n\n\"What would happen to me,\" she said to herself, \"if I were alone with\nhim?\" All her virtue returned, because her love was waning.\n\nShe so arranged it that one of her children always remained with her.\nJulien found the day very tedious, and passed it entirely in clumsily\nputting into operation his plan of seduction. He did not look at Madame\nde Renal on a single occasion without that look having a reason, but\nnevertheless he was not sufficiently stupid to fail to see that he was\nnot succeeding at all in being amiable, and was succeeding even less in\nbeing fascinating.\n\nMadame de Renal did not recover from her astonishment at finding him\nso awkward and at the same time so bold. \"It is the timidity of love\nin men of intellect,\" she said to herself with an inexpressible joy.\n\"Could it be possible that he had never been loved by my rival?\"\n\nAfter breakfast Madame de Renal went back to the drawing-room to\nreceive the visit of M. Charcot de Maugiron, the sub-prefect of Bray.\nShe was working at a little frame of fancy-work some distance from the\nground. Madame Derville was at her side; that was how she was placed\nwhen our hero thought it suitable to advance his boot in the full\nlight and press the pretty foot of Madame de Renal, whose open-work\nstockings, and pretty Paris shoe were evidently attracting the looks of\nthe gallant sub-prefect.\n\nMadame de Renal was very much afraid, and let fall her scissors, her\nball of wool and her needles, so that Julien's movement could be passed\nfor a clumsy effort, intended to prevent the fall of the scissors,\nwhich presumably he had seen slide. Fortunately, these little scissors\nof English steel were broken, and Madame de Renal did not spare her\nregrets that Julien had not succeeded in getting nearer to her. \"You\nnoticed them falling before I did--you could have prevented it,\ninstead, all your zealousness only succeeding in giving me a very big\nkick.\" All this took in the sub-perfect, but not Madame Derville. \"That\npretty boy has very silly manners,\" she thought. The social code of a\nprovincial capital never forgives this kind of lapse.\n\nMadame de Renal found an opportunity of saying to Julien, \"Be prudent,\nI order you.\"\n\nJulien appreciated his own clumsiness. He was upset. He deliberated\nwith himself for a long time, in order to ascertain whether or not he\nought to be angry at the expression \"I order you.\" He was silly enough\nto think she might have said \"I order you,\" if it were some question\nconcerning the children's education, but in answering my love she puts\nme on an equality. It is impossible to love without equality ... and\nall his mind ran riot in making common-places on equality. He angrily\nrepeated to himself that verse of Corneille which Madame Derville had\ntaught him some days before.\n\n                                      \"L'amour\n        les egalites, et ne les cherche pas.\"\n\nJulien who had never had a mistress in his whole life, but yet insisted\non playing the role of a Don Juan, made a shocking fool of himself all\nday. He had only one sensible idea. Bored with himself and Madame de\nRenal, he viewed with apprehension the advance of the evening when he\nwould have to sit by her side in the darkness of the garden. He told M.\nde Renal that he was going to Verrieres to see the cure. He left after\ndinner, and only came back in the night.\n\nAt Verrieres Julien found M. Chelan occupied in moving. He had just\nbeen deprived of his living; the curate Maslon was replacing him.\nJulien helped the good cure, and it occurred to him to write to Fouque\nthat the irresistible mission which he felt for the holy ministry had\npreviously prevented him from accepting his kind offer, but that he had\njust seen an instance of injustice, and that perhaps it would be safer\nnot to enter into Holy Orders.\n\nJulien congratulated himself on his subtlety in exploiting the\ndismissal of the cure of Verrieres so as to leave himself a loop-hole\nfor returning to commerce in the event of a gloomy prudence routing the\nspirit of heroism from his mind.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER XVI\n\nTHE DAY AFTER\n\n\n    He turned his lips to hers and with his hand\n    Called back the tangles of her wandering hair.\n                               _Don Juan,_ c. I, st. 170.\n\n\nHappily for Julien's fame, Madame de Renal had been too agitated and\ntoo astonished to appreciate the stupidity of the man who had in a\nsingle moment become the whole to world her.\n\n\"Oh, my God!\" she said to herself, as she pressed him to retire when\nshe saw the dawn break, \"if my husband has heard the noise, I am lost.\"\nJulien, who had had the time to make up some phrases, remembered this\none,\n\n\"Would you regret your life?\"\n\n\"Oh, very much at a moment like this, but I should not regret having\nknown you.\"\n\nJulien thought it incumbent on his dignity to go back to his room in\nbroad daylight and with deliberate imprudence.\n\nThe continuous attention with which he kept on studying his slightest\nactions with the absurd idea of appearing a man of experience had only\none advantage. When he saw Madame de Renal again at breakfast his\nconduct was a masterpiece of prudence.\n\nAs for her, she could not look at him without blushing up to the eyes,\nand could not live a moment without looking at him. She realised her\nown nervousness, and her efforts to hide it redoubled. Julien only\nlifted his eyes towards her once. At first Madame de Renal admired\nhis prudence: soon seeing that this single look was not repealed, she\nbecame alarmed. \"Could it be that he does not love me?\" she said to\nherself. \"Alas! I am quite old for him. I am ten years older than he\nis.\"\n\nAs she passed from the dining-room to the garden, she pressed Julien's\nhand. In the surprise caused by so singular a mark of love, he regarded\nher with passion, for he had thought her very pretty over breakfast,\nand while keeping his eyes downcast he had passed his time in thinking\nof the details of her charms. This look consoled Madame de Renal. It\ndid not take away all her anxiety, but her anxiety tended to take away\nnearly completely all her remorse towards her husband.\n\nThe husband had noticed nothing at breakfast. It was not so with\nMadame Derville. She thought she saw Madame de Renal on the point of\nsuccumbing. During the whole day her bold and incisive friendship\nregaled her cousin with those innuendoes which were intended to paint\nin hideous colours the dangers she was running.\n\nMadame de Renal was burning to find herself alone with Julien. She\nwished to ask him if he still loved her. In spite of the unalterable\nsweetness of her character, she was several times on the point of\nnotifying her friend how officious she was.\n\nMadame Derville arranged things so adroitly that evening in the garden,\nthat she found herself placed between Madame de Renal and Julien.\nMadame de Renal, who had thought in her imagination how delicious it\nwould be to press Julien's hand and carry it to her lips, was not able\nto address a single word to him.\n\nThis hitch increased her agitation. She was devoured by one pang of\nremorse. She had so scolded Julien for his imprudence in coming to her\nroom on the preceding night, that she trembled lest he should not come\nto-night. She left the garden early and went and ensconced herself in\nher room, but not being able to control her impatience, she went and\nglued her ear to Julien's door. In spite of the uncertainty and passion\nwhich devoured her, she did not dare to enter. This action seemed\nto her the greatest possible meanness, for it forms the basis of a\nprovincial proverb.\n\nThe servants had not yet all gone to bed. Prudence at last compelled\nher to return to her room. Two hours of waiting were two centuries of\ntorture.\n\nJulien was too faithful to what he called his duty to fail to\naccomplish stage by stage what he had mapped out for himself.\n\nAs one o'clock struck, he escaped softly from his room, assured himself\nthat the master of the house was soundly asleep, and appeared in Madame\nde Renal's room. To-night he experienced more happiness by the side of\nhis love, for he thought less constantly about the part he had to play.\nHe had eyes to see, and ears to hear. What Madame de Renal said to him\nabout his age contributed to give him some assurance.\n\n\"Alas! I am ten years older than you. How can you love me?\" she\nrepeated vaguely, because the idea oppressed her.\n\nJulien could not realise her happiness, but he saw that it was genuine\nand he forgot almost entirely his own fear of being ridiculous.\n\nThe foolish thought that he was regarded as an inferior, by reason of\nhis obscure birth, disappeared also. As Julien's transports reassured\nhis timid mistress, she regained a little of her happiness, and of her\npower to judge her lover. Happily, he had not, on this occasion, that\nartificial air which had made the assignation of the previous night a\ntriumph rather than a pleasure. If she had realised his concentration\non playing a part that melancholy discovery would have taken away all\nher happiness for ever. She could only have seen in it the result of\nthe difference in their ages.\n\nAlthough Madame de Renal had never thought of the theories of love,\ndifference in age is next to difference in fortune, one of the great\ncommonplaces of provincial witticisms, whenever love is the topic of\nconversation.\n\nIn a few days Julien surrendered himself with all the ardour of his\nage, and was desperately in love.\n\n\"One must own,\" he said to himself, \"that she has an angelic kindness\nof soul, and no one in the world is prettier.\"\n\nHe had almost completely given up playing a part. In a moment of\nabandon, he even confessed to her all his nervousness. This confidence\nraised the passion which he was inspiring to its zenith. \"And I have no\nlucky rival after all,\" said Madame de Renal to herself with delight.\nShe ventured to question him on the portrait in which he used to be so\ninterested. Julien swore to her that it was that of a man.\n\nWhen Madame de Renal had enough presence of mind left to reflect, she\ndid not recover from her astonishment that so great a happiness could\nexist; and that she had never had anything of.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said to herself, \"if I had only known Julien ten years ago\nwhen I was still considered pretty.\"\n\nJulien was far from having thoughts like these. His love was still\nakin to ambition. It was the joy of possessing, poor, unfortunate and\ndespised as he was, so beautiful a woman. His acts of devotion, and his\necstacies at the sight of his mistress's charms finished by reassuring\nher a little with regard to the difference of age. If she had possessed\na little of that knowledge of life which the woman of thirty has\nenjoyed in the more civilised of countries for quite a long time, she\nwould have trembled for the duration of a love, which only seemed to\nthrive on novelty and the intoxication of a young man's vanity. In\nthose moments when he forgot his ambition, Julien admired ecstatically\neven the hats and even the dresses of Madame de Renal. He could not\nsate himself with the pleasure of smelling their perfume. He would open\nher mirrored cupboard, and remain hours on end admiring the beauty and\nthe order of everything that he found there. His love leaned on him and\nlooked at him. He was looking at those jewels and those dresses which\nhad had been her wedding presents.\n\n\"I might have married a man like that,\" thought Madame de Renal\nsometimes. \"What a fiery soul! What a delightful life one would have\nwith him?\"\n\nAs for Julien, he had never been so near to those terrible instruments\nof feminine artillery. \"It is impossible,\" he said to himself \"for\nthere to be anything more beautiful in Paris.\" He could find no flaw\nin his happiness. The sincere admiration and ecstacies of his mistress\nwould frequently make him forget that silly pose which had rendered\nhim so stiff and almost ridiculous during the first moments of the\nintrigue. There were moments where, in spite of his habitual hypocrisy,\nhe found an extreme delight in confessing to this great lady who\nadmired him, his ignorance of a crowd of little usages. His mistress's\nrank seemed to lift him above himself. Madame de Renal, on her side,\nwould find the sweetest thrill of intellectual voluptuousness in thus\ninstructing in a number of little things this young man who was so full\nof genius, and who was looked upon by everyone as destined one day to\ngo so far. Even the sub-prefect and M. Valenod could not help admiring\nhim. She thought it made them less foolish. As for Madame Derville, she\nwas very far from being in a position to express the same sentiments.\nRendered desperate by what she thought she divined, and seeing that\nher good advice was becoming offensive to a woman who had literally\nlost her head, she left Vergy without giving the explanation, which\nher friend carefully refrained from asking. Madame de Renal shed a few\ntears for her, and soon found her happiness greater than ever. As a\nresult of her departure, she found herself alone with her lover nearly\nthe whole day.\n\nJulien abandoned himself all the more to the delightful society of his\nsweetheart, since, whenever he was alone, Fouque's fatal proposition\nstill continued to agitate him. During the first days of his novel life\nthere were moments when the man who had never loved, who had never been\nloved by anyone, would find so delicious a pleasure in being sincere,\nthat he was on the point of confessing to Madame de Renal that ambition\nwhich up to then had been the very essence of his existence. He would\nhave liked to have been able to consult her on the strange temptation\nwhich Fouque's offer held out to him, but a little episode rendered any\nfrankness impossible.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER XVII\n\nTHE FIRST DEPUTY\n\n    Oh, how this spring of love resembleth\n    The uncertain glory of an April day,\n    Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,\n    And by and by a cloud takes all away.\n                   _Two Gentlemen of Verona._\n\n\nOne evening when the sun was setting, and he was sitting near his love,\nat the bottom of the orchard, far from all intruders, he meditated\ndeeply. \"Will such sweet moments\" he said to himself \"last for ever?\"\nHis soul was engrossed in the difficulty of deciding on a calling. He\nlamented that great attack of unhappiness which comes at the end of\nchildhood and spoils the first years of youth in those who are not rich.\n\n\"Ah!\" he exclaimed, \"was not Napoleon the heaven-sent saviour for young\nFrenchmen? Who is to replace him? What will those unfortunate youths\ndo without him, who, even though they are richer than I am, have only\njust the few crowns necessary to procure an education for themselves,\nbut have not at the age of twenty enough money to buy a man and advance\nthemselves in their career.\" \"Whatever one does,\" he added, with a deep\nsigh, \"this fatal memory will always prevent our being happy.\"\n\nHe suddenly saw Madame de Renal frown. She assumed a cold and\ndisdainful air. She thought his way of looking at things typical of a\nservant. Brought up as she was with the idea that she was very rich,\nshe took it for granted that Julien was so also. She loved him a\nthousand times more than life and set no store by money.\n\nJulien was far from guessing these ideas, but that frown brought him\nback to earth. He had sufficient presence of mind to manipulate his\nphrases, and to give the noble lady who was sitting so near him on the\ngrass seat to understand that the words he had just repeated had been\nheard by him during his journey to his friend the wood merchant. It was\nthe logic of infidels.\n\n\"Well, have nothing to do with those people,\" said Madame de Renal,\nstill keeping a little of that icy air which had suddenly succeeded an\nexpression of the warmest tenderness.\n\nThis frown, or rather his remorse for his own imprudence, was the\nfirst check to the illusion which was transporting Julien. He said to\nhimself, \"She is good and sweet, she has a great fancy for me, but she\nhas been brought up in the enemy's camp. They must be particularly\nafraid of that class of men of spirit who, after a good education, have\nnot enough money to take up a career. What would become of those nobles\nif we had an opportunity of fighting them with equal arms. Suppose me,\nfor example, mayor of Verrieres, and as well meaning and honest as M.\nde Renal is at bottom. What short shrift I should make of the vicaire,\nM. Valenod and all their jobberies! How justice would triumph in\nVerrieres. It is not their talents which would stop me. They are always\nfumbling about.\"\n\nThat day Julien's happiness almost became permanent. Our hero lacked\nthe power of daring to be sincere. He ought to have had the courage to\nhave given battle, and on the spot; Madame de Renal had been astonished\nby Julien's phrase, because the men in her circle kept on repeating\nthat the return of Robespierre was essentially possible by reason of\nthose over-educated young persons of the lower classes. Madame de\nRenal's coldness lasted a longish time, and struck Julien as marked.\nThe reason was that the fear that she had said something in some way or\nother disagreeable to him, succeeded her annoyance for his own breach\nof taste. This unhappiness was vividly reflected in those features\nwhich looked so pure and so naive when she was happy and away from\nintruders.\n\nJulien no longer dared to surrender himself to his dreams. Growing\ncalmer and less infatuated, he considered that it was imprudent to go\nand see Madame de Renal in her room. It was better for her to come to\nhim. If a servant noticed her going about the house, a dozen different\nexcuses could explain it.\n\nBut this arrangement had also its inconveniences. Julien had received\nfrom Fouque some books, which he, as a theology student would never\nhave dared to ask for in a bookshop. He only dared to open them at\nnight. He would often have found it much more convenient not to be\ninterrupted by a visit, the very waiting for which had even on the\nevening before the little scene in the orchard completely destroyed his\nmood for reading.\n\nHe had Madame de Renal to thank for understanding books in quite a new\nway. He had dared to question her on a number of little things, the\nignorance of which cuts quite short the intellectual progress of any\nyoung man born out of society, however much natural genius one may\nchoose to ascribe to him.\n\nThis education given through sheer love by a woman who was extremely\nignorant, was a piece of luck. Julien managed to get a clear insight\ninto society such as it is to-day. His mind was not bewildered by the\nnarration of what it had been once, two thousand years ago, or even\nsixty years ago, in the time of Voltaire and Louis XV. The scales fell\nfrom his eyes to his inexpressible joy, and he understood at last what\nwas going on in Verrieres.\n\nIn the first place there were the very complicated intrigues which\nhad been woven for the last two years around the prefect of Besancon.\nThey were backed up by letters from Paris, written by the cream of\nthe aristocracy. The scheme was to make M. de Moirod (he was the most\ndevout man in the district) the first and not the second deputy of the\nmayor of Verrieres.\n\nHe had for a competitor a very rich manufacturer whom it was essential\nto push back into the place of second deputy.\n\nJulien understood at last the innuendoes which he had surprised,\nwhen the high society of the locality used to come and dine at M. de\nRenal's. This privileged society was deeply concerned with the choice\nof a first deputy, while the rest of the town, and above all, the\nLiberals, did not even suspect its possibility. The factor which made\nthe matter important was that, as everybody knows, the east side of the\nmain street of Verrieres has to be put more than nine feet back since\nthat street has become a royal route.\n\nNow if M. de Moirod, who had three houses liable to have their frontage\nput back, succeeded in becoming first deputy and consequently mayor in\nthe event of M. de Renal being elected to the chamber, he would shut\nhis eyes, and it would be possible to make little imperceptible repairs\nin the houses projecting on to the public road, as the result of which\nthey would last a hundred years. In spite of the great piety and proved\nintegrity of M. de Moirod, everyone was certain that he would prove\namenable, because he had a great many children. Among the houses liable\nto have their frontage put back nine belonged to the cream of Verrieres\nsociety.\n\nIn Julien's eyes this intrigue was much more important than the history\nof the battle of Fontenoy, whose name he now came across for the first\ntime in one of the books which Fouque had sent him. There had been\nmany things which had astonished Julien since the time five years ago\nwhen he had started going to the cure's in the evening. But discretion\nand humility of spirit being the primary qualities of a theological\nstudent, it had always been impossible for him to put questions.\n\nOne day Madame de Renal was giving an order to her husband's valet who\nwas Julien's enemy.\n\n\"But, Madame, to-day is the last Friday in the month,\" the man answered\nin a rather strange manner.\n\n\"Go,\" said Madame de Renal.\n\n\"Well,\" said Julien, \"I suppose he's going to go to that corn shop\nwhich was once a church, and has recently been restored to religion,\nbut what is he going to do there? That's one of the mysteries which I\nhave never been able to fathom.\"\n\n\"It's a very literary institution, but a very curious one,\" answered\nMadame de Renal. \"Women are not admitted to it. All I know is, that\neverybody uses the second person singular. This servant, for instance,\nwill go and meet M. Valenod there, and the haughty prig will not be\na bit offended at hearing himself addressed by Saint-Jean in that\nfamiliar way, and will answer him in the same way. If you are keen on\nknowing what takes place, I will ask M. de Maugiron and M. Valenod\nfor details. We pay twenty francs for each servant, to prevent their\ncutting our throats one fine day.\"\n\nTime flew. The memory of his mistress's charms distracted Julien from\nhis black ambition. The necessity of refraining from mentioning gloomy\nor intellectual topics since they both belonged to opposing parties,\nadded, without his suspecting it, to the happiness which he owed her,\nand to the dominion which she acquired over him.\n\nOn the occasions when the presence of the precocious children reduced\nthem to speaking the language of cold reason, Julien looking at her\nwith eyes sparkling with love, would listen with complete docility to\nher explanations of the world as it is. Frequently, in the middle of an\naccount of some cunning piece of jobbery, with reference to a road or\na contract, Madame de Renal's mind would suddenly wander to the very\npoint of delirium. Julien found it necessary to scold her. She indulged\nwhen with him in the same intimate gestures which she used with her\nown children. The fact was that there were days when she deceived\nherself that she loved him like her own child. Had she not repeatedly\nto answer his naive questions about a thousand simple things that a\nwell-born child of fifteen knows quite well? An instant afterwards\nshe would admire him like her master. His genius would even go so far\nas to frighten her. She thought she should see more clearly every day\nthe future great man in this young abbe. She saw him Pope; she saw him\nfirst minister like Richelieu. \"Shall I live long enough to see you in\nyour glory?\" she said to Julien. \"There is room for a great man; church\nand state have need of one.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER XXVII\n\nFIRST EXPERIENCE OF LIFE\n\n\n        The present time, Great God! is the ark of the Lord;\n        cursed be he who touches it.--_Diderot_.\n\n\nThe reader will kindly excuse us if we give very few clear and definite\nfacts concerning this period of Julien's life. It is not that we\nlack facts; quite the contrary. But it may be that what he saw in\nthe seminary is too black for the medium colour which the author\nhas endeavoured to preserve throughout these pages. Those of our\ncontemporaries who have suffered from certain things cannot remember\nthem without a horror which paralyses every other pleasure, even that\nof reading a tale.\n\nJulien achieved scant success in his essays at hypocritical gestures.\nHe experienced moments of disgust, and even of complete discouragement.\nHe was not a success, even in a a vile career. The slightest help\nfrom outside would have sufficed to have given him heart again, for\nthe difficulty to overcome was not very great, but he was alone, like\na derelict ship in the middle of the ocean. \"And when I do succeed,\"\nhe would say to himself, \"think of having to pass a whole lifetime in\nsuch awful company, gluttons who have no thought but for the large\nomelette which they will guzzle at dinner-time, or persons like the\nabbe Castanede, who finds no crime too black! They will attain power,\nbut, great heavens! at what cost.\n\n\"The will of man is powerful, I read it everywhere, but is it enough to\novercome so great a disgust? The task of all the great men was easy by\ncomparison. However terrible was the danger, they found it fine, and\nwho can realise, except myself, the ugliness of my surroundings?\"\n\nThis moment was the most trying in his whole life. It would have been\nso easy for him to have enlisted in one of the fine regiments at the\ngarrison of Besancon. He could have become a Latin master. He needed so\nlittle for his subsistence, but in that case no more career, no more\nfuture for his imagination. It was equivalent to death. Here is one of\nhis sad days in detail:\n\n\"I have so often presumed to congratulate myself on being different\nfrom the other young peasants! Well, I have lived enough to realise\nthat _difference engenders hate_,\" he said to himself one morning.\nThis great truth had just been borne in upon him by one of his most\nirritating failures. He had been working for eight days at teaching a\npupil who lived in an odour of sanctity. He used to go out with him\ninto the courtyard and listen submissively to pieces of fatuity enough\nto send one to sleep standing. Suddenly the weather turned stormy. The\nthunder growled, and the holy pupil exclaimed as he roughly pushed him\naway.\n\n\"Listen! Everyone for himself in this world. I don't want to be burned\nby the thunder. God may strike you with lightning like a blasphemer,\nlike a Voltaire.\"\n\n\"I deserve to be drowned if I go to sleep during the storm,\" exclaimed\nJulien, with his teeth clenched with rage, and with his eyes opened\ntowards the sky now furrowed by the lightning. \"Let us try the conquest\nof some other rogue.\"\n\nThe bell rang for the abbe Castanede's course of sacred history. That\nday the abbe Castanede was teaching those young peasants already\nso frightened by their father's hardships and poverty, that the\nGovernment, that entity so terrible in their eyes, possessed no real\nand legitimate power except by virtue of the delegation of God's vicar\non earth.\n\n\"Render yourselves worthy, by the holiness of your life and by your\nobedience, of the benevolence of the Pope. Be _like a stick in his\nhands_,\" he added, \"and you will obtain a superb position, where you\nwill be far from all control, and enjoy the King's commands, a position\nfrom which you cannot be removed, and where one-third of the salary\nis paid by the Government, while the faithful who are moulded by your\npreaching pay the other two-thirds.\"\n\nCastanede stopped in the courtyard after he left the lesson-room. \"It\nis particularly appropriate to say of a cure,\" he said to the pupils\nwho formed a ring round him, \"that the place is worth as much as the\nman is worth. I myself have known parishes in the mountains where the\nsurplice fees were worth more than that of many town livings. There was\nquite as much money, without counting the fat capons, the eggs, fresh\nbutter, and a thousand and one pleasant details, and there the cure is\nindisputably the first man. There is not a good meal to which he is not\ninvited, feted, etc.\"\n\nCastanede had scarcely gone back to his room before the pupils split up\ninto knots. Julien did not form part of any of them; he was left out\nlike a black sheep. He saw in every knot a pupil tossing a coin in the\nair, and if he managed to guess right in this game of heads or tails,\nhis comrades would decide that he would soon have one of those fat\nlivings.\n\nAnecdotes ensued. A certain young priest, who had scarcely been\nordained a year, had given a tame rabbit to the maidservant of an old\ncure, and had succeeded in being asked to be his curate. In a few\nmonths afterwards, for the cure had quickly died, he had replaced him\nin that excellent living. Another had succeeded in getting himself\ndesignated as a successor to a very rich town living, by being present\nat all the meals of an old, paralytic cure, and by dexterously carving\nhis poultry. The seminarists, like all young people, exaggerated the\neffect of those little devices, which have an element of originality,\nand which strike the imagination.\n\n\"I must take part in these conversations,\" said Julien to himself. When\nthey did not talk about sausages and good livings, the conversation ran\non the worldly aspect of ecclesiastical doctrine, on the differences of\nbishops and prefects, of mayors and cures. Julien caught sight of the\nconception of a second god, but of a god who was much more formidable\nand much more powerful than the other one. That second god was the\nPope. They said among themselves, in a low voice, however, and when\nthey were quite sure that they would not be heard by Pirard, that\nthe reason for the Pope not taking the trouble of nominating all the\nprefects and mayors of France, was that he had entrusted that duty to\nthe King of France by entitling him a senior son of the Church.\n\nIt was about this time that Julien thought he could exploit, for the\nbenefit of his own reputation, his knowledge of De Maistre's book\non the Pope. In point of fact, he did astonish his comrades, but it\nwas only another misfortune. He displeased them by expounding their\nown opinions better than they could themselves. Chelan had acted as\nimprudently for Julien as he had for himself. He had given him the\nhabit of reasoning correctly, and of not being put off by empty words,\nbut he had neglected to tell him that this habit was a crime in the\nperson of no importance, since every piece of logical reasoning is\noffensive.\n\nJulien's command of language added consequently a new crime to his\nscore. By dint of thinking about him, his colleagues succeeded in\nexpressing the horror with which he would inspire them by a single\nexpression; they nicknamed him Martin Luther, \"particularly,\" they\nsaid, \"because of that infernal logic which makes him so proud.\"\n\nSeveral young seminarists had a fresher complexion than Julien, and\ncould pass as better-looking, but he had white hands, and was unable to\nconceal certain refined habits of personal cleanliness. This advantage\nproved a disadvantage in the gloomy house in which chance had cast\nhim. The dirty peasants among whom he lived asserted that he had very\nabandoned morals. We fear that we may weary our reader by a narration\nof the thousand and one misfortunes of our hero. The most vigorous of\nhis comrades, for example, wanted to start the custom of beating him.\nHe was obliged to arm himself with an iron compass, and to indicate,\nthough by signs, that he would make use of it. Signs cannot figure in a\nspy's report to such good advantage as words.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER XXXV\n\nSENSIBILITY AND A GREAT PIOUS LADY\n\n\n        An idea which has any life in it seems like a crudity,\n        so accustomed are they to colourless expression. Woe to\n        him who introduces new ideas into his conversation!\n                                          --_Faublas_.\n\n\nThis was the stage Julien had reached, when after several months of\nprobation the steward of the household handed him the third quarter of\nhis wages. M. de la Mole had entrusted him with the administration of\nhis estates in Brittany and Normandy. Julien made frequent journeys\nthere. He had chief control of the correspondence relating to the\nfamous lawsuit with the abbe de Frilair. M. Pirard had instructed him.\n\nOn the data of the short notes which the marquis would scribble on the\nmargin of all the various paper which were addressed to him, Julien\nwould compose answers which were nearly all signed.\n\nAt the Theology School his professors complained of his lack of\nindustry, but they did not fail to regard him as one of their most\ndistinguished pupils. This varied work, tackled as it was with all\nthe ardour of suffering ambition, soon robbed Julien of that fresh\ncomplexion which he had brought from the provinces. His pallor\nconstituted one of his merits in the eyes of his comrades, the young\nseminarist; he found them much less malicious, much less ready to bow\ndown to a silver crown than those of Besancon; they thought he was\nconsumptive. The marquis had given him a horse.\n\nJulien fearing that he might meet people during his rides on horseback,\nhad given out that this exercise had been prescribed by the doctors.\nThe abbe Pirard had taken him into several Jansenist Societies. Julien\nwas astonished; the idea of religion was indissolubly connected in his\nmind with the ideas of hypocrisy and covetousness. He admired those\naustere pious men who never gave a thought to their income. Several\nJansenists became friendly with him and would give him advice. A new\nworld opened before him. At the Jansenists he got to know a comte\nAltamira, who was nearly six feet high, was a Liberal, a believer, and\nhad been condemned to death in his own country. He was struck by the\nstrange contrast of devoutness and love of liberty.\n\nJulien's relations with the young comte had become cool. Norbert\nhad thought that he answered the jokes of his friends with too much\nsharpness. Julien had committed one or two breaches of social etiquette\nand vowed to himself that he would never speak to mademoiselle\nMathilde. They were always perfectly polite to him in the Hotel de\nla Mole but he felt himself quite lost. His provincial common sense\nexplained this result by the vulgar proverb _Tout beau tout nouveau_.\n\nHe gradually came to have a little more penetration than during his\nfirst days, or it may have been that the first glamour of Parisian\nurbanity had passed off. As soon as he left off working, he fell a prey\nto a mortal boredom. He was experiencing the withering effects of that\nadmirable politeness so typical of good society, which is so perfectly\nmodulated to every degree of the social hierarchy.\n\nNo doubt the provinces can be reproached with a commonness and lack of\npolish in their tone; but they show a certain amount of passion, when\nthey answer you. Julien's self-respect was never wounded at the Hotel\nde la Mole, but he often felt at the end of the day as though he would\nlike to cry. A cafe-waiter in the provinces will take an interest in\nyou if you happen to have some accident as you enter his cafe, but if\nthis accident has everything about it which is disagreeable to your\nvanity, he will repeat ten times in succession the very word which\ntortures you, as he tells you how sorry he is. At Paris they make a\npoint of laughing in secret, but you always remain a stranger.\n\nWe pass in silence over a number of little episodes which would have\nmade Julien ridiculous, if he had not been to some extent above\nridicule. A foolish sensibility resulted in his committing innumerable\nacts of bad taste. All his pleasures were precautions; he practiced\npistol shooting every day, he was one of the promising pupils of the\nmost famous maitres d'armes. As soon as he had an instant to himself,\ninstead of employing it in reading as he did before, he would rush\noff to the riding school and ask for the most vicious horses. When he\nwent out with the master of the riding school he was almost invariably\nthrown.\n\nThe marquis found him convenient by reason of his persistent industry,\nhis silence and his intelligence, and gradually took him into his\nconfidence with regard to all his affairs, which were in any way\ndifficult to unravel. The marquis was a sagacious business man on all\nthose occasions when his lofty ambition gave him some respite; having\nspecial information within his reach, he would speculate successfully\non the Exchange. He would buy mansions and forests; but he would easily\nlose his temper. He would give away hundreds of louis, and would go\nto law for a few hundred francs. Rich men with a lofty spirit have\nrecourse to business not so much for results as for distraction. The\nmarquis needed a chief of staff who would put all his money affairs\ninto clear and lucid order. Madame de la Mole, although of so even a\ncharacter, sometimes made fun of Julien. Great ladies have a horror\nof those unexpected incidents which are produced by a sensitive\ncharacter; they constitute the opposite pole of etiquette. On two or\nthree occasions the marquis took his part. \"If he is ridiculous in your\nsalon, he triumphs in his office.\" Julien on his side thought he had\ncaught the marquise's secret. She deigned to manifest an interest in\neverything the minute the Baron de la Joumate was announced. He was a\ncold individual with an expressionless physiognomy. He was tall, thin,\nugly, very well dressed, passed his life in his chateau, and generally\nspeaking said nothing about anything. Such was his outlook on life.\nMadame de la Mole would have been happy for the first time in her life\nif she could have made him her daughter's husband.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER XLI\n\nA YOUNG GIRL'S DOMINION\n\n\n        I admire her beauty but I fear her intellect.--_Merimee_.\n\n\nIf Julien had employed the time which he spent in exaggerating\nMatilde's beauty or in working himself up into a rage against that\nfamily haughtiness which she was forgetting for his sake in examining\nwhat was going on in the salon, he would have understood the secret of\nher dominion over all that surrounded her.\n\nWhen anyone displeased mademoiselle de La Mole she managed to punish\nthe offender by a jest which was so guarded, so well chosen, so polite\nand so neatly timed, that the more the victim thought about it, the\nsorer grew the wound. She gradually became positively terrible to\nwounded vanity. As she attached no value to many things which the\nrest of her family very seriously wanted, she always struck them as\nself-possessed. The salons of the aristocracy are nice enough to brag\nabout when you leave them, but that is all; mere politeness alone only\ncounts for something in its own right during the first few days. Julien\nexperienced this after the first fascination and the first astonishment\nhad passed off. \"Politeness,\" he said to himself \"is nothing but the\nabsence of that bad temper which would be occasioned by bad manners.\"\nMathilde was frequently bored; perhaps she would have been bored\nanywhere. She then found a real distraction and real pleasure in\nsharpening an epigram.\n\nIt was perhaps in order to have more amusing victims than her great\nrelations, the academician and the five or six other men of inferior\nclass who paid her court, that she had given encouragement to the\nmarquis de Croisenois, the comte Caylus and two or three other young\nmen of the highest rank. They simply represented new subjects for\nepigrams.\n\nWe will admit with reluctance, for we are fond of Mathilde, that she\nhad received many letters from several of them and had sometimes\nanswered them. We hasten to add that this person constitutes an\nexception to the manners of the century. Lack of prudence is not\ngenerally the fault with which the pupils of the noble convent of the\nSacred Heart can be reproached.\n\nOne day the marquis de Croisenois returned to Mathilde a fairly\ncompromising letter which she had written the previous night. He\nthought that he was thereby advancing his cause a great deal by taking\nthis highly prudent step. But the very imprudence of her correspondence\nwas the very element in it Mathilde liked. Her pleasure was to stake\nher fate. She did not speak to him again for six weeks.\n\nShe amused herself with the letters of these young men, but in her view\nthey were all like each other. It was invariably a case of the most\nprofound, the most melancholy, passion.\n\n\"They all represent the same perfect man, ready to leave for\nPalestine,\" she exclaimed to her cousin. \"Can you conceive of anything\nmore insipid? So these are the letters I am going to receive all my\nlife! There can only be a change every twenty years according to the\nkind of vogue which happens to be fashionable. They must have had more\ncolour in them in the days of the Empire. In those days all these young\nsociety men had seen or accomplished feats which really had an element\nof greatness. The Duke of N---- my uncle was at Wagram.\"\n\n\"What brains do you need to deal a sabre blow? And when they have had\nthe luck to do that they talk of it so often!\" said mademoiselle de\nSainte-Heredite, Mathilde's cousin.\n\n\"Well, those tales give me pleasure. Being in a real battle, a battle\nof Napoleon, where six thousand soldiers were killed, why, that's proof\nof courage. Exposing one's self to danger elevates the soul and saves\nit from the boredom in which my poor admirers seem to be sunk; and that\nboredom is contagious. Which of them ever thought of doing anything\nextraordinary? They are trying to win my hand, a pretty business to\nbe sure! I am rich and my father will procure advancement for his\nson-in-law. Well! I hope he'll manage to find someone who is a little\nbit amusing.\"\n\nMathilde's keen, sharp and picturesque view of life spoilt her language\nas one sees. An expression of hers would often constitute a blemish\nin the eyes of her polished friends. If she had been less fashionable\nthey would almost have owned that her manner of speaking was, from the\nstandpoint of feminine delicacy, to some extent unduly coloured.\n\nShe, on her side, was very unjust towards the handsome cavaliers who\nfill the Bois de Boulogne. She envisaged the future not with terror,\nthat would have been a vivid emotion, but with a disgust which was very\nrare at her age.\n\nWhat could she desire? Fortune, good birth, wit, beauty, according to\nwhat the world said, and according to what she believed, all these\nthings had been lavished upon her by the hands of chance.\n\nSo this was the state of mind of the most envied heiress of the\nfaubourg Saint-Germain when she began to find pleasure in walking with\nJulien. She was astonished at his pride; she admired the ability of the\nlittle bourgeois. \"He will manage to get made a bishop like the abbe\nMouray,\" she said to herself.\n\nSoon the sincere and unaffected opposition with which our hero received\nseveral of her ideas filled her mind; she continued to think about\nit, she told her friend the slightest details of the conversation,\nbut thought that she would never succeed in fully rendering all their\nmeaning.\n\nAn idea suddenly flashed across her; \"I have the happiness of loving,\"\nshe said to herself one day with an incredible ecstasy of joy. \"I am in\nlove, I am in love, it is clear! Where can a young, witty and beautiful\ngirl of my own age find sensations if not in love? It is no good. I\nshall never feel any love for Croisenois, Caylus, and _tutti quanti_.\nThey are unimpeachable, perhaps too unimpeachable; any way they bore\nme.\"\n\nShe rehearsed in her mind all the descriptions of passion which she\nhad read in _Manon Lescaut_, the _Nouvelle Heloise_, the _Letters of\na Portuguese Nun_, etc., etc. It was only a question of course of the\ngrand passion; light love was unworthy of a girl of her age and birth.\nShe vouchsafed the name of love to that heroic sentiment which was met\nwith in France in the time of Henri III. and Bassompierre. That love\ndid not basely yield to obstacles, but, far from it, inspired great\ndeeds. \"How unfortunate for me that there is not a real court like that\nof Catherine de' Medici or of Louis XIII. I feel equal to the boldest\nand greatest actions. What would I not make of a king who was a man of\nspirit like Louis XIII. if he were sighing at my feet! I would take\nhim to the Vendee, as the Baron de Tolly is so fond of saying, and\nfrom that base he would re-conquer his kingdom; then no more about a\ncharter--and Julien would help me. What does he lack? name and fortune.\nHe will make a name, he will win a fortune.\n\n\"Croisenois lacks nothing, and he will never be anything else all his\nlife but a duke who is half 'ultra' and half Liberal, an undecided\nbeing who never goes to extremes and consequently always plays second\nfiddle.\n\n\"What great action is not an extreme at the moment when it is\nundertaken? It is only after accomplishment that it seems possible to\ncommonplace individuals. Yes, it is love with all its miracles which\nis going to reign over my heart; I feel as much from the fire which is\nthrilling me. Heaven owed me this boon. It will not then have lavished\nin vain all its bounties on one single person. My happiness will be\nworthy of me. Each day will no longer be the cold replica of the day\nbefore. There is grandeur and audacity in the very fact of daring to\nlove a man, placed so far beneath me by his social position. Let us see\nwhat happens, will he continue to deserve me? I will abandon him at the\nfirst sign of weakness which I detect. A girl of my birth and of that\nmediaeval temperament which they are good enough to ascribe to me (she\nwas quoting from her father) must not behave like a fool.\n\n\"But should I not be behaving like a fool if I were to love the marquis\nde Croisenois? I should simply have a new edition over again of that\nhappiness enjoyed by my girl cousins which I so utterly despise. I\nalready know everything the poor marquis would say to me and every\nanswer I should make. What's the good of a love which makes one\nyawn? One might as well be in a nunnery. I shall have a celebration\nof the signing of a contract just like my younger cousin when the\ngrandparents all break down, provided of course that they are not\nannoyed by some condition introduced into the contract at the eleventh\nhour by the notary on the other side.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER XLVII\n\nAN OLD SWORD\n\n\nI now mean to be serious; it is time\nSince laughter now-a-days is deemed too serious.\nA jest at vice by virtues called a crime.\n                             _Don Juan, c. xiii._\n\n\nShe did not appear at dinner. She came for a minute into the salon in\nthe evening, but did not look at Julien. He considered this behaviour\nstrange, \"but,\" he thought, \"I do not know their usages. She will give\nme some good reason for all this.\" None the less he was a prey to\nthe most extreme curiosity; he studied the expression of Mathilde's\nfeatures; he was bound to own to himself that she looked cold and\nmalicious. It was evidently not the same woman who on the proceeding\nnight had had, or pretended to have, transports of happiness which were\ntoo extravagant to be genuine.\n\nThe day after, and the subsequent day she showed the same coldness;\nshe did not look at him, she did not notice his existence. Julien was\ndevoured by the keenest anxiety and was a thousand leagues removed from\nthat feeling of triumph which had been his only emotion on the first\nday. \"Can it be by chance,\" he said to himself, \"a return to virtue?\"\nBut this was a very bourgeois word to apply to the haughty Mathilde.\n\n\"Placed in an ordinary position in life she would disbelieve in\nreligion,\" thought Julien, \"she only likes it in so far as it is very\nuseful to the interests of her class.\"\n\nBut perhaps she may as a mere matter of delicacy be keenly reproaching\nherself for the mistake which she has committed. Julien believed that\nhe was her first lover.\n\n\"But,\" he said to himself at other moments, \"I must admit that there is\nno trace of naivety, simplicity, or tenderness in her own demeanour;\nI have never seen her more haughty, can she despise me? It would be\nworthy of her to reproach herself simply because of my low birth, for\nwhat she has done for me.\"\n\nWhile Julien, full of those preconceived ideas which he had found in\nbooks and in his memories of Verrieres, was chasing the phantom of a\ntender mistress, who from the minute when she has made her lover happy\nno longer thinks of her own existence, Mathilde's vanity was infuriated\nagainst him.\n\nAs for the last two months she had no longer been bored, she was not\nfrightened of boredom; consequently, without being able to have the\nslightest suspicion of it, Julien had lost his greatest advantage.\n\n\"I have given myself a master,\" said mademoiselle de la Mole to\nherself, a prey to the blackest sorrow. \"Luckily he is honour itself,\nbut if I offend his vanity, he will revenge himself by making known\nthe nature of our relations.\" Mathilde had never had a lover, and\nthough passing through a stage of life which affords some tender\nillusions even to the coldest souls, she fell a prey to the most bitter\nreflections.\n\n\"He has an immense dominion over me since his reign is one of terror,\nand he is capable, if I provoke him, of punishing me with an awful\npenalty.\" This idea alone was enough to induce mademoiselle de la\nMole to insult him. Courage was the primary quality in her character.\nThe only thing which could give her any thrill and cure her from a\nfundamental and chronically recurring ennui was the idea that she was\nstaking her entire existence on a single throw.\n\nAs mademoiselle de la Mole obstinately refused to look at him, Julien\non the third day in spite of her evident objection, followed her into\nthe billiard-room after dinner.\n\n\"Well, sir, you think you have acquired some very strong rights over\nme?\" she said to him with scarcely controlled anger, \"since you venture\nto speak to me, in spite of my very clearly manifested wish? Do you\nknow that no one in the world has had such effrontery?\"\n\nThe dialogue of these two lovers was incomparably humourous. Without\nsuspecting it, they were animated by mutual sentiments of the most\nvivid hate. As neither the one nor the other had a meekly patient\ncharacter, while they were both disciples of good form, they soon came\nto informing each other quite clearly that they would break for ever.\n\n\"I swear eternal secrecy to you,\" said Julien. \"I should like to add\nthat I would never address a single word to you, were it not that a\nmarked change might perhaps jeopardise your reputation.\" He saluted\nrespectfully and left.\n\nHe accomplished easily enough what he believed to be a duty; he was\nvery far from thinking himself much in love with mademoiselle de la\nMole. He had certainly not loved her three days before, when he had\nbeen hidden in the big mahogany cupboard. But the moment that he found\nhimself estranged from her for ever his mood underwent a complete and\nrapid change.\n\nHis memory tortured him by going over the least details in that night,\nwhich had as a matter of fact left him so cold. In the very night that\nfollowed this announcement of a final rupture, Julien almost went mad\nat being obliged to own to himself that he loved mademoiselle de la\nMole.\n\nThis discovery was followed by awful struggles: all his emotions were\noverwhelmed.\n\nTwo days later, instead of being haughty towards M. de Croisenois, he\ncould have almost burst out into tears and embraced him.\n\nHis habituation to unhappiness gave him a gleam of commonsense, he\ndecided to leave for Languedoc, packed his trunk and went to the post.\n\nHe felt he would faint, when on arriving at the office of the mails, he\nwas told that by a singular chance there was a place in the Toulouse\nmail. He booked it and returned to the Hotel de la Mole to announce his\ndeparture to the marquis.\n\nM. de la Mole had gone out. More dead than alive Julien went into\nthe library to wait for him. What was his emotion when he found\nmademoiselle de la Mole there.\n\nAs she saw him come, she assumed a malicious expression which it was\nimpossible to mistake.\n\nIn his unhappiness and surprise Julien lost his head and was weak\nenough to say to her in a tone of the most heartfelt tenderness. \"So\nyou love me no more.\"\n\n\"I am horrified at having given myself to the first man who came\nalong,\" said Mathilde crying with rage against herself.\n\n\"The first man who came along,\" cried Julien, and he made for an old\nmediaeval sword which was kept in the library as a curiosity.\n\nHis grief--which he thought was at its maximum at the moment when he\nhad spoken to mademoiselle de la Mole--had been rendered a hundred\ntimes more intense by the tears of shame which he saw her shedding.\n\nHe would have been the happiest of men if he had been able to kill her.\n\nWhen he was on the point of drawing the sword with some difficulty from\nits ancient scabbard, Mathilde, rendered happy by so novel a sensation,\nadvanced proudly towards him, her tears were dry.\n\nThe thought of his benefactor--the marquis de la Mole--presented\nitself vividly to Julien. \"Shall I kill his daughter?\" he said to\nhimself, \"how horrible.\" He made a movement to throw down the sword.\n\"She will certainly,\" he thought, \"burst out laughing at the sight of\nsuch a melodramatic pose:\" that idea was responsible for his regaining\nall his self-possession. He looked curiously at the blade of the old\nsword as though he had been looking for some spot of rust, then put it\nback in the scabbard and replaced it with the utmost tranquillity on\nthe gilt bronze nail from which it hung.\n\nThe whole manoeuvre, which towards the end was very slow, lasted quite\na minute; mademoiselle de la Mole looked at him in astonishment. \"So\nI have been on the verge of being killed by my lover,\" she said to\nherself.\n\nThis idea transported her into the palmiest days of the age of Charles\nIX. and of Henri III.\n\nShe stood motionless before Julien, who had just replaced the sword;\nshe looked at him with eyes whose hatred had disappeared. It must be\nowned that she was very fascinating at this moment, certainly no woman\nlooked less like a Parisian doll (this expression symbolised Julien's\ngreat objection to the women of this city).\n\n\"I shall relapse into some weakness for him,\" thought Mathilde; \"it\nis quite likely that he will think himself my lord and master after a\nrelapse like that at the very moment that I have been talking to him so\nfirmly.\" She ran away.\n\n\"By heaven, she is pretty said Julien as he watched her run and that's\nthe creature who threw herself into my arms with so much passion\nscarcely a week ago ... and to think that those moments will never\ncome back? And that it's my fault, to think of my being lacking\nin appreciation at the very moment when I was doing something so\nextraordinarily interesting! I must own that I was born with a very\ndull and unfortunate character.\"\n\nThe marquis appeared; Julien hastened to announce his departure.\n\n\"Where to?\" said M. de la Mole.\n\n\"For Languedoc.\"\n\n\"No, if you please, you are reserved for higher destinies. If you leave\nit will be for the North.... In military phraseology I actually confine\nyou in the hotel. You will compel me to be never more than two or three\nhours away. I may have need of you at any moment.\"\n\nJulien bowed and retired without a word, leaving the marquis in a state\nof great astonishment. He was incapable of speaking. He shut himself\nup in his room. He was there free to exaggerate to himself all the\nawfulness of his fate.\n\n\"So,\" he thought, \"I cannot even get away. God knows how many days\nthe marquis will keep me in Paris. Great God, what will become of me,\nand not a friend whom I can consult? The abbe Pirard will never let\nme finish my first sentence, while the comte Altamira will propose\nenlisting me in some conspiracy. And yet I am mad; I feel it, I am mad.\nWho will be able to guide me, what will become of me?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LI\n\nTHE SECRET NOTE\n\n\n        I have seen everything I relate, and if I may have made\n        a mistake when I saw it, I am certainly not deceiving\n        you in telling you of it.\n                                      _Letter to the author_.\n\n\nThe marquis summoned him; M. de la Mole looked rejuvenated, his eye was\nbrilliant.\n\n\"Let us discuss your memory a little,\" he said to Julien, \"it is said\nto be prodigious. Could you learn four pages by heart and go and say\nthem at London, but without altering a single word?\"\n\nThe marquis was irritably fingering, the day's _Quotidienne_, and was\ntrying in vain to hide an extreme seriousness which Julien had never\nnoticed in him before, even when discussing the Frilair lawsuit.\n\nJulien had already learned sufficient manners to appreciate that he\nought to appear completely taken in by the lightness of tone which was\nbeing manifested.\n\n\"This number of the _Quotidienne_ is not very amusing possibly, but if\nM. the marquis will allow me, I shall do myself the honour to-morrow\nmorning of reciting it to him from beginning to end.\"\n\n\"What, even the advertisements?\"\n\n\"Quite accurately and without leaving out a word.\"\n\n\"You give me your word?\" replied the marquis with sudden gravity.\n\n\"Yes, monsieur; the only thing which could upset my memory is the fear\nof breaking my promise.\"\n\n\"The fact is, I forgot to put this question to you yesterday: I am\nnot going to ask for your oath never to repeat what you are going to\nhear. I know you too well to insult you like that. I have answered for\nyou. I am going to take you into a salon where a dozen persons will he\nassembled. You will make a note of what each one says.\n\n\"Do not be uneasy. It will not be a confused conversation by any means.\nEach one will speak in his turn, though not necessarily in an orderly\nmanner,\" added the marquis falling back into that light, subtle manner\nwhich was so natural to him. \"While we are talking, you will write out\ntwenty pages and will come back here with me, and we will get those\ntwenty pages down to four, and those are the four pages you will recite\nto me to-morrow morning instead of the four pages of the _Quotidienne_.\nYou will leave immediately afterwards. You must post about like a\nyoung man travelling on pleasure. Your aim will be to avoid attracting\nattention. You will arrive at the house of a great personage. You will\nthere need more skill. Your business will then be to take in all his\nentourage, for among his secretaries and his servants are some people\nwho have sold themselves to our enemies, and who spy on our travelling\nagents in order to intercept them.\n\n\"You will have an insignificant letter of introduction. At the moment\nhis Excellency looks at you, you will take out this watch of mine,\nwhich I will lend you for the journey. Wear it now, it will be so much\ndone; at any rate give me yours.\n\n\"The duke himself will be good enough to write at your dictation the\nfour pages you have learnt by heart.\n\n\"Having done this, but not earlier, mind you, you can, if his\nExcellency questions you, tell him about the meeting at which you are\nnow going to be present.\n\n\"You will be prevented from boring yourself on the journey between\nParis and the minister's residence by the thought that there are people\nwho would like nothing better than to fire a shot at M. the abbe Sorel.\nIn that case that gentleman's mission will be finished, and I see a\ngreat delay, for how are we to know of your death, my dear friend? Even\nyour zeal cannot go to the length of informing us of it.\n\n\"Run straight away and buy a complete suit,\" went on the marquis\nseriously. \"Dress in the fashion of two years ago. To-night you must\nlook somewhat badly groomed. When you travel, on the other hand, you\nwill be as usual. Does this surprise you? Does your suspiciousness\nguess the secret? Yes, my friend, one of the venerable personages you\nare going to hear deliver his opinion, is perfectly capable of giving\ninformation as the result of which you stand a very good chance of\nbeing given at least opium some fine evening in some good inn where you\nwill have asked for supper.\"\n\n\"It is better,\" said Julien, \"to do an extra thirty leagues and not\ntake the direct road. It is a case of Rome, I suppose....\" The marquis\nassumed an expression of extreme haughtiness and dissatisfaction which\nJulien had never seen him wear since Bray-le-Haut.\n\n\"That is what you will know, monsieur, when I think it proper to tell\nyou. I do not like questions.\"\n\n\"That was not one,\" answered Julien eagerly. \"I swear, monsieur, I was\nthinking quite aloud. My mind was trying to find out the safest route.\"\n\n\"Yes, it seems your mind was a very long way off. Remember that an\nemissary, and particularly one of your age should not appear to be a\nman who forces confidences.\"\n\nJulien was very mortified; he was in the wrong. His vanity tried to\nfind an excuse and did not find one.\n\n\"You understand,\" added monsieur de la Mole, \"that one always falls\nback on one's heart when one has committed some mistake.\"\n\nAn hour afterwards Julien was in the marquis's ante-chamber. He looked\nquite like a servant with his old clothes, a tie of a dubious white,\nand a certain touch of the usher in his whole appearance. The marquis\nburst out laughing as he saw him, and it was only then that Julien's\njustification was complete.\n\n\"If this young man betrays me,\" said M. de la Mole to himself, \"whom is\none to trust? And yet, when one acts, one must trust someone. My son\nand his brilliant friends of the same calibre have as much courage and\nloyalty as a hundred thousand men. If it were necessary to fight, they\nwould die on the steps of the throne. They know everything--except\nwhat one needs in emergency. Devil take me if I can find a single one\namong them who can learn four pages by heart and do a hundred leagues\nwithout being tracked down. Norbert would know how to sell his life as\ndearly as his grandfathers did. But any conscript could do as much.\"\n\nThe marquis fell into a profound reverie. \"As for selling one's life\ntoo,\" he said with a sigh, \"perhaps this Sorel would manage it quite as\nwell as he could.\n\n\"Let us get into the carriage,\" said the marquis as though to chase\naway an unwanted idea.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" said Julien, \"while they were getting this suit ready for\nme, I learnt the first page of to-days _Quotidienne_ by heart.\"\n\nThe marquis took the paper. Julien recited it without making a single\nmistake. \"Good,\" said the marquis, who this night felt very diplomatic.\n\"During the time he takes over this our young man will not notice the\nstreets through which we are passing.\"\n\nThey arrived in a big salon that looked melancholy enough and was\npartly upholstered in green velvet. In the middle of the room\na scowling lackey had just placed a big dining-table which he\nsubsequently changed into a writing-table by means of an immense green\ninkstained tablecloth which had been plundered from some minister.\n\nThe master of the house was an enormous man whose name was not\npronounced. Julien thought he had the appearance and eloquence of a\nman who ruminated. At a sign from the marquis, Julien had remained at\nthe lower end of the table. In order to keep himself in countenance,\nhe began to cut quills. He counted out of the corner of his eye seven\nvisitors, but Julien could only see their backs. Two seemed to him\nto be speaking to M. de la Mole on a footing of equality, the others\nseemed more or less respectful.\n\nA new person entered without being announced. \"This is strange,\"\nthought Julien. \"People are not announced in this salon. Is this\nprecaution taken in my honour?\" Everybody got up to welcome the new\narrival. He wore the same extremely distinguished decoration as three\nof the other persons who were in the salon. They talked fairly low. In\nendeavouring to form an opinion of the new comer, Julien was reduced to\nseeing what he could learn from his features and his appearance. He was\nshort and thick-set. He had a high colour and a brilliant eye and an\nexpression that looked like a malignant boar, and nothing else.\n\nJulien's attention was partly distracted by the almost immediate\narrival of a very different kind of person. It was a tall very thin\nman who wore three or four waistcoats. His eye was caressing, his\ndemeanour polite.\n\n\"He looks exactly like the old bishop of Besancon,\" thought Julien.\nThis man evidently belonged to the church, was apparently not more than\nfifty to fifty-five years of age, and no one could have looked more\npaternal than he did.\n\nThe young bishop of Agde appeared. He looked very astonished when,\nin making a scrutiny of those present, his gaze fell upon Julien. He\nhad not spoken to him since the ceremony of Bray-le-Haut. His look of\nsurprise embarrassed and irritated Julien. \"What!\" he said to himself,\n\"will knowing a man always turn out unfortunate for me? I don't feel\nthe least bit intimidated by all those great lords whom I have never\nseen, but the look of that young bishop freezes me. I must admit that I\nam a very strange and very unhappy person.\"\n\nAn extremely swarthy little man entered noisily soon afterwards and\nstarted talking as soon as he reached the door. He had a yellow\ncomplexion and looked a little mad. As soon as this ruthless talker\narrived, the others formed themselves into knots with the apparent\nobject of avoiding the bother of listening to him.\n\nAs they went away from the mantelpiece they came near the lower end\nof the table where Julien was placed. His countenance became more and\nmore embarrassed, for whatever efforts he made, he could not avoid\nhearing, and in spite of all his lack of experience he appreciated\nall the moment of the things which they were discussing with such\ncomplete frankness, and the importance which the high personages whom\nhe apparently had under his observation must attach to their being kept\nsecret.\n\nJulien had already cut twenty quills as slowly as possible; this\ndistraction would shortly be no longer available. He looked in vain at\nM. de la Mole's eyes for an order; the marquis had forgotten him.\n\n\"What I am doing is ridiculous,\" he said to himself as he cut his\nquills, \"but persons with so mediocre an appearance and who are\nhandling such great interests either for themselves or for others must\nbe extremely liable to take offence. My unfortunate look has a certain\nquestioning and scarcely respectful expression, which will doubtless\nirritate them. But if I palpably lower my eyes I shall look as if I\nwere picking up every word they said.\"\n\nHis embarrassment was extreme, he was listening to strange things.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LVII\n\nTHE FINEST PLACES IN THE CHURCH\n\n\n    Services! talents! merits! bah! belong to a coterie.\n                                               _Telemaque_.\n\n\nThe idea of a bishopric had thus become associated with the idea of\nJulien in the mind of a woman, who would sooner or later have at her\ndisposal the finest places in the Church of France. This idea had not\nstruck Julien at all; at the present time his thoughts were strictly\nlimited to his actual unhappiness. Everything tended to intensify\nit. The sight of his room, for instance, had become unbearable. When\nhe came back in the evening with his candle, each piece of furniture\nand each little ornament seemed to become articulate, and to announce\nharshly some new phase of his unhappiness.\n\n\"I have a hard task before me today,\" he said to himself as he came in\nwith a vivacity which he had not experienced for a long time; \"let us\nhope that the second letter will be as boring as the first.\"\n\nIt was more so. What he was copying seemed so absurd that he finished\nup by transcribing it line for line without thinking of the sense.\n\n\"It is even more bombastic,\" he said to himself, \"than those official\ndocuments of the treaty of Munster which my professor of diplomacy made\nme copy out at London.\"\n\nIt was only then that he remembered madame de Fervaque's letters which\nhe had forgotten to give back to the grave Spaniard Don Diego Bustos.\nHe found them. They were really almost as nonsensical as those of\nthe young Russian nobleman. Their vagueness was unlimited. It meant\neverything and nothing. \"It's the AEolian harp of style,\" thought\nJulien. \"The only real thing I see in the middle of all these lofty\nthoughts about annihilation, death, infinity, etc., is an abominable\nfear of ridicule.\"\n\nThe monologue which we have just condensed was repeated for fifteen\ndays on end. Falling off to sleep as he copied out a sort of commentary\non the Apocalypse, going with a melancholy expression to deliver it\nthe following day, taking his horse back to the stable in the hope\nof catching sight of Mathilde's dress, working, going in the evening\nto the opera on those evenings when madame de Fervaques did not come\nto the Hotel de la Mole, such were the monotonous events in Julien's\nlife. His life had more interest, when madame la Fervaques visited the\nmarquise; he could then catch a glimpse of Mathilde's eyes underneath\na feather of the marechale's hat, and he would wax eloquent. His\npicturesque and sentimental phrases began to assume a style, which was\nboth more striking and more elegant.\n\nHe quite realised that what he said was absurd in Mathilde's eyes, but\nhe wished to impress her by the elegance of his diction. \"The falser my\nspeeches are the more I ought to please,\" thought Julien, and he then\nhad the abominable audacity to exaggerate certain elements in his own\ncharacter. He soon appreciated that to avoid appearing vulgar in the\neyes of the marechale it was necessary to eschew simple and rational\nideas. He would continue on these lines, or would cut short his grand\neloquence according as he saw appreciation or indifference in the eyes\nof the two great ladies whom he had set out to please.\n\nTaking it all round, his life was less awful than when his days were\npassed in inaction.\n\n\"But,\" he said to himself one evening, \"here I am copying out the\nfifteenth of these abominable dissertations; the first fourteen have\nbeen duly delivered to the marechale's porter. I shall have the honour\nof filling all the drawers in her escritoire. And yet she treats me\nas though I never wrote. What can be the end of all this? Will my\nconstancy bore her as much as it does me? I must admit that that\nRussian friend of Korasoff's who was in love with the pretty Quakeress\nof Richmond, was a terrible man in his time; no one could be more\noverwhelming.\"\n\nLike all mediocre individuals, who chance to come into contact with the\nmanoeuvres of a great general, Julien understood nothing of the attack\nexecuted by the young Russian on the heart of the young English girl.\nThe only purpose of the first forty letters was to secure forgiveness\nfor the boldness of writing at all. The sweet person, who perhaps lived\na life of inordinate boredom, had to be induced to contract the habit\nof receiving letters, which were perhaps a little less insipid than her\neveryday life.\n\nOne morning a letter was delivered to Julien. He recognised the arms\nof madame la Fervaques, and broke the seal with an eagerness which\nwould have seemed impossible to him some days before. It was only an\ninvitation to dinner.\n\nHe rushed to prince Korasoffs instructions. Unfortunately the young\nRussian had taken it into his head to be as flippant as Dorat, just\nwhen he should have been simple and intelligible! Julien was not able\nto form any idea of the moral position which he ought to take up at the\nmarechale's dinner.\n\nThe salon was extremely magnificent and decorated like the gallery de\nDiane in the Tuileries with panelled oil-paintings.\n\nThere were some light spots on these pictures. Julien learnt later that\nthe mistress of the house had thought the subject somewhat lacking in\ndecency and that she had had the pictures corrected. \"What a moral\ncentury!\" he thought.\n\nHe noticed in this salon three of the persons who had been present\nat the drawing up of the secret note. One of them, my lord bishop of\n---- the marechale's uncle had the disposition of the ecclesiastical\npatronage, and could, it was said, refuse his niece nothing. \"What\nimmense progress I have made,\" said Julien to himself with a melancholy\nsmile, \"and how indifferent I am to it. Here I am dining with the\nfamous bishop of ----.\"\n\nThe dinner was mediocre and the conversation wearisome.\n\n\"It's like the small talk in a bad book,\" thought Julien. \"All the\ngreatest subjects of human thought are proudly tackled. After listening\nfor three minutes one asks oneself which is greater--the speaker's\nbombast, or his abominable ignorance?\"\n\nThe reader has doubtless forgotten the little man of letters named\nTanbeau, who was the nephew of the Academician, and intended to be\nprofessor, who seemed entrusted with the task of poisoning the salon of\nthe Hotel de la Mole with his base calumnies.\n\nIt was this little man who gave Julien the first inkling that though,\nmadame de Fervaques did not answer, she might quite well take an\nindulgent view of the sentiment which dictated them. M. Tanbeau's\nsinister soul was lacerated by the thought of Julien's success; \"but\nsince, on the other hand, a man of merit cannot be in two places at the\nsame time any more than a fool,\" said the future professor to himself,\n\"if Sorel becomes the lover of the sublime marechale, she will obtain\nsome lucrative position for him in the church, and I shall be rid of\nhim in the Hotel de la Mole.\"\n\nM. the abbe Pirard addressed long sermons to Julien concerning his\nsuccess at the hotel de Fervaques. There was a sectarian jealousy\nbetween the austere Jansenist and the salon of the virtuous marechale\nwhich was Jesuitical, reactionary, and monarchical.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LVIII\n\nMANON LESCAUT\n\n\n        Accordingly once he was thoroughly convinced of the\n        asinine stupidity of the prior, he would usually succeed\n        well enough by calling white black, and black white.\n        _Lichtenberg_.\n\n\nThe Russian instructions peremptorily forbade the writer from ever\ncontradicting in conversation the recipient of the letters. No pretext\ncould excuse any deviation from the role of that most ecstatic\nadmiration. The letters were always based on that hypothesis.\n\nOne evening at the opera, when in madame de Fervaques' box, Julien\nspoke of the ballet of _Manon Lescaut_ in the most enthusiastic terms.\nHis only reason for talking in that strain was the fact that he thought\nit insignificant.\n\nThe marechale said that the ballet was very inferior to the abbe\nPrevost's novel.\n\n\"The idea,\" thought Julien, both surprised and amused, \"of so highly\nvirtuous a person praising a novel! Madame de Fervaques used to profess\ntwo or three times a week the most absolute contempt for those writers,\nwho, by means of their insipid works, try to corrupt a youth which is,\nalas! only too inclined to the errors of the senses.\"\n\n\"_Manon Lescaut_\" continued the marechale, \"is said to be one of the\nbest of this immoral and dangerous type of book. The weaknesses and the\ndeserved anguish of a criminal heart are, they say, portrayed with a\ntruth which is not lacking in depth; a fact which does not prevent your\nBonaparte from stating at St. Helena that it is simply a novel written\nfor lackeys.\"\n\nThe word Bonaparte restored to Julien all the activity of his mind.\n\"They have tried to ruin me with the marechale; they have told her of\nmy enthusiasm for Napoleon. This fact has sufficiently piqued her to\nmake her yield to the temptation to make me feel it.\" This discovery\namused him all the evening, and rendered him amusing. As he took leave\nof the marechale in the vestibule of the opera, she said to him,\n\"Remember, monsieur, one must not like Bonaparte if you like me; at\nthe best he can only be accepted as a necessity imposed by Providence.\nBesides, the man did not have a sufficiently supple soul to appreciate\nmasterpieces of art.\"\n\n\"When you like me,\" Julien kept on repeating to himself, \"that means\nnothing or means everything. Here we have mysteries of language which\nare beyond us poor provincials.\" And he thought a great deal about\nmadame de Renal, as he copied out an immense letter destined for the\nmarechale.\n\n\"How is it,\" she said to him the following day, with an assumed\nindifference which he thought was clumsily assumed, \"that you talk to\nme about London and Richmond in a letter which you wrote last night, I\nthink, when you came back from the opera?\"\n\nJulien was very embarrassed. He had copied line by line without\nthinking about what he was writing, and had apparently forgotten to\nsubstitute Paris and Saint Cloud for the words London and Richmond\nwhich occurred in the original. He commenced two or three sentences,\nbut found it impossible to finish them. He felt on the point of\nsuccumbing to a fit of idiotic laughter. Finally by picking his words\nhe succeeded in formulating this inspiration: \"Exalted as I was by the\ndiscussion of the most sublime and greatest interests of the human\nsoul, my own soul may have been somewhat absent in my letter to you.\"\n\n\"I am making an impression,\" he said to himself, \"so I can spare myself\nthe boredom of the rest of the evening.\" He left the Hotel de Fervaques\nat a run. In the evening he had another look at the original of the\nletter which he had copied out on the previous night, and soon came to\nthe fatal place where the young Russian made mention of London and of\nRichmond. Julien was very astonished to find this letter almost tender.\n\nIt had been the contrast between the apparent lightness of his\nconversation, and the sublime and almost apocalyptic profundity of\nhis letters which had marked him out for favour. The marechale was\nparticularly pleased by the longness of the sentences; this was very\nfar from being that sprightly style which that immoral man Voltaire\nhad brought into fashion. Although our hero made every possible human\neffort to eliminate from his conversation any symptom of good sense, it\nstill preserved a certain anti-monarchical and blasphemous tinge which\ndid not escape madame de Fervaques. Surrounded as she was by persons\nwho, though eminently moral, had very often not a single idea during a\nwhole evening, this lady was profoundly struck by anything resembling\na novelty, but at the same time she thought she owed it to herself to\nbe offended by it. She called this defect: Keeping the imprint of the\nlightness of the age.\n\nBut such salons are only worth observing when one has a favour to\nprocure. The reader doubtless shares all the ennui of the colourless\nlife which Julien was leading. This period represents the steppes of\nour journey.\n\nMademoiselle de la Mole needed to exercise her self-control to avoid\nthinking of Julien during the whole period filled by the de Fervaques\nepisode. Her soul was a prey to violent battles; sometimes she piqued\nherself on despising that melancholy young man, but his conversation\ncaptivated her in spite of herself. She was particularly astonished by\nhis absolute falseness. He did not say a single word to the marechale\nwhich was not a lie, or at any rate, an abominable travesty of his own\nway of thinking, which Mathilde knew so perfectly in every phase. This\nMachiavellianism impressed her. \"What subtlety,\" she said to herself.\n\"What a difference between the bombastic coxcombs, or the common\nrascals like Tanbeau who talk in the same strain.\"\n\nNevertheless Julien went through awful days. It was only to accomplish\nthe most painful of duties that he put in a daily appearance in the\nmarechale's salon.\n\nThe strain of playing a part ended by depriving his mind of all its\nstrength. As he crossed each night the immense courtyard of the Hotel\nde Fervaques, it was only through sheer force in character and logic\nthat he succeeded in keeping a little above the level of despair.\n\n\"I overcame despair at the seminary,\" he said, \"yet what an awful\nprospect I had then. I was then either going to make my fortune or\ncome to grief just as I am now. I found myself obliged to pass all my\nlife in intimate association with the most contemptible and disgusting\nthings in the whole world. The following spring, just eleven short\nmonths later, I was perhaps the happiest of all young people of my own\nage.\"\n\nBut very often all this fine logic proved unavailing against the awful\nreality. He saw Mathilde every day at breakfast and at dinner. He knew\nfrom the numerous letters which de la Mole dictated to him that she was\non the eve of marrying de Croisenois. This charming man already called\ntwice a day at the Hotel de la Mole; the jealous eye of a jilted lover\nwas alive to every one of his movements. When he thought he had noticed\nthat mademoiselle de la Mole was beginning to encourage her intended,\nJulien could not help looking tenderly at his pistols as he went up to\nhis room.\n\n\"Ah,\" he said to himself, \"would it not be much wiser to take the marks\nout of my linen and to go into some solitary forest twenty leagues from\nParis to put an end to this atrocious life? I should be unknown in the\ndistrict, my death would remain a secret for a fortnight, and who would\nbother about me after a fortnight?\"\n\nThis reasoning was very logical. But on the following day a glimpse of\nMathilde's arm between the sleeve of her dress and her glove sufficed\nto plunge our young philosopher into memories which, though agonising,\nnone the less gave him a hold on life. \"Well,\" he said to himself, \"I\nwill follow this Russian plan to the end. How will it all finish?\"\n\n\"So far as the marechale is concerned, after I have copied out these\nfifty-three letters, I shall not write any others.\n\n\"As for Mathilde, these six weeks of painful acting will either leave\nher anger unchanged, or will win me a moment of reconciliation. Great\nGod! I should die of happiness.\" And he could not finish his train of\nthought.\n\nAfter a long reverie he succeeded in taking up the thread of his\nargument. \"In that case,\" he said to himself, \"I should win one day of\nhappiness, and after that her cruelties which are based, alas, on my\nlack of ability to please her will recommence. I should have nothing\nleft to do, I should be ruined and lost for ever. With such a character\nas hers what guarantee can she give me? Alas! My manners are no doubt\nlacking in elegance, and my style of speech is heavy and monotonous.\nGreat God, why am I myself?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LIX\n\nENNUI\n\n\n        Sacrificing one's self to one's passions, let it pass;\n        but sacrificing one's self to passions which one has not\n        got! Oh! melancholy nineteenth century!\n                                            _Girodet_.\n\n\nMadame de Fervaques had begun reading Julien's long letters without any\npleasure, but she now began to think about them; one thing, however,\ngrieved her. \"What a pity that M. Sorel was not a real priest! He could\nthen be admitted to a kind of intimacy; but in view of that cross,\nand that almost lay dress, one is exposed to cruel questions and what\nis one to answer?\" She did not finish the train of thought, \"Some\nmalicious woman friend may think, and even spread it about that he is\nsome lower middle-class cousin or other, a relative of my father, some\ntradesman who has been decorated by the National Guard.\" Up to the\ntime which she had seen Julien, madame de Fervaque's greatest pleasure\nhad been writing the word marechale after her name. Consequently a\nmorbid parvenu vanity, which was ready to take umbrage at everything,\ncombatted the awakening of her interest in him. \"It would be so easy\nfor me,\" said the marechale, \"to make him a grand vicar in some diocese\nnear Paris! but plain M. Sorel, and what is more, a man who is the\nsecretary of M. de la Mole! It is heart-breaking.\"\n\nFor the first time in her life this soul, which was afraid of\neverything, was moved by an interest which was alien to its own\npretensions to rank and superiority. Her old porter noticed that\nwhenever he brought a letter from this handsome young man, who always\nlooked so sad, he was certain to see that absent, discontented\nexpression, which the marechale always made a point of assuming on the\nentry of any of her servants, immediately disappear. The boredom of a\nmode of life whose ambitions were concentrated on impressing the public\nwithout her having at heart any real faculty of enjoyment for that kind\nof success, had become so intolerable since she had begun to think of\nJulien that, all that was necessary to prevent her chambermaids being\nbullied for a whole day, was that their mistress should have passed\nan hour in the society of this strange young man on the evening of\nthe preceding day. His budding credit was proof against very cleverly\nwritten anonymous letters. It was in vain that Tanbeau supplied M. de\nLuz, de Croisenois, de Caylus, with two or three very clever calumnies\nwhich these gentlemen were only too glad to spread, without making\ntoo many enquiries of the actual truth of the charges. The marechale,\nwhose temperament was not calculated to be proof against these vulgar\nexpedients related her doubts to Mathilde, and was always consoled by\nher.\n\nOne day, madame de Fervaques, after having asked three times if there\nwere any letters for her, suddenly decided to answer Julien. It was a\ncase of the triumph of ennui. On reaching the second letter in his name\nthe marechale almost felt herself pulled up sharp by the unbecomingness\nof writing with her own hand so vulgar an address as to M. Sorel, care\nof M. le Marquis de la Mole.\n\n\"You must bring me envelopes with your address on,\" she said very drily\nto Julien in the evening. \"Here I am appointed lover and valet in one,\"\nthought Julien, and he bowed, amused himself by wrinkling his face up\nlike Arsene, the old valet of the marquis.\n\nHe brought the envelopes that very evening, and he received the third\nletter very early on the following day: he read five or six lines at\nthe beginning, and two or three towards the end. There were four pages\nof a small and very close writing. The lady gradually developed the\nsweet habit of writing nearly every day. Julien answered by faithful\ncopies of the Russian letters; and such is the advantage of the\nbombastic style that madame de Fervaques was not a bit astonished by\nthe lack of connection between his answers and her letters. How gravely\nirritated would her pride have been if the little Tanbeau who had\nconstituted himself a voluntary spy on all Julien's movements had been\nable to have informed her that all these letters were left unsealed and\nthrown haphazard into Julien's drawer.\n\nOne morning the porter was bringing into the library a letter to him\nfrom the marechale. Mathilde met the man, saw the letter together with\nthe address in Julien's handwriting. She entered the library as the\nporter was leaving it, the letter was still on the edge of the table.\nJulien was very busy with his work and had not yet put it in his drawer.\n\n\"I cannot endure this,\" exclaimed Mathilde, as she took possession\nof the letter, \"you are completely forgetting me, me your wife, your\nconduct is awful, monsieur.\"\n\nAt these words her pride, shocked by the awful unseemliness of her\nproceeding, prevented her from speaking. She burst into tears, and soon\nseemed to Julien scarcely able to breathe.\n\nJulien was so surprised and embarrassed that he did not fully\nappreciate how ideally fortunate this scene was for himself. He helped\nMathilde to sit down; she almost abandoned herself in his arms.\n\nThe first minute in which he noticed this movement, he felt an extreme\njoy. Immediately afterwards, he thought of Korasoff: \"I may lose\neverything by a single word.\"\n\nThe strain of carrying out his tactics was so great that his arms\nstiffened. \"I dare not even allow myself to press this supple, charming\nframe to my heart, or she will despise me or treat me badly. What an\nawful character!\" And while he cursed Mathilde's character, he loved\nher a hundred times more. He thought he had a queen in his arms.\n\nJulien's impassive coldness intensified the anguished pride which was\nlacerating the soul of mademoiselle de la Mole. She was far from having\nthe necessary self-possession to try and read in his eyes what he felt\nfor her at that particular moment. She could not make up her mind to\nlook at him. She trembled lest she might encounter a contemptuous\nexpression.\n\nSeated motionless on the library divan, with her head turned in the\nopposite direction to Julien, she was a prey to the most poignant\nanguish that pride and love can inflict upon a human soul. What an\nawful step had she just slipped into taking! \"It has been reserved\nfor me, unhappy woman that I am, to see my most unbecoming advances\nrebuffed! and rebuffed by whom?\" added her maddened and wounded pride;\n\"rebuffed by a servant of my father's! That's more than I will put up\nwith,\" she said aloud, and rising in a fury, she opened the drawer of\nJulien's table, which was two yards in front of her.\n\nShe stood petrified with horror when she saw eight or ten unopened\nletters, completely like the one the porter had just brought up. She\nrecognised Julien's handwriting, though more or less disguised, on all\nthe addresses.\n\n\"So,\" she cried, quite beside herself, \"you are not only on good terms\nwith her, but you actually despise her. You, a nobody, despise madame\nla marechale de Fervaques!\"\n\n\"Oh, forgive me, my dear,\" she added, throwing herself on her knees;\n\"despise me if you wish, but love me. I cannot live without your love.\"\nAnd she fell down in a dead faint.\n\n\"So our proud lady is lying at my feet,\" said Julien to himself.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LX\n\nA BOX AT THE BOUFFES\n\n\n   As the blackest sky\nForetells the heaviest tempest\n               _Don Juan, c._ 1. _st_.76.\n\n\nIn the midst of these great transports Julien felt more surprised than\nhappy. Mathilde's abuse proved to him the shrewdness of the Russian\ntactics. \"'Few words, few deeds,' that is my one method of salvation.\"\nHe picked up Mathilde, and without saying a word, put her back on the\ndivan. She was gradually being overcome by tears.\n\nIn order to keep herself in countenance, she took madame de Fervaques'\nletters in her hands, and slowly broke the seals. She gave a noticeable\nnervous movement when she recognised the marechale's handwriting. She\nturned over the pages of these letters without reading them. Most of\nthem were six pages.\n\n\"At least answer me,\" Mathilde said at last, in the most supplicatory\ntone, but without daring to look at Julien: \"You know how proud I am.\nIt is the misfortune of my position, and of my temperament, too, I\nconfess. Has madame de Fervaques robbed me of your heart? Has she made\nthe sacrifices to which my fatal love swept me?\"\n\nA dismal silence was all Julien's answer. \"By what right,\" he thought,\n\"does she ask me to commit an indiscretion unworthy of an honest man?\"\nMathilde tried to read the letters; her eyes were so wet with tears\nthat it was impossible for her to do so. She had been unhappy for a\nmonth past, but this haughty soul had been very far from owning its own\nfeelings even to itself. Chance alone had brought about this explosion.\nFor one instant jealousy and love had won a victory over pride. She\nwas sitting on the divan, and very near him. He saw her hair and her\nalabaster neck. For a moment he forgot all he owed to himself. He\npassed his arm around her waist, and clasped her almost to his breast.\n\nShe slowly turned her head towards him. He was astonished by the\nextreme anguish in her eyes. There was not a trace of their usual\nexpression.\n\nJulien felt his strength desert him. So great was the deadly pain of\nthe courageous feat which he was imposing on himself.\n\n\"Those eyes will soon express nothing but the coldest disdain,\" said\nJulien to himself, \"if I allow myself to be swept away by the happiness\nof loving her.\" She, however, kept repeatedly assuring him at this\nmoment, in a hushed voice, and in words which she had scarcely the\nstrength to finish, of all her remorse for those steps which her\ninordinate pride had dictated.\n\n\"I, too, have pride,\" said Julien to her, in a scarcely articulate\nvoice, while his features portrayed the lowest depths of physical\nprostration.\n\nMathilde turned round sharply towards him. Hearing his voice was a\nhappiness which she had given up hoping. At this moment her only\nthought of her haughtiness was to curse it. She would have liked to\nhave found out some abnormal and incredible actions, in order to prove\nto him the extent to which she adored him and detested herself.\n\n\"That pride is probably the reason,\" continued Julien, \"why you singled\nme out for a moment. My present courageous and manly firmness is\ncertainly the reason why you respect me. I may entertain love for the\nmarechale.\"\n\nMathilde shuddered; a strange expression came into her eyes. She was\ngoing to hear her sentence pronounced. This shudder did not escape\nJulien. He felt his courage weaken.\n\n\"Ah,\" he said to himself, as he listened to the sound of the vain words\nwhich his mouth was articulating, as he thought it were some strange\nsound, \"if I could only cover those pale cheeks with kisses without\nyour feeling it.\"\n\n\"I may entertain love for the marechale,\" he continued, while his voice\nbecame weaker and weaker, \"but I certainly have no definite proof of\nher interest in me.\"\n\nMathilde looked at him. He supported that look. He hoped, at any rate,\nthat his expression had not betrayed him. He felt himself bathed in a\nlove that penetrated even into the most secret recesses of his heart.\nHe had never adored her so much; he was almost as mad as Mathilde. If\nshe had mustered sufficient self-possession and courage to manoeuvre, he\nwould have abandoned all his play-acting, and fallen at her feet. He\nhad sufficient strength to manage to continue speaking: \"Ah, Korasoff,\"\nhe exclaimed mentally, \"why are you not here? How I need a word from\nyou to guide me in my conduct.\" During this time his voice was saying,\n\n\"In default of any other sentiment, gratitude would be sufficient to\nattach me to the marechale. She has been indulgent to me; she has\nconsoled me when I have been despised. I cannot put unlimited faith\nin certain appearances which are, no doubt, extremely flattering, but\npossibly very fleeting.\"\n\n\"Oh, my God!\" exclaimed Mathilde.\n\n\"Well, what guarantee will you give me?\" replied Julien with a sharp,\nfirm intonation, which seemed to abandon for a moment the prudent forms\nof diplomacy. \"What guarantee, what god will warrant that the position\nto which you seem inclined to restore me at the present moment will\nlast more than two days?\"\n\n\"The excess of my love, and my unhappiness if you do not love me,\" she\nsaid to him, taking his hands and turning towards him.\n\nThe spasmodic movement which she had just made had slightly displaced\nher tippet; Julien caught a view of her charming shoulders. Her\nslightly dishevelled hair recalled a delicious memory....\n\nHe was on the point of succumbing. \"One imprudent word,\" he said to\nhimself, \"and I have to start all over again that long series of days\nwhich I have passed in despair. Madame de Renal used to find reasons\nfor doing what her heart dictated. This young girl of high society\nnever allows her heart to be moved except when she has proved to\nherself by sound logic that it ought to be moved.\"\n\nHe saw this proof in the twinkling of an eye, and in the twinkling\nof an eye too, he regained his courage. He took away his hands which\nMathilde was pressing in her own, and moved a little away from her with\na marked respect.\n\nHuman courage could not go further. He then busied himself with\nputting together madame de Fervaque's letters which were spread out on\nthe divan, and it was with all the appearance of extreme politeness\nthat he cruelly exploited the psychological moment by adding,\n\n\"Mademoiselle de la Mole will allow me to reflect over all this.\" He\nwent rapidly away and left the library; she heard him shut all the\ndoors one after the other.\n\n\"The monster is not the least bit troubled,\" she said to herself. \"But\nwhat am I saying? Monster? He is wise, prudent, good. It is I myself\nwho have committed more wrong than one can imagine.\"\n\nThis point of view lasted. Mathilde was almost happy today, for she\ngave herself up to love unreservedly. One would have said that this\nsoul had never been disturbed by pride (and what pride!)\n\nShe shuddered with horror when a lackey announced madame le Fervaques\ninto the salon in the evening. The man's voice struck her as sinister.\nShe could not endure the sight of the marechale, and stopped suddenly.\nJulien who had felt little pride over his painful victory, had feared\nto face her, and had not dined at the Hotel de la Mole.\n\nHis love and his happiness rapidly increased in proportion to the time\nthat elapsed from the moment of the battle. He was blaming himself\nalready. \"How could I resist her?\" he said to himself. \"Suppose she\nwere to go and leave off loving me! One single moment may change that\nhaughty soul, and I must admit that I have treated her awfully.\"\n\nIn the evening he felt that it was absolutely necessary to put in\nan appearance at the Bouffes in madame de Fervaques' box. She had\nexpressly invited him. Mathilde would be bound to know of his presence\nor his discourteous absence. In spite of the clearness of this logic,\nhe could not at the beginning of the evening bring himself to plunge\ninto society. By speaking he would lose half his happiness. Ten o'clock\nstruck and it was absolutely necessary to show himself. Luckily he\nfound the marechale's box packed with women, and was relegated to a\nplace near the door where he was completely hidden by the hats. This\nposition saved him from looking ridiculous; Caroline's divine notes of\ndespair in the _Matrimonio Segreto_ made him burst into tears. Madame\nde Fervaques saw these tears. They represented so great a contrast\nwith the masculine firmness of his usual expression that the soul\nof the old-fashioned lady, saturated as it had been for many years\nwith all the corroding acid of parvenu haughtiness, was none the less\ntouched. Such remnants of a woman's heart as she still possessed\nimpelled her to speak: she wanted to enjoy the sound of his voice at\nthis moment.\n\n\"Have you seen the de la Mole ladies?\" she said to him. \"They are\nin the third tier.\" Julien immediately craned out over the theatre,\nleaning politely enough on the front of the box. He saw Mathilde; her\neyes were shining with tears.\n\n\"And yet it is not their Opera day,\" thought Julien; \"how eager she\nmust be!\"\n\nMathilde had prevailed on her mother to come to the Bouffes in spite\nof the inconveniently high tier of the box, which a lady friend of the\nfamily had hastened to offer her. She wanted to see if Julien would\npass the evening with the marechale.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LXI\n\nFRIGHTEN HER\n\n\n        So this is the fine miracle of your civilisation; you\n        have turned love into an ordinary business.--_Barnave_.\n\n\nJulien rushed into madame de la Mole's box. His eyes first met the\ntearful eyes of Mathilde; she was crying without reserve. There were\nonly insignificant personages present, the friend who had leant her\nbox, and some men whom she knew. Mathilde placed her hand on Julien's;\nshe seemed to have forgotten all fear of her mother. Almost stifled as\nshe was by her tears, she said nothing but this one word: \"Guarantees!\"\n\n\"So long as I don't speak to her,\" said Julien to himself. He was\nhimself very moved, and concealed his eyes with his hand as best\nhe could under the pretext of avoiding the dazzling light of the\nthird tier of boxes. \"If I speak she may suspect the excess of my\nemotion, the sound of my voice will betray me. All may yet be lost.\"\nHis struggles were more painful than they had been in the morning,\nhis soul had had the time to become moved. He had been frightened at\nseeing Mathilde piqued with vanity. Intoxicated as he was with love and\npleasure he resolved not to speak.\n\nIn my view this is one of the finest traits in his character, an\nindividual capable of such an effort of self-control may go far si\n_fata sinant_.\n\nMademoiselle de la Mole insisted on taking Julien back to the hotel.\nLuckily it was raining a great deal, but the marquise had him placed\nopposite her, talked to him incessantly, and prevented him saying a\nsingle word to her daughter. One might have thought that the marquise\nwas nursing Julien's happiness for him; no longer fearing to lose\neverything through his excessive emotion, he madly abandoned himself to\nhis happiness.\n\nShall I dare to say that when he went back to his room Julien fell\non his knees and covered with kisses the love letters which prince\nKorasoff had given him.\n\n\"How much I owe you, great man,\" he exclaimed in his madness. Little\nby little he regained his self-possession. He compared himself to a\ngeneral who had just won a great battle. \"My advantage is definite and\nimmense,\" he said to himself, \"but what will happen to-morrow? One\ninstant may ruin everything.\"\n\nWith a passionate gesture he opened the _Memoirs_ which Napoleon had\ndictated at St. Helena and for two long hours forced himself to read\nthem. Only his eyes read; no matter, he made himself do it. During this\nsingular reading his head and his heart rose to the most exalted level\nand worked unconsciously. \"Her heart is very different from madame de\nRenal's,\" he said to himself, but he did not go further.\n\n\"Frighten her!\" he suddenly exclaimed, hurling away the book. \"The\nenemy will only obey me in so far as I frighten him, but then he will\nnot dare to show contempt for me.\"\n\nIntoxicated with joy he walked up and down his little room. In point of\nfact his happiness was based rather on pride than on love.\n\n\"Frighten her!\" he repeated proudly, and he had cause to be proud.\n\n\"Madame de Renal always doubted even in her happiest moments if my\nlove was equal to her own. In this case I have to subjugate a demon,\nconsequently I must subjugate her.\" He knew quite well that Mathilde\nwould be in the library at eight o'clock in the morning of the\nfollowing day. He did not appear before nine o'clock. He was burning\nwith love, but his head dominated his heart.\n\nScarcely a single minute passed without his repeating to himself. \"Keep\nher obsessed by this great doubt. Does he love me?\" Her own brilliant\nposition, together with the flattery of all who speak to her, tend a\nlittle too much to make her reassure herself.\n\nHe found her sitting on the divan pale and calm, but apparently\ncompletely incapable of making a single movement. She held out her\nhand,\n\n\"Dear one, it is true I have offended you, perhaps you are angry with\nme.\"\n\nJulien had not been expecting this simple tone. He was on the point of\nbetraying himself.\n\n\"You want guarantees, my dear, she added after a silence which she had\nhoped would be broken. Take me away, let us leave for London. I shall\nbe ruined, dishonoured for ever.\" She had the courage to take her hand\naway from Julien to cover her eyes with it.\n\nAll her feelings of reserve and feminine virtue had come back into her\nsoul. \"Well, dishonour me,\" she said at last with a sigh, \"that will be\na guarantee.\"\n\n\"I was happy yesterday, because I had the courage to be severe with\nmyself,\" thought Julien. After a short silence he had sufficient\ncontrol over his heart to say in an icy tone,\n\n\"Once we are on the road to London, once you are dishonoured, to employ\nyour own expression, who will answer that you will still love me? that\nmy very presence in the post-chaise will not seem importunate? I am not\na monster; to have ruined your reputation will only make me still more\nunhappy. It is not your position in society which is the obstacle, it\nis unfortunately your own character. Can you yourself guarantee that\nyou will love me for eight days?\"\n\n\"Ah! let her love me for eight days, just eight days,\" whispered\nJulien to himself, \"and I will die of happiness. What do I care for\nthe future, what do I care for life? And yet if I wish that divine\nhappiness can commence this very minute, it only depends on me.\"\n\nMathilde saw that he was pensive.\n\n\"So I am completely unworthy of you,\" she said to him, taking his hand.\n\nJulien kissed her, but at the same time the iron hand of duty gripped\nhis heart. If she sees how much I adore her I shall lose her. And\nbefore leaving her arms, he had reassumed all that dignity which is\nproper to a man.\n\nHe managed on this and the following days to conceal his inordinate\nhappiness. There were moments when he even refused himself the pleasure\nof clasping her in his arms. At other times the delirium of happiness\nprevailed over all the counsels of prudence.\n\nHe had been accustomed to station himself near a bower of honeysuckle\nin the garden arranged in such a way so as to conceal the ladder when\nhe had looked up at Mathilde's blind in the distance, and lamented her\ninconstancy. A very big oak tree was quite near, and the trunk of that\ntree prevented him from being seen by the indiscreet.\n\nAs he passed with Mathilde over this very place which recalled his\nexcessive unhappiness so vividly, the contrast between his former\ndespair and his present happiness proved too much for his character.\nTears inundated his eyes, and he carried his sweetheart's hand to his\nlips: \"It was here I used to live in my thoughts of you, it was from\nhere that I used to look at that blind, and waited whole hours for the\nhappy moment when I would see that hand open it.\"\n\nHis weakness was unreserved. He portrayed the extremity of his former\ndespair in genuine colours which could not possibly have been invented.\nShort interjections testified to that present happiness which had put\nan end to that awful agony.\n\n\"My God, what am I doing?\" thought Julien, suddenly recovering himself.\n\"I am ruining myself.\"\n\nIn his excessive alarm he thought that he already detected a diminution\nof the love in mademoiselle de la Mole's eyes. It was an illusion, but\nJulien's face suddenly changed its expression and became overspread\nby a mortal pallor. His eyes lost their fire, and an expression of\nhaughtiness touched with malice soon succeeded to his look of the most\ngenuine and unreserved love.\n\n\"But what is the matter with you, my dear,\" said Mathilde to him, both\ntenderly and anxiously.\n\n\"I am lying,\" said Julien irritably, \"and I am lying to you. I am\nreproaching myself for it, and yet God knows that I respect you\nsufficiently not to lie to you. You love me, you are devoted to me, and\nI have no need of praises in order to please you.\"\n\n\"Great heavens! are all the charming things you have been telling me\nfor the last two minutes mere phrases?\"\n\n\"And I reproach myself for it keenly, dear one. I once made them up for\na woman who loved me, and bored me--it is the weakness of my character.\nI denounce myself to you, forgive me.\"\n\nBitter tears streamed over Mathilde's cheeks.\n\n\"As soon as some trifle offends me and throws me back on my\nmeditation,\" continued Julien, \"my abominable memory, which I curse at\nthis very minute, offers me a resource, and I abuse it.\"\n\n\"So I must have slipped, without knowing it, into some action which has\ndispleased you,\" said Mathilde with a charming simplicity.\n\n\"I remember one day that when you passed near this honeysuckle you\npicked a flower, M. de Luz took it from you and you let him keep it. I\nwas two paces away.\"\n\n\"M. de Luz? It is impossible,\" replied Mathilde with all her natural\nhaughtiness. \"I do not do things like that.\"\n\n\"I am sure of it,\" Julien replied sharply.\n\n\"Well, my dear, it is true,\" said Mathilde, as she sadly lowered her\neyes. She knew positively that many months had elapsed since she had\nallowed M. de Luz to do such a thing.\n\nJulien looked at her with ineffable tenderness, \"No,\" he said to\nhimself, \"she does not love me less.\"\n\nIn the evening she rallied him with a laugh on his fancy for madame de\nFervaques. \"Think of a bourgeois loving a parvenu, those are perhaps\nthe only type of hearts that my Julien cannot make mad with love. She\nhas made you into a real dandy,\" she said playing with his hair.\n\nDuring the period when he thought himself scorned by Mathilde, Julien\nhad become one of the best dressed men in Paris. He had, moreover,\na further advantage over other dandies, in as much as once he had\nfinished dressing he never gave a further thought to his appearance.\n\nOne thing still piqued Mathilde, Julien continued to copy out the\nRussian letters and send them to the marechale.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LXIII\n\nTHE HELL OF WEAKNESS\n\n\n        A clumsy lapidary, in cutting this diamond, deprived\n        it of some of its most brilliant facets. In the middle\n        ages, nay, even under Richelieu, the Frenchman had\n        _force of will_.--_Mirabeau_.\n\n\nJulien found the marquis furious. For perhaps the first time in his\nlife this nobleman showed bad form. He loaded Julien with all the\ninsults that came to his lips. Our hero was astonished, and his\npatience was tried, but his gratitude remained unshaken.\n\n\"The poor man now sees the annihilation, in a single minute, of all\nthe fine plans which he has long cherished in his heart. But I owe it\nto him to answer. My silence tends to increase his anger.\" The part of\nTartuffe supplied the answer;\n\n\"I am not an angel.... I served you well; you paid me generously.... I\nwas grateful, but I am twenty-two.... Only you and that charming person\nunderstood my thoughts in this household.\"\n\n\"Monster,\" exclaimed the marquis. \"Charming! Charming, to be sure! The\nday when you found her charming you ought to have fled.\"\n\n\"I tried to. It was then that I asked permission to leave for\nLanguedoc.\"\n\nTired of stampeding about and overcome by his grief, the marquis threw\nhimself into an arm-chair. Julien heard him whispering to himself, \"No,\nno, he is not a wicked man.\"\n\n\"No, I am not, towards you,\" exclaimed Julien, falling on his knees.\nBut he felt extremely ashamed of this manifestation, and very quickly\ngot up again.\n\nThe marquis was really transported. When he saw this movement, he\nbegan again to load him with abominable insults, which were worthy of\nthe driver of a fiacre. The novelty of these oaths perhaps acted as a\ndistraction.\n\n\"What! is my daughter to go by the name of madame Sorel? What! is my\ndaughter not to be a duchess?\" Each time that these two ideas presented\nthemselves in all their clearness M. de la Mole was a prey to torture,\nand lost all power over the movements of his mind.\n\nJulien was afraid of being beaten.\n\nIn his lucid intervals, when he was beginning to get accustomed to his\nunhappiness, the marquis addressed to Julien reproaches which were\nreasonable enough. \"You should have fled, sir,\" he said to him. \"Your\nduty was to flee. You are the lowest of men.\"\n\nJulien approached the table and wrote:\n\n        \"I have found my life unbearable for a long time; I am\n        putting an end to it. I request monsieur the marquis to\n        accept my apologies (together with the expression of my\n        infinite gratitude) for any embarrassment that may be\n        occasioned by my death in his hotel.\"\n\n\"Kindly run your eye over this paper, M. the marquis,\" said Julien.\n\"Kill me, or have me killed by your valet. It is one o'clock in the\nmorning. I will go and walk in the garden in the direction of the wall\nat the bottom.\"\n\n\"Go to the devil,\" cried the marquis, as he went away.\n\n\"I understand,\" thought Julien. \"He would not be sorry if I were to\nspare his valet the trouble of killing me....\n\n\"Let him kill me, if he likes; it is a satisfaction which I offer\nhim.... But, by heaven, I love life. I owe it to my son.\"\n\nThis idea, which had not previously presented itself with so much\ndefiniteness to his imagination, completely engrossed him during his\nwalk after the first few minutes which he had spent thinking about his\ndanger.\n\nThis novel interest turned him into a prudent man. \"I need advice as to\nhow to behave towards this infuriated man.... He is devoid of reason;\nhe is capable of everything. Fouque is too far away; besides, he would\nnot understand the emotions of a heart like the marquis's.\"\n\n\"Count Altamira ... am I certain of eternal silence? My request\nfor advice must not be a fresh step which will raise still further\ncomplications. Alas! I have no one left but the gloomy abbe Pirard. His\nmind is crabbed by Jansenism.... A damned Jesuit would know the world,\nand would be more in my line. M. Pirard is capable of beating me at the\nvery mention of my crime.\"\n\nThe genius of Tartuffe came to Julien's help. \"Well, I will go and\nconfess to him.\" This was his final resolution after having walked\nabout in the garden for two good hours. He no longer thought about\nbeing surprised by a gun shot. He was feeling sleepy.\n\nVery early the next day, Julien was several leagues away from Paris\nand knocked at the door of the severe Jansenist. He found to his great\nastonishment that he was not unduly surprised at his confidence.\n\n\"I ought perhaps to reproach myself,\" said the abbe, who seemed more\nanxious than irritated. \"I thought I guessed that love. My affection\nfor you, my unhappy boy, prevented me from warning the father.\"\n\n\"What will he do?\" said Julien keenly.\n\nAt that moment he loved the abbe, and would have found a scene between\nthem very painful.\n\n\"I see three alternatives,\" continued Julien.\n\n\"M. de la Mole can have me put to death,\" and he mentioned the suicide\nletter which he had left with the Marquis; (2) \"He can get Count\nNorbert to challenge me to a duel, and shoot at me point blank.\"\n\n\"You would accept?\" said the abbe furiously as he got up.\n\n\"You do not let me finish. I should certainly never fire upon my\nbenefactor's son. (3) He can send me away. If he says go to Edinburgh\nor New York, I will obey him. They can then conceal mademoiselle de la\nMole's condition, but I will never allow them to suppress my son.\"\n\n\"Have no doubt about it, that will be the first thought of that\ndepraved man.\"\n\nAt Paris, Mathilde was in despair. She had seen her father about seven\no'clock. He had shown her Julien's letter. She feared that he might\nhave considered it noble to put an end to his life; \"and without my\npermission?\" she said to herself with a pain due solely to her anger.\n\n\"If he dies I shall die,\" she said to her father. \"It will be you\nwho will be the cause of his death.... Perhaps you will rejoice at\nit but I swear by his shades that I shall at once go into mourning,\nand shall publicly appear as _Madame the widow Sorel_, I shall send\nout my invitations, you can count on it.... You will find me neither\npusillanimous nor cowardly.\"\n\nHer love went to the point of madness. M. de la Mole was flabbergasted\nin his turn.\n\nHe began to regard what had happened with a certain amount of logic.\nMathilde did not appear at breakfast. The marquis felt an immense\nweight off his mind, and was particularly flattered when he noticed\nthat she had said nothing to her mother.\n\nJulien was dismounting from his horse. Mathilde had him called and\nthrew herself into his arms almost beneath the very eyes of her\nchambermaid. Julien was not very appreciative of this transport. He had\ncome away from his long consultation with the abbe Pirard in a very\ndiplomatic and calculating mood. The calculation of possibilities had\nkilled his imagination. Mathilde told him, with tears in her eyes, that\nshe had read his suicide letter.\n\n\"My father may change his mind; do me the favour of leaving for\nVillequier this very minute. Mount your horse again, and leave the\nhotel before they get up from table.\"\n\nWhen Julien's coldness and astonishment showed no sign of abatement,\nshe burst into tears.\n\n\"Let me manage our affairs,\" she exclaimed ecstatically, as she clasped\nhim in her arms. \"You know, dear, it is not of my own free will that\nI separate from you. Write under cover to my maid. Address it in a\nstrange hand-writing, I will write volumes to you. Adieu, flee.\"\n\nThis last word wounded Julien, but he none the less obeyed. \"It will\nbe fatal,\" he thought \"if, in their most gracious moments these\naristocrats manage to shock me.\"\n\nMathilde firmly opposed all her father's prudent plans. She would\nnot open negotiations on any other basis except this. She was to be\nMadame Sorel, and was either to live with her husband in poverty in\nSwitzerland, or with her father in Paris. She rejected absolutely the\nsuggestion of a secret accouchement. \"In that case I should begin to\nbe confronted with a prospect of calumny and dishonour. I shall go\ntravelling with my husband two months after the marriage, and it will\nbe easy to pretend that my son was born at a proper time.\"\n\nThis firmness though at first received with violent fits of anger,\neventually made the marquis hesitate.\n\n\"Here,\" he said to his daughter in a moment of emotion, \"is a gift of\nten thousand francs a year. Send it to your Julien, and let him quickly\nmake it impossible for me to retract it.\"\n\nIn order to obey Mathilde, whose imperious temper he well knew, Julien\nhad travelled forty useless leagues; he was superintending the accounts\nof the farmers at Villequier. This act of benevolence on the part of\nthe marquis occasioned his return. He went and asked asylum of the abbe\nPirard, who had become Mathilde's most useful ally during his absence.\nEvery time that he was questioned by the marquis, he would prove to him\nthat any other course except public marriage would be a crime in the\neyes of God.\n\n\"And happily,\" added the abbe, \"worldly wisdom is in this instance in\nagreement with religion. Could one, in view of Mdlle. de la Mole's\npassionate character, rely for a minute on her keeping any secret which\nshe did not herself wish to preserve? If one does not reconcile oneself\nto the frankness of a public marriage, society will concern itself much\nlonger with this strange mesalliance__. Everything must be said all\nat once without either the appearance or the reality of the slightest\nmystery.\"\n\n\"It is true,\" said the marquis pensively.\n\nTwo or three friends of M. de la Mole were of the same opinion as the\nabbe Pirard. The great obstacle in their view was Mathilde's decided\ncharacter. But in spite of all these fine arguments the marquis's soul\ncould not reconcile itself to giving up all hopes of a coronet for his\ndaughter.\n\nHe ransacked his memory and his imagination for all the variations of\nknavery and duplicity which had been feasible in his youth. Yielding to\nnecessity and having fear of the law seemed absurd and humiliating for\na man in his position. He was paying dearly now for the luxury of those\nenchanting dreams concerning the future of his cherished daughter in\nwhich he had indulged for the last ten years.\n\n\"Who could have anticipated it?\" he said to himself. \"A girl of so\nproud a character, of so lofty a disposition, who is even prouder than\nI am of the name she bears? A girl whose hand has already been asked\nfor by all the cream of the nobility of France.\"\n\n\"We must give up all faith in prudence. This age is made to confound\neverything. We are marching towards chaos.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LXVII\n\nA TURRET\n\n\n        The tomb of a friend.--_Sterne_.\n\n\nHe heard a loud noise in the corridor. It was not the time when the\ngaoler usually came up to his prison. The osprey flew away with a\nshriek. The door opened, and the venerable cure Chelan threw himself\ninto his arms. He was trembling all over and had his stick in his hands.\n\n\"Great God! Is it possible, my child--I ought to say monster?\"\n\nThe good old man could not add a single word. Julien was afraid he\nwould fall down. He was obliged to lead him to a chair. The hand of\ntime lay heavy on this man who had once been so active. He seemed to\nJulien the mere shadow of his former self.\n\nWhen he had regained his breath, he said, \"It was only the day before\nyesterday that I received your letter from Strasbourg with your five\nhundred francs for the poor of Verrieres. They brought it to me in\nthe mountains at Liveru where I am living in retirement with my\nnephew Jean. Yesterday I learnt of the catastrophe.... Heavens, is it\npossible?\" And the old man left off weeping. He did not seem to have\nany ideas left, but added mechanically, \"You will have need of your\nfive hundred francs, I will bring them back to you.\"\n\n\"I need to see you, my father,\" exclaimed Julien, really touched. \"I\nhave money, anyway.\"\n\nBut he could not obtain any coherent answer. From time to time, M.\nChelan shed some tears which coursed silently down his cheeks. He then\nlooked at Julien, and was quite dazed when he saw him kiss his hands\nand carry them to his lips. That face which had once been so vivid,\nand which had once portrayed with such vigour the most noble emotions\nwas now sunk in a perpetual apathy. A kind of peasant came soon to\nfetch the old man. \"You must not fatigue him,\" he said to Julien, who\nunderstood that he was the nephew. This visit left Julien plunged in a\ncruel unhappiness which found no vent in tears. Everything seemed to\nhim gloomy and disconsolate. He felt his heart frozen in his bosom.\n\nThis moment was the cruellest which he had experienced since the\ncrime. He had just seen death and seen it in all its ugliness. All his\nillusions about greatness of soul and nobility of character had been\ndissipated like a cloud before the hurricane.\n\nThis awful plight lasted several hours. After moral poisoning, physical\nremedies and champagne are necessary. Julien would have considered\nhimself a coward to have resorted to them. \"What a fool I am,\" he\nexclaimed, towards the end of the horrible day that he had spent\nentirely in walking up and down his narrow turret. \"It's only, if I\nhad been going to die like anybody else, that the sight of that poor\nold man would have had any right to have thrown me into this awful fit\nof sadness: but a rapid death in the flower of my age simply puts me\nbeyond the reach of such awful senility.\"\n\nIn spite of all his argumentation, Julien felt as touched as any\nweak-minded person would have been, and consequently felt unhappy\nas the result of the visit. He no longer had any element of rugged\ngreatness, or any Roman virtue. Death appeared to him at a great height\nand seemed a less easy proposition.\n\n\"This is what I shall take for my thermometer,\" he said to himself.\n\"To-night I am ten degrees below the courage requisite for\nguillotine-point level. I had that courage this morning. Anyway, what\ndoes it matter so long as it comes back to me at the necessary moment?\"\nThis thermometer idea amused him and finally managed to distract him.\n\nWhen he woke up the next day he was ashamed of the previous day. \"My\nhappiness and peace of mind are at stake.\" He almost made up his mind\nto write to the Procureur-General to request that no one should be\nadmitted to see him. \"And how about Fouque,\" he thought? \"If he takes\nit upon himself to come to Besancon, his grief will be immense.\"\nIt had perhaps been two months since he had given Fouque a thought.\n\"I was a great fool at Strasbourg. My thoughts did not go beyond my\ncoat-collar. He was much engrossed by the memory of Fouque, which\nleft him more and more touched. He walked nervously about. Here I\nam, clearly twenty degrees below death point.... If this weakness\nincreases, it will be better for me to kill myself. What joy for the\nabbe Maslon, and the Valenods, if I die like an usher.\"\n\nFouque arrived. The good, simple man, was distracted by grief. His one\nidea, so far as he had any at all, was to sell all he possessed in\norder to bribe the gaoler and secure Julien's escape. He talked to him\nat length of M. de Lavalette's escape.\n\n\"You pain me,\" Julien said to him. \"M. de Lavalette was innocent--I\nam guilty. Though you did not mean to, you made me think of the\ndifference....\"\n\n\"But is it true? What? were you going to sell all you possessed?\" said\nJulien, suddenly becoming mistrustful and observant.\n\nFouque was delighted at seeing his friend answer his obsessing idea,\nand detailed at length, and within a hundred francs, what he would get\nfor each of his properties.\n\n\"What a sublime effort for a small country land-owner,\" thought Julien.\n\"He is ready to sacrifice for me the fruits of all the economies, and\nall the little semi-swindling tricks which I used to be ashamed of when\nI saw him practice them.\"\n\n\"None of the handsome young people whom I saw in the Hotel de la Mole,\nand who read Rene, would have any of his ridiculous weaknesses: but,\nexcept those who are very young and who have also inherited riches\nand are ignorant of the value of money, which of all those handsome\nParisians would be capable of such a sacrifice?\"\n\nAll Fouque's mistakes in French and all his common gestures seemed to\ndisappear. He threw himself into his arms. Never have the provinces\nin comparison with Paris received so fine a tribute. Fouque was so\ndelighted with the momentary enthusiasm which he read in his friend's\neyes that he took it for consent to the flight.\n\nThis view of the sublime recalled to Julien all the strength that the\napparition of M. Chelan had made him lose. He was still very young;\nbut in my view he was a fine specimen. Instead of his character passing\nfrom tenderness to cunning, as is the case with the majority of men,\nage would have given him that kindness of heart which is easily melted\n... but what avail these vain prophecies.\n\nThe interrogations became more frequent in spite of all the efforts\nof Julien, who always endeavoured by his answers to shorten the whole\nmatter.\n\n\"I killed, or at any rate, I wished to occasion death, and I did so\nwith premeditation,\" he would repeat every day. But the judge was\na pedant above everything. Julien's confessions had no effect in\ncurtailing the interrogations. The judge's conceit was wounded. Julien\ndid not know that they had wanted to transfer him into an awful cell,\nand that it was only, thanks to Fouque's efforts, that he was allowed\nto keep his pretty room at the top of a hundred and eighty steps.\n\nM. the abbe de Frilair was one of the important customers who entrusted\nFouque with the purveying of their firewood. The good tradesmen managed\nto reach the all powerful grand vicar. M. de Frilair informed him,\nto his unspeakable delight, that he was so touched by Julien's good\nqualities, and by the services which he had formerly rendered to the\nseminary, that he intended to recommend him to the judges. Fouque\nthought he saw a hope of saving his friend, and as he went out, bowing\ndown to the ground, requested M. the grand vicar, to distribute a sum\nof ten louis in masses to entreat the acquittal of the accused.\n\nFouque was making a strange mistake. M. de Frilair was very far from\nbeing a Valenod. He refused, and even tried to make the good peasant\nunderstand that he would do better to keep his money. Seeing that it\nwas impossible to be clear without being indiscreet, he advised him to\ngive that sum as alms for the use of the poor prisoners, who, in point\nof fact, were destitute of everything.\n\n\"This Julien is a singular person, his action is unintelligible,\"\nthought M. de Frilair, \"and I ought to find nothing unintelligible.\nPerhaps it will be possible to make a martyr of him.... In any case,\nI shall get to the bottom of the matter, and shall perhaps find an\nopportunity of putting fear into the heart of that madame de Renal\nwho has no respect for us, and at the bottom detests me.... Perhaps\nI might be able to utilise all this as a means of a brilliant\nreconciliation with M. de la Mole, who has a weakness for the little\nseminarist.\"\n\nThe settlement of the lawsuit had been signed some weeks previously,\nand the abbe Pirard had left Besancon after having duly mentioned\nJulien's mysterious birth, on the very day when the unhappy man tried\nto assassinate madame de Renal in the church of Verrieres.\n\nThere was only one disagreeable event between himself and his death\nwhich Julien anticipated. He consulted Fouque concerning his idea\nof writing to M. the Procureur-General asking to be exempt from all\nvisits. This horror at the sight of a father, above all at a moment\nlike this, deeply shocked the honest middle-class heart of the wood\nmerchant.\n\nHe thought he understood why so many people had a passionate hatred for\nhis friend. He concealed his feelings out of respect for misfortune.\n\n\"In any case,\" he answered coldly, \"such an order for privacy would not\nbe applied to your father.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LXIX\n\nTHE INTRIGUE\n\n\n        Castres 1676--A brother has just murdered his sister\n        in the house next to mine. This gentleman had already\n        been guilty of one murder. His father saved his life by\n        causing five-hundred crowns to be distributed among the\n        councillors.--_Locke: Journey in France_.\n\n\nWhen she left the bishop's palace, Mathilde did not hesitate to\ndespatch a courier to madame de Fervaques. The fear of compromising\nherself did not stop her for a moment. She entreated her rival to\nobtain for M. de Frilair an autograph letter from the bishop of ----.\nShe went as far as to entreat her to come herself to Besancon with all\nspeed. This was an heroic act on the part of a proud and jealous soul.\n\nActing on Fouque's advice, she had had the discretion to refrain from\nmentioning the steps she had taken for Julien. Her presence troubled\nhim enough without that. A better man when face to face with death than\nhe had ever been during his life, he had remorse not only towards M. de\nla Mole, but also towards Mathilde.\n\n\"Come,\" he said to himself, \"there are times when I feel absent-minded\nand even bored by her society. She is ruining herself on my account,\nand this is how I reward her. Am I really a scoundrel?\" This question\nwould have bothered him but little in the days when he was ambitious.\nIn those days he looked upon failure as the only disgrace.\n\nHis moral discomfort when with Mathilde was proportionately emphasized\nby the fact that he inspired her at this time with the maddest and most\nextraordinary passion. She talked of nothing but the strange sacrifices\nthat she was ready to make in order to save him.\n\nExalted as she was by a sentiment on which she plumed herself, to the\ncomplete subordination of her pride, she would have liked not to have\nlet a single minute of her life go by without filling it with some\nextraordinary act. The strangest projects, and ones involving her in\nthe utmost danger, supplied the topics of her long interviews with\nJulien. The well-paid gaolers allowed her to reign over the prison.\nMathilde's ideas were not limited by the sacrifice of her reputation.\nShe would have thought nothing of making her condition known to society\nat large. Throwing herself on her knees before the king's carriage\nas it galloped along, in order to ask for Julien's pardon, and thus\nattracting the attention of the prince, at the risk of being crushed\na thousand times over, was one of the least fantastic dreams in which\nthis exalted and courageous imagination chose to indulge. She was\ncertain of being admitted into the reserved portion of the park of St.\nCloud, through those friends of hers who were employed at the king's\ncourt.\n\nJulien thought himself somewhat unworthy of so much devotion. As a\nmatter of fact, he was tired of heroism. A simple, naive, and almost\ntimid tenderness was what would have appealed to him, while Mathilde's\nhaughty soul, on the other hand, always required the idea of a public\nand an audience.\n\nIn the midst of all her anguish and all her fears for the life of\nthat lover whom she was unwilling to survive, she felt a secret need\nof astonishing the public by the extravagance of her love and the\nsublimity of her actions.\n\nJulien felt irritated at not finding himself touched by all this\nheroism. What would he have felt if he had known of all the mad ideas\nwith which Mathilde overwhelmed the devoted but eminently logical and\nlimited spirit of the good Fouque?\n\nHe did not know what to find fault with in Mathilde's devotion. For\nhe, too, would have sacrificed all his fortune, and have exposed his\nlife to the greatest risks in order to save Julien. He was dumbfounded\nby the quantity of gold which Mathilde flung away. During the first\ndays Fouque, who had all the provincial's respect for money, was much\nimpressed by the sums she spent in this way.\n\nHe at last discovered that mademoiselle de la Mole's projects\nfrequently varied, and he was greatly relieved at finding a word with\nwhich to express his blame for a character whom he found so exhausting.\nShe was changeable. There is only a step from this epithet to that of\nwrong-headed, the greatest term of opprobrium known to the provinces.\n\n\"It is singular,\" said Julien to himself, as Mathilde was going out\nof his prison one day, \"that I should be so insensible at being the\nobject of so keen a passion! And two months ago I adored her! I have,\nof course, read that the approach of death makes one lose interest\nin everything, but it is awful to feel oneself ungrateful, and not\nto be able to change. Am I an egoist, then?\" He addressed the most\nhumiliating reproaches to himself on this score.\n\nAmbition was dead in his heart; another passion had arisen from its\nashes. He called it remorse at having assassinated madame de Renal.\n\nAs a matter of fact, he loved her to the point of distraction. He\nexperienced a singular happiness on these occasions when, being left\nabsolutely alone, and without being afraid of being interrupted, he\ncould surrender himself completely to the memory of the happy days\nwhich he had once passed at Verrieres, or at Vergy. The slightest\nincidents of these days, which had fleeted away only too rapidly,\npossessed an irresistible freshness and charm. He never gave a thought\nto his Paris successes; they bored him.\n\nThese moods, which became intensified with every succeeding day, were\npartly guessed by the jealous Mathilde. She realised very clearly that\nshe had to struggle against his love of solitude. Sometimes, with\nterror in her heart, she uttered madame de Renal's name.\n\nShe saw Julien quiver. Henceforth her passion had neither bounds nor\nlimit.\n\n\"If he dies, I will die after him,\" she said to herself in all good\nfaith. \"What will the Paris salons say when they see a girl of my own\nrank carry her adoration for a lover who is condemned to death to such\na pitch as this? For sentiments like these you must go back to the age\nof the heroes. It was loves of this kind which thrilled the hearts of\nthe century of Charles IX. and Henri III.\"\n\nIn the midst of her keenest transports, when she was clasping Julien's\nhead against her heart, she would say to herself with horror, \"What!\nis this charming head doomed to fall? Well,\" she added, inflamed by\na not unhappy heroism, \"these lips of mine, which are now pressing\nagainst this pretty hair, will be icy cold less than twenty-four hours\nafterwards.\"\n\nThoughts of the awful voluptuousness of such heroic moments gripped\nher in a compelling embrace. The idea of suicide, absorbing enough\nin itself, entered that haughty soul (to which, up to the present it\nhad been so utterly alien), and soon reigned over it with an absolute\ndominion.\n\n\"No, the blood of my ancestors has not grown tepid in descending to\nme,\" said Mathilde proudly to herself.\n\n\"I have a favour to ask of you,\" said her lover to her one day. \"Put\nyour child out to nurse at Verrieres. Madame de Renal will look after\nthe nurse.\"\n\n\"Those words of yours are very harsh.\" And Mathilde paled.\n\n\"It is true, and I ask your pardon a thousand times,\" exclaimed Julien,\nemerging from his reverie, and clasping her in his arms.\n\nAfter having dried his tears, he reverted to his original idea, but\nwith greater tact. He had given a twist of melancholy philosophy to the\nconversation. He talked of that future of his which was so soon going\nto close. \"One must admit, dear one, that passions are an accident in\nlife, but such accidents only occur in superior souls.... My son's\ndeath would be in reality a happiness for your own proud family, and\nall the servants will realize as much. Neglect will be the lot of that\nchild of shame and unhappiness. I hope that, at a time which I do not\nwish to fix, but which nevertheless I am courageous enough to imagine,\nyou will obey my last advice: you will marry the marquis de Croisenois.\"\n\n\"What? Dishonoured?\"\n\n\"Dishonour cannot attach to a name such as yours. You will be a widow,\nand the widow of a madman--that is all. I will go further--my crime\nwill confer no dishonour, since it had no money motive. Perhaps when\nthe time comes for your marriage, some philosophic legislator will have\nso far prevailed on the prejudice of his contemporaries as to have\nsecured the suppression of the death penalty. Then some friendly voice\nwill say, by way of giving an instance: 'Why, madame de la Mole's first\nhusband was a madman, but not a wicked man or a criminal. It was absurd\nto have his head cut off.' So my memory will not be infamous in any\nway--at least, after a certain time.... Your position in society, your\nfortune, and, if you will allow me to say so, your genius, will make M.\nde Croisenois, once he is your husband, play a part which he would have\nnever managed to secure unaided. He only possesses birth and bravery,\nand those qualities alone, though they constituted an accomplished man\nin 1729, are an anachronism a century later on, and only give rise to\nunwarranted pretensions. You need other things if you are to place\nyourself at the head of the youth of France.\"\n\n\"You will take all the help of your firm and enterprising character\nto the political party which you will make your husband join. You may\nbe able to be a successor to the Chevreuses and the Longuevilles of\nthe Fronde--but then, dear one, the divine fire which animates you\nat present will have grown a little tepid. Allow me to tell you,\" he\nadded, \"after many other preparatory phrases, that in fifteen years'\ntime you will look upon the love you once had for me as a madness,\nwhich though excusable, was a piece of madness all the same.\"\n\nHe stopped suddenly and became meditative. He found himself again\nconfronted with the idea which shocked Mathilde so much: \"In fifteen\nyears, madame de Renal will adore my son and you will have forgotten\nhim.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LXX\n\nTRANQUILITY\n\n\n        It is because I was foolish then that I am wise to-day.\n        Oh thou philosopher who seest nothing except the actual\n        instant. How short-sighted are thy views! Thine eye\n        is not adapted to follow the subterranean work of the\n        passions.--_M. Goethe_.\n\n\nThis conversation was interrupted by an interrogation followed by\na conference with the advocate entrusted with the defence. These\nmoments were the only absolutely unpleasant ones in a life made up of\nnonchalance and tender reveries.\n\n\"There is murder, and murder with premeditation,\" said Julien to the\njudge as he had done to the advocate, \"I am sorry, gentlemen, he added\nwith a smile, that this reduces your functions to a very small compass.\"\n\n\"After all,\" said Julien to himself, when he had managed to rid\nhimself of those two persons, \"I must really be brave, and apparently\nbraver than those two men. They regard that duel with an unfortunate\ntermination, which I can only seriously bother myself about on the\nactual day, as the greatest of evils and the arch-terror.\"\n\n\"The fact is that I have known a much greater unhappiness,\" continued\nJulien, as he went on philosophising with himself. \"I suffered far\nmore acutely during my first journey to Strasbourg, when I thought I\nwas abandoned by Mathilde--and to think that I desired so passionately\nthat same perfect intimacy which to-day leaves me so cold--as a matter\nof fact I am more happy alone than when that handsome girl shares my\nsolitude.\"\n\nThe advocate, who was a red-tape pedant, thought him mad, and believed,\nwith the public, that it was jealousy which had lead him to take up\nthe pistol. He ventured one day to give Julien to understand that\nthis contention, whether true or false, would be an excellent way of\npleading. But the accused man became in a single minute a passionate\nand drastic individual.\n\n\"As you value your life, monsieur,\" exclaimed Julien, quite beside\nhimself, \"mind you never put forward such an abominable lie.\" The\ncautious advocate was for a moment afraid of being assassinated.\n\nHe was preparing his case because the decisive moment was drawing near.\nThe only topic of conversation in Besancon, and all the department, was\nthe _cause celebre_. Julien did not know of this circumstance. He had\nrequested his friends never to talk to him about that kind of thing.\n\nOn this particular day, Fouque and Mathilde had tried to inform him\nof certain rumours which in their view were calculated to give hope.\nJulien had stopped them at the very first word.\n\n\"Leave me my ideal life. Your pettifogging troubles and details of\npractical life all more or less jar on me and bring me down from my\nheaven. One dies as best one can: but I wish to chose my own way of\nthinking about death. What do I care for other people? My relations\nwith other people will be sharply cut short. Be kind enough not to talk\nto me any more about those people. Seeing the judge and the advocate is\nmore than enough.\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact,\" he said to himself, \"it seems that I am fated\nto die dreaming. An obscure creature like myself, who is certain to be\nforgotten within a fortnight, would be very silly, one must admit, to\ngo and play a part. It is nevertheless singular that I never knew so\nmuch about the art of enjoying life, as since I have seen its end so\nnear me.\"\n\nHe passed his last day in promenading upon the narrow terrace at the\ntop of the turret, smoking some excellent cigars which Mathilde had\nhad fetched from Holland by a courier. He had no suspicion that his\nappearance was waited for each day by all the telescopes in the town.\nHis thoughts were at Vergy. He never spoke to Fouque about madame de\nRenal, but his friend told him two or three times that she was rapidly\nrecovering, and these words reverberated in his heart.\n\nWhile Julien's soul was nearly all the time wholly in the realm\nof ideas, Mathilde, who, as befits an aristocratic spirit, had\noccupied herself with concrete things, had managed to make the\ndirect and intimate correspondence between madame de Fervaques and\nM. de Frilair progress so far that the great word bishopric had been\nalready pronounced. The venerable prelate, who was entrusted with the\ndistribution of the benefices, added in a postscript to one of his\nniece's letters, \"This poor Sorel is only a lunatic. I hope he will be\nrestored to us.\"\n\nAt the sight of these lines, M. de Frilair felt transported. He had no\ndoubts about saving Julien.\n\n\"But for this Jacobin law which has ordered the formation of an\nunending panel of jurymen, and which has no other real object, except\nto deprive well-born people of all their influence,\" he said to\nMathilde on the eve of the balloting for the thirty-six jurymen of the\nsession, \"I would have answered for the verdict. I certainly managed to\nget the cure N---- acquitted.\"\n\nWhen the names were selected by ballot on the following day, M. de\nFrilair experienced a genuine pleasure in finding that they contained\nfive members of the Besancon congregation and that amongst those who\nwere strangers to the town were the names of MM. Valenod, de Moirod,\nde Cholin. I can answer for these eight jurymen he said to Mathilde.\nThe first five are mere machines, Valenod is my agent: Moirod owes me\neverything: de Cholin is an imbecile who is frightened of everything.\n\nThe journal published the names of the jurymen throughout the\ndepartment, and to her husband's unspeakable terror, madame de Renal\nwished to go to Besancon. All that M. de Renal could prevail on her\nto promise was that she would not leave her bed so as to avoid the\nunpleasantness of being called to give evidence. \"You do not understand\nmy position,\" said the former mayor of Verrieres. \"I am now said to\nbe disloyal and a Liberal. No doubt that scoundrel Valenod and M. de\nFrilair will get the procureur-general and the judges to do all they\ncan to cause me unpleasantness.\"\n\nMadame de Renal found no difficulty in yielding to her husband's\norders. \"If I appear at the assize court,\" she said to herself, \"I\nshould seem as if I were asking for vengeance.\" In spite of all the\npromises she had made to the director of her conscience and to her\nhusband that she would be discreet, she had scarcely arrived at\nBesancon before she wrote with her own hand to each of the thirty-six\njurymen:--\n\n\"I shall not appear on the day of the trial, monsieur, because my\npresence might be prejudicial to M. Sorel's case. I only desire one\nthing in the world, and that I desire passionately--for him to be\nsaved. Have no doubt about it, the awful idea that I am the cause of an\ninnocent man being led to his death would poison the rest of my life\nand would no doubt curtail it. How can you condemn him to death while I\ncontinue to live? No, there is no doubt about it, society has no right\nto take away a man's life, and above all, the life of a being like\nJulien Sorel. Everyone at Verrieres knew that there were moments when\nhe was quite distracted. This poor young man has some powerful enemies,\nbut even among his enemies, (and how many has he not got?) who is there\nwho casts any doubt on his admirable talents and his deep knowledge?\nThe man whom you are going to try, monsieur, is not an ordinary person.\nFor a period of nearly eighteen months we all knew him as a devout and\nwell behaved student. Two or three times in the year he was seized by\nfits of melancholy that went to the point of distraction. The whole\ntown of Verrieres, all our neighbours at Vergy, where we live in the\nfine weather, my whole family, and monsieur the sub-prefect himself\nwill render justice to his exemplary piety. He knows all the Holy Bible\nby heart. Would a blasphemer have spent years of study in learning the\nSacred Book. My sons will have the honour of presenting you with this\nletter, they are children. Be good enough to question them, monsieur,\nthey will give you all the details concerning this poor young man which\nare necessary to convince you of how barbarous it would be to condemn\nhim. Far from revenging me, you would be putting me to death.\n\n\"What can his enemies argue against this? The wound, which was the\nresult of one of those moments of madness, which my children themselves\nused to remark in their tutor, is so little dangerous than in less\nthan two months it has allowed me to take the post from Verrieres to\nBesancon. If I learn, monsieur, that you show the slightest hesitation\nin releasing so innocent a person from the barbarity of the law, I will\nleave my bed, where I am only kept by my husband's express orders, and\nI will go and throw myself at your feet. Bring in a verdict, monsieur,\nthat the premeditation has not been made out, and you will not have an\ninnocent man's blood on your head, etc.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LXXII[1]\n\n\nWhen Julien was taken back to prison he had been taken into a room\nintended for those who were condemned to death. Although a man who in\nthe usual way would notice the most petty details, he had quite failed\nto observe that he had not been taken up to his turret. He was thinking\nof what he would say to madame de Renal if he had the happiness of\nseeing her before the final moment. He thought that she would break\ninto what he was saying and was anxious to be able to express his\nabsolute repentance with his very first words. \"How can I convince her\nthat I love her alone after committing an action like that? For after\nall, it was either out of ambition, or out of love for Mathilde, that I\nwanted to kill her.\"\n\nAs he went to bed, he came across sheets of a rough coarse material.\n\"Ah! I am in the condemned cell, he said to himself. That is right.\n\n\"Comte Altamira used to tell me that Danton, on the eve of his death,\nwould say in his loud voice: 'it is singular but you cannot conjugate\nthe verb guillotine in all its tenses: of course you can say, I shall\nbe guillotined, thou shalt be guillotined, but you don't say, I have\nbeen guillotined.'\n\n\"Why not?\" went on Julien, \"if there is another life.... Upon my word,\nit will be all up with me if I find the God of the Christians there: He\nis a tyrant, and as such, he is full of ideas of vengeance: his Bible\nspeaks of nothing but atrocious punishment. I never liked him--I could\nnever get myself to believe that anyone really liked him. He has no\npity (and he remembered several passages in the Bible) he will punish\nme atrociously.\n\n\"But supposing I find Fenelon's God: He will perhaps say to me: 'Much\nforgiveness will be vouchsafed to thee, inasmuch as thou hast loved\nmuch.'\n\n\"Have I loved much? Ah! I loved madame de Renal, but my conduct has\nbeen atrocious. In that, as in other cases, simple modest merit was\nabandoned for the sake of what was brilliant.\n\n\"But still, what fine prospects? Colonel of Hussars, if we had had a\nwar: secretary of a legation during peace: then ambassador ... for\nI should soon have picked up politics ... and even if I had been an\nidiot, would the marquis de la Mole's son-in-law have had any rivalry\nto fear? All my stupidities have been forgiven, or rather, counted\nas merits. A man of merit, then, and living in the grandest style at\nVienna or London.\n\n\"Not exactly, monsieur. Guillotined in three days' time.\"\n\nJulien laughed heartily at this sally of his wit. \"As a matter of fact,\nman has two beings within him, he thought. Who the devil can have\nthought of such a sinister notion?\"\n\n\"Well, yes, my friend: guillotined in three days,\" he answered the\ninterruptor. \"M. de Cholin will hire a window and share the expense\nwith the abbe Maslon. Well, which of those two worthy personages\nwill rob the other over the price paid for hiring that window?\" The\nfollowing passage from Rotrou's \"Venceslas\" suddenly came back into his\nmind:--\n\n              LADISLAS\n    .................Mon ame est toute prete.\n    THE KING, _father of Ladislas_.\n    L'echafaud l'est aussi: portez-y-votre tete.\n\n\"A good repartee\" he thought, as he went to sleep. He was awakened in\nthe morning by someone catching hold of him violently.\n\n\"What! already,\" said Julien, opening his haggard eyes. He thought he\nwas already in the executioner's hands.\n\nIt was Mathilde. \"Luckily, she has not understood me.\" This reflection\nrestored all his self possession. He found Mathilde as changed as\nthough she had gone through a six months' illness: she was really not\nrecognisable.\n\n\"That infamous Frilair has betrayed me,\" she said to him, wringing her\nhands. Her fury prevented her from crying.\n\n\"Was I not fine when I made my speech yesterday?\" answered Julien. \"I\nwas improvising for the first time in my life! It is true that it is to\nbe feared that it will also be the last.\"\n\nAt this moment, Julien was playing on Mathilde's character with all\nthe self-possession of a clever pianist, whose fingers are on the\ninstrument.... \"It is true,\" he added, \"that I lack the advantage of a\ndistinguished birth, but Mathilde's great soul has lifted her lover up\nto her own level. Do you think that Boniface de la Mole would have cut\na better figure before his judges?\"\n\nOn this particular day, Mathilde was as unaffectedly tender as a poor\ngirl living in a fifth storey. But she failed to extract from him any\nsimpler remark. He was paying her back without knowing it for all the\ntorture she had frequently inflicted on him.\n\n\"The sources of the Nile are unknown,\" said Julien to himself: \"it has\nnot been vouchsafed to the human eye to see the king of rivers as a\nsimple brook: similarly, no human eye shall see Julien weak. In the\nfirst place because he is not so. But I have a heart which it is easy\nto touch. The most commonplace words, if said in a genuine tone, can\nmake my voice broken and even cause me to shed tears. How often have\nfrigid characters not despised me for this weakness. They thought that\nI was asking a favour: that is what I cannot put up with.\n\n\"It is said that when at the foot of the scaffold, Danton was affected\nby the thought of his wife: but Danton had given strength to a nation\nof coxcombs and prevented the enemy from reaching Paris.... I alone\nknow what I should have been able to do.... I represent to the others\nat the very outside, simply A PERHAPS.\n\n\"If madame de Renal had been here in my cell instead of Mathilde,\nshould I have been able to have answered for myself? The extremity of\nmy despair and my repentance would have been taken for a craven fear of\ndeath by the Valenods and all the patricians of the locality. They are\nso proud, are those feeble spirits, whom their pecuniary position puts\nabove temptation! 'You see what it is to be born a carpenter's son,'\nM. de Moirod and de Cholin doubtless said after having condemned me to\ndeath! 'A man can learn to be learned and clever, but the qualities of\nthe heart--the qualities of the heart cannot be learnt.' Even in the\ncase of this poor Mathilde, who is crying now, or rather, who cannot\ncry,\" he said to himself, as he looked at her red eyes.... And he\nclasped her in his arms: the sight of a genuine grief made him forget\nthe sequence of his logic.... \"She has perhaps cried all the night,\" he\nsaid to himself, \"but how ashamed she will be of this memory on some\nfuture day! She will regard herself as having been led astray in her\nfirst youth by a plebeian's low view of life.... Le Croisenois is weak\nenough to marry her, and upon my word, he will do well to do so. She\nwill make him play a part.\"\n\n    \"Du droit qu'un esprit ferme et vaste en ses desseins\n    A sur l'esprit grossier des vulgaires humaines.\"\n\n\"Ah! that's really humorous; since I have been doomed to die, all the\nverses I ever knew in my life are coming back into my memory. It must\nbe a sign of demoralisation.\"\n\nMathilde kept on repeating in a choked voice: \"He is there in the next\nroom.\" At last he paid attention to what she was saying. \"Her voice is\nweak,\" he thought, \"but all the imperiousness of her character comes\nout in her intonation. She lowers her voice in order to avoid getting\nangry.\"\n\n\"And who is there?\" he said, gently.\n\n\"The advocate, to get you to sign your appeal.\"\n\n\"I shall not appeal.\"\n\n\"What! you will not appeal,\" she said, getting up, with her eyes\nsparkling with rage. \"And why, if you please?\"\n\n\"Because I feel at the present time that I have the courage to die\nwithout giving people occasion to laugh too much at my expense. And\nwho will guarantee that I shall be in so sound a frame of mind in two\nmonths' time, after living for a long time in this damp cell? I foresee\ninterviews with the priests, with my father. I can imagine nothing more\nunpleasant. Let's die.\"\n\nThis unexpected opposition awakened all the haughtiness of Mathilde's\ncharacter. She had not managed to see the abbe de Frilair before the\ntime when visitors were admitted to the cells in the Besancon prison.\nHer fury vented itself on Julien. She adored him, and nevertheless she\nexhibited for a good quarter of an hour in her invective against his,\nJulien's, character, and her regret at having ever loved him, the\nsame haughty soul which had formerly overwhelmed him with such cutting\ninsults in the library of the Hotel de la Mole.\n\n\"In justice to the glory of your stock, Heaven should have had you born\na man,\" he said to her.\n\n\"But as for myself,\" he thought, \"I should be very foolish to go on\nliving for two more months in this disgusting place, to serve as a\nbutt for all the infamous humiliations which the patrician party can\ndevise,[2] and having the outburst of this mad woman for my only\nconsolation.... Well, the morning after to-morrow I shall fight a duel\nwith a man known for his self-possession and his remarkable skill ...\nhis very remarkable skill,\" said the Mephistophelian part of him; \"he\nnever makes a miss. Well, so be it--good.\" (Mathilde continued to wax\neloquent). \"No, not for a minute,\" he said to himself, \"I shall not\nappeal.\"\n\nHaving made this resolution, he fell into meditation....\n\n\"The courier will bring the paper at six o'clock as usual, as he\npasses; at eight o'clock, after M. de Renal has finished reading it,\nElisa will go on tiptoe and place it on her bed. Later on she will wake\nup; suddenly, as she reads it she will become troubled; her pretty\nhands will tremble; she will go on reading down to these words: _At\nfive minutes past ten he had ceased to exist_.\n\n\"She will shed hot tears, I know her; it will matter nothing that I\ntried to assassinate her--all will be forgotten, and the person whose\nlife I wished to take will be the only one who will sincerely lament my\ndeath.\n\n\"Ah, that's a good paradox,\" he thought, and he thought about nothing\nexcept madame de Renal during the good quarter of an hour which the\nscene Mathilde was making still lasted. In spite of himself, and though\nhe made frequent answers to what Mathilde was saying, he could not take\nhis mind away from the thought of the bedroom at Verrieres. He saw the\nBesancon Gazette on the counterpane of orange taffeta; he saw that\nwhite hand clutching at it convulsively. He saw madame de Renal cry....\nHe followed the path of every tear over her charming face.\n\nMademoiselle de la Mole, being unable to get anything out of Julien,\nasked the advocate to come in. Fortunately, he was an old captain of\nthe Italian army of 1796, where he had been a comrade of Manuel.\n\nHe opposed the condemned man's resolution as a matter of form. Wishing\nto treat him with respect, Julien explained all his reasons.\n\n\"Upon my word, I can understand a man taking the view you do,\" said\nM. Felix Vaneau (that was the advocate's name) to him at last. \"But\nyou have three full days in which to appeal, and it is my duty to come\nback every day. If a volcano were to open under the prison between now\nand two months' time you would be saved. You might die of illness,\" he\nsaid, looking at Julien.\n\nJulien pressed his hand--\"I thank you, you are a good fellow. I will\nthink it over.\"\n\nAnd when Mathilde eventually left with the advocate, he felt much more\naffection for the advocate than for her.\n\n\n[1] There is no heading to this and the following chapters in the\noriginal.--TRANSL.\n\n[2] The speaker is a Jacobin.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER LXXIII\n\n\nWhen he was deep asleep an hour afterwards, he was woken up by feeling\ntears flow over his hand. \"Oh, it is Mathilde again,\" he thought, only\nhalf awake. \"She has come again, faithful to her tactics of attacking\nmy resolution by her sentimentalism.\" Bored by the prospect of this\nnew scene of hackneyed pathos he did not open his eyes. The verses of\nBelphgor, as he ran away from his wife, came into his mind. He heard a\nstrange sigh. He opened his eyes. It was madame de Renal.\n\n\"Ah, so I see you again before I die, or is it an illusion,\" he\nexclaimed as he threw himself at her feet.\n\n\"But, forgive me, madame, you must look upon me as a mere murderer,\" he\nsaid, immediately, as he recovered himself.\n\n\"Monsieur, I have come to entreat you to appeal; I know you do not want\nto....\" her sobs choked her; she was unable to speak.\n\n\"Deign to forgive me.\"\n\n\"If you want me to forgive you,\" she said to him, getting up and\nthrowing herself into his arms, \"appeal immediately against your death\nsentence.\"\n\nJulien covered her with kisses.\n\n\"Will you come and see me every day during those two months?\"\n\n\"I swear it--every day, unless my husband forbids me.\"\n\n\"I will sign it,\" exclaimed Julien.\n\n\"What! you really forgive me! Is it possible?\"\n\nHe clasped her in his arms; he was mad. She gave a little cry.\n\n\"It is nothing,\" she said to him. \"You hurt me.\"\n\n\"Your shoulder,\" exclaimed Julien, bursting into tears. He drew back\na little, and covered her hands with kisses of fire. \"Who could\nhave prophesied this, dear, the last time I saw you in your room at\nVerrieres?\"\n\n\"Who could have prophesied then that I should write that infamous\nletter to M. de la Mole?\"\n\n\"Know that I have always loved you, and that I have never loved anyone\nbut you.\"\n\n\"Is it possible?\" cried Madame de Renal, who was delighted in her turn.\nShe leant on Julien, who was on his knees, and they cried silently for\na long time.\n\nJulien had never experienced moments like this at any period of his\nwhole life.\n\n\"And how about that young madame Michelet?\" said Madame de Renal, a\nlong time afterwards when they were able to speak. \"Or rather, that\nmademoiselle de la Mole? for I am really beginning to believe in that\nstrange romance.\"\n\n\"It is only superficially true,\" answered Julien. \"She is my wife, but\nshe is not my mistress.\"\n\nAfter interrupting each other a hundred times over, they managed with\ngreat difficulty to explain to each other what they did not know. The\nletter written to M. de la Mole had been drafted by the young priest\nwho directed Madame de Renal's conscience, and had been subsequently\ncopied by her, \"What a horrible thing religion has made me do,\" she\nsaid to him, \"and even so I softened the most awful passages in the\nletter.\"\n\nJulien's ecstatic happiness proved the fulness of her forgiveness. He\nhad never been so mad with love.\n\n\"And yet I regard myself as devout,\" madame de Renal went on to say to\nhim in the ensuing conversation. \"I believe sincerely in God! I equally\nbelieve, and I even have full proof of it, that the crime which I am\ncommitting is an awful one, and yet the very minute I see you, even\nafter you have fired two pistol shots at me--\" and at this point, in\nspite of her resistance, Julien covered her with kisses.\n\n\"Leave me alone,\" she continued, \"I want to argue with you, I am\nfrightened lest I should forget.... The very minute I see you all my\nduties disappear. I have nothing but love for you, dear, or rather, the\nword love is too weak. I feel for you what I ought only to feel for\nGod; a mixture of respect, love, obedience.... As a matter of fact, I\ndon't know what you inspire me with.... If you were to tell me to stab\nthe gaoler with a knife, the crime would be committed before I had\ngiven it a thought. Explain this very clearly to me before I leave you.\nI want to see down to the bottom of my heart; for we shall take leave\nof each other in two months.... By the bye, shall we take leave of each\nother?\" she said to him with a smile.\n\n\"I take back my words,\" exclaimed Julien, getting up, \"I shall not\nappeal from my death sentence, if you try, either by poison, knife,\npistol, charcoal, or any other means whatsoever, to put an end to your\nlife, or make any attempt upon it.\"\n\nMadame de Renal's expression suddenly changed. The most lively\ntenderness was succeeded by a mood of deep meditation.\n\n\"Supposing we were to die at once,\" she said to him.\n\n\"Who knows what one will find in the other life,\" answered Julien,\n\"perhaps torment, perhaps nothing at all. Cannot we pass two delicious\nmonths together? Two months means a good many days. I shall never have\nbeen so happy.\"\n\n\"You will never have been so happy?\"\n\n\"Never,\" repeated Julien ecstatically, \"and I am talking to you just as\nI should talk to myself. May God save me from exaggerating.\"\n\n\"Words like that are a command,\" she said with a timid melancholy smile.\n\n\"Well, you will swear by the love you have for me, to make no attempt\neither direct or indirect, upon your life ... remember,\" he added,\n\"that you must live for my son, whom Mathilde will hand over to lackeys\nas soon as she is marquise de Croisenois.\"\n\n\"I swear,\" she answered coldly, \"but I want to take away your notice\nof appeal, drawn and signed by yourself. I will go myself to M. the\nprocureur-general.\"\n\n\"Be careful, you will compromise yourself.\"\n\n\"After having taken the step of coming to see you in your prison, I\nshall be a heroine of local scandal for Besancon, and the whole of\nFranche-Comte,\" she said very dejectedly. \"I have crossed the bounds of\naustere modesty.... I am a woman who has lost her honour; it is true\nthat it is for your sake....\"\n\nHer tone was so sad that Julien embraced her with a happiness which was\nquite novel to him. It was no longer the intoxication of love, it was\nextreme gratitude. He had just realised for the first time the full\nextent of the sacrifice which she had made for him.\n\nSome charitable soul, no doubt informed M. de Renal of the long visits\nwhich his wife paid to Julien's prison; for at the end of three days\nhe sent her his carriage with the express order to return to Verrieres\nimmediately.\n\nThis cruel separation had been a bad beginning for Julien's day. He\nwas informed two or three hours later that a certain intriguing priest\n(who had, however, never managed to make any headway among the Jesuits\nof Besancon) had, since the morning, established himself in the street\noutside the prison gates. It was raining a great deal, and the man out\nthere was pretending to play the martyr. Julien was in a weak mood, and\nthis piece of stupidity annoyed him deeply.\n\nIn the morning, he had already refused this priest's visit, but the man\nhad taken it into his head to confess Julien, and to win a name for\nhimself among the young women of Besancon by all the confidences which\nhe would pretend to have received from him.\n\nHe declared in a loud voice that he would pass the day and the night by\nthe prison gates. \"God has sent me to touch the heart of this apostate\n...\" and the lower classes, who are always curious to see a scene,\nbegan to make a crowd.\n\n\"Yes, my brothers,\" he said to them, \"I will pass the day here and the\nnight, as well as all the days and all the nights which will follow.\nThe Holy Ghost has spoken to me. I am commissioned from above; I am the\nman who must save the soul of young Sorel. Do you join in my prayers,\netc.\"\n\nJulien had a horror of scandal, and of anything which could attract\nattention to him. He thought of seizing the opportunity of escaping\nfrom the world incognito; but he had some hope of seeing madame de\nRenal again, and he was desperately in love.\n\nThe prison gates were situated in one of the most populous streets. His\nsoul was tortured by the idea of this filthy priest attracting a crowd\nand creating a scandal--\"and doubtless he is repeating my name at every\nsingle minute!\" This moment was more painful than death.\n\nHe called the turnkey who was devoted to him, and sent sent him two or\nthree times at intervals of one hour to see if the priest was still by\nthe prison gates.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" said the turnkey to him on each occasion, \"he is on both\nhis knees in the mud; he is praying at the top of his voice, and saying\nlitanies for your soul.\n\n\"The impudent fellow,\" thought Julien. At this moment he actually heard\na dull buzz. It was the responses of the people to the litanies. His\npatience was strained to the utmost when he saw the turnkey himself\nmove his lips while he repeated the Latin words.\n\n\"They are beginning to say,\" added the turnkey, \"that you must have a\nvery hardened heart to refuse the help of this holy man.\"\n\n\"Oh my country, how barbarous you still are!\" exclaimed Julien, beside\nhimself with anger. And he continued his train of thought aloud,\nwithout giving a thought to the turn-key's presence.\n\n\"The man wants an article in the paper about him, and that's a way in\nwhich he will certainly get it.\n\n\"Oh you cursed provincials! At Paris I should not be subjected to all\nthese annoyances. There they are more skilled in their charlatanism.\n\n\"Show in the holy priest,\" he said at last to the turnkey, and great\nstreams of sweat flowed down his forehead. The turnkey made the sign of\nthe cross and went out rejoicing.\n\nThe holy priest turned out to be very ugly, he was even dirtier than he\nwas ugly. The cold rain intensified the obscurity and dampness of the\ncell. The priest wanted to embrace Julien, and began to wax pathetic as\nhe spoke to him. The basest hypocrisy was only too palpable; Julien had\nnever been so angry in his whole life.\n\nA quarter of an hour after the priest had come in Julien felt an\nabsolute coward. Death appeared horrible to him for the first time. He\nbegan to think about the state of decomposition which his body would be\nin two days after the execution, etc., etc.\n\nHe was on the point of betraying himself by some sign of weakness or\nthrowing himself on the priest and strangling him with his chain, when\nit occurred to him to beg the holy man to go and say a good forty franc\nmass for him on that very day.\n\nIt was twelve o'clock, so the priest took himself off.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT II. _SCENE I.\n\nThe house of _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_._\n\n  _Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA._\n\n_Adr._ Neither my husband nor the slave return'd,\nThat in such haste I sent to seek his master!\nSure, Luciana, it is two o'clock.\n\n_Luc._ Perhaps some merchant hath invited him,\nAnd from the mart he's somewhere gone to dinner.                     5\nGood sister, let us dine, and never fret:\nA man is master of his liberty:\nTime is their master; and when they see time,\nThey'll go or come: if so, be patient, sister.\n\n_Adr._ Why should their liberty than ours be more?                  10\n\n_Luc._ Because their business still lies out o' door.\n\n_Adr._ Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.\n\n_Luc._ O, know he is the bridle of your will.\n\n_Adr._ There's none but asses will be bridled so.\n\n_Luc._ Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe.                  15\nThere's nothing situate under heaven's eye\nBut hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:\nThe beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,\nAre their males' subjects and at their controls:\nMen, more divine, the masters of all these,                         20\nLords of the wide world and wild watery seas,\nIndued with intellectual sense and souls,\nOf more pre-eminence than fish and fowls,\nAre masters to their females, and their lords:\nThen let your will attend on their accords.                         25\n\n_Adr._ This servitude makes you to keep unwed.\n\n_Luc._ Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.\n\n_Adr._ But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.\n\n_Luc._ Ere I learn love, I'll practise to obey.\n\n_Adr._ How if your husband start some other where?                  30\n\n_Luc._ Till he come home again, I would forbear.\n\n_Adr._ Patience unmoved! no marvel though she pause;\nThey can be meek that have no other cause.\nA wretched soul, bruised with adversity,\nWe bid be quiet when we hear it cry;                                35\nBut were we burden'd with like weight of pain,\nAs much, or more, we should ourselves complain:\nSo thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,\nWith urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me;\nBut, if thou live to see like right bereft,                         40\nThis fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left.\n\n_Luc._ Well, I will marry one day, but to try.\nHere comes your man; now is your husband nigh.\n\n  _Enter _DROMIO of Ephesus_._\n\n_Adr._ Say, is your tardy master now at hand?\n\n_Dro. E._ Nay, he's at two hands with me, and that my               45\ntwo ears can witness.\n\n_Adr._ Say, didst thou speak with him? know'st thou his mind?\n\n_Dro. E._ Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear:\nBeshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.\n\n_Luc._ Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his            50\nmeaning?\n\n_Dro. E._ Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well\nfeel his blows; and withal so doubtfully, that I could scarce\nunderstand them.\n\n_Adr._ But say, I prithee, is he coming home?                       55\nIt seems he hath great care to please his wife.\n\n_Dro. E._ Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.\n\n_Adr._ Horn-mad, thou villain!\n\n_Dro. E._                      I mean not cuckold-mad;\nBut, sure, he is stark mad.\nWhen I desired him to come home to dinner,                          60\nHe ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold:\n''Tis dinner-time,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he:\n'Your meat doth burn,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he:\n'Will you come home?' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he,\n'Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?'                 65\n'The pig,' quoth I, 'is burn'd;' 'My gold!' quoth he:\n'My mistress, sir,' quoth I; 'Hang up thy mistress!\nI know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!'\n\n_Luc._ Quoth who?\n\n_Dro. E._ Quoth my master:                                          70\n'I know,' quoth he, 'no house, no wife, no mistress.'\nSo that my errand, due unto my tongue,\nI thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders;\nFor, in conclusion, he did beat me there.\n\n_Adr._ Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home.               75\n\n_Dro. E._ Go back again, and be new beaten home?\nFor God's sake, send some other messenger.\n\n_Adr._ Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.\n\n_Dro. E._ And he will bless that cross with other beating:\nBetween you I shall have a holy head.                               80\n\n_Adr._ Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home.\n\n_Dro. E._ Am I so round with you as you with me,\nThat like a football you do spurn me thus?\nYou spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:\nIf I last in this service, you must case me in leather.\n    [_Exit._                                               85\n\n_Luc._ Fie, how impatience lowereth in your face!\n\n_Adr._ His company must do his minions grace,\nWhilst I at home starve for a merry look.\nHath homely age the alluring beauty took\nFrom my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it:                         90\nAre my discourses dull? barren my wit?\nIf voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd,\nUnkindness blunts it more than marble hard:\nDo their gay vestments his affections bait?\nThat's not my fault; he's master of my state:                       95\nWhat ruins are in me that can be found,\nBy him not ruin'd? then is he the ground\nOf my defeatures. My decayed fair\nA sunny look of his would soon repair:\nBut, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale,                          100\nAnd feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.\n\n_Luc._ Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence!\n\n_Adr._ Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.\nI know his eye doth homage otherwhere;\nOr else what lets it but he would be here?                         105\nSister, you know he promised me a chain;\nWould that alone, alone he would detain,\nSo he would keep fair quarter with his bed!\nI see the jewel best enamelled\nWill lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still,                    110\nThat others touch, and often touching will\nWear gold: and no man that hath a name,\nBy falsehood and corruption doth it shame.\nSince that my beauty cannot please his eye,\nI'll weep what's left away, and weeping die.                       115\n\n_Luc._ How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!\n\n    [_Exeunt._\n\n\n\n  NOTES: II, 1.\n\n  The house ... Ephesus.] Pope. The same (i.e. A publick place).\n    Capell, and passim.\n  11: _o' door_] Capell. _adore_ F1 F2 F3. _adoor_ F4.\n  12: _ill_] F2 F3 F4. _thus_ F1.\n  15: _lash'd_] _leashed_ \"a learned lady\" conj. ap. Steevens.\n    _lach'd_ or _lac'd_ Becket conj.\n  17: _bound, ... sky:_] _bound: ... sky,_ Anon. conj.\n  19: _subjects_] _subject_ Capell.\n  20, 21: _Men ... masters ... Lords_] Hanmer. _Man ... master\n    ... Lord_ Ff.\n  21: _wild watery_] _wilde watry_ F1. _wide watry_ F2 F3 F4.\n  22, 23: _souls ... fowls_] F1. _soul ... fowl_ F2 F3 F4.\n  30: _husband start_] _husband's heart's_ Jackson conj.\n  _other where_] _other hare_ Johnson conj. See note (III).\n  31: _home_] om. Boswell (ed. 1821).\n  39: _wouldst_] Rowe. _would_ Ff.\n  40: _see_] _be_ Hanmer.\n  41: _fool-begg'd_] _fool-egg'd_ Jackson conj. _fool-bagg'd_\n    Staunton conj. _fool-badged_ Id. conj.\n  44: SCENE II. Pope.\n  _now_] _yet_ Capell.\n  45: _Nay_] _At hand? Nay_ Capell.\n  _and_] om. Capell.\n  45, 46: _two ... two_] _too ... two_ F1.\n  50-53: _doubtfully_] _doubly_ Collier MS.\n  53: _withal_] _therewithal_ Capell.\n  _that_] om. Capell, who prints lines 50-54 as four verses ending\n    _feel ... I ... therewithal ... them._\n  59: _he is_] _he's_ Pope. om. Hanmer.\n  61: _a thousand_] F4. _a hundred_ F1 _a 1000_ F2 F3.\n  64: _home_] Hanmer. om. Ff.\n  68: _I know not thy mistress_] _Thy mistress I know not_ Hanmer.\n    _I know not of thy mistress_ Capell. _I know thy mistress not_\n    Seymour conj.\n  _out on thy mistress_] F1 F4. _out on my mistress_ F2 F3.\n    _'out on thy mistress,' Quoth he_ Capell. _I know no mistress;\n    out upon thy mistress_ Steevens conj.\n  70: _Quoth_] _Why, quoth_ Hanmer.\n  71-74: Printed as prose in Ff. Corrected by Pope.\n  73: _bare_] _bear_ Steevens.\n  _my_] _thy_ F2.\n  74: _there_] _thence_ Capell conj.\n  85: _I last_] _I'm to last_ Anon. conj.\n  [Exit.] F2.\n  87: SCENE III. Pope.\n  93: _blunts_] F1. _blots_ F2 F3 F4.\n  107: _alone, alone_] F2 F3 F4. _alone, a love_ F1.\n    _alone, alas!_ Hanmer. _alone, O love,_ Capell conj.\n    _alone a lone_ Nicholson conj.\n  110: _yet the_] Ff. _and the_ Theobald. _and tho'_ Hanmer.\n    _yet though_ Collier.\n  111: _That others touch_] _The tester's touch_ Anon. (Fras. Mag.)\n    conj. _The triers' touch_ Singer.\n  _and_] Ff. _yet_ Theobald. _an_ Collier. _though_ Heath conj.\n  111, 112: _will Wear_] Theobald (Warburton). _will, Where_] F1.\n  112, 113: F2 F3 F4 omit these two lines. See note (IV).\n  112: _and no man_] F1. _and so no man_ Theobald.\n    _and e'en so man_ Capell. _and so a man_ Heath conj.\n  113: _By_] F1. _But_ Theobald.\n  115: _what's left away_] _(what's left away)_ F1.\n    _(what's left) away_ F2 F3 F4.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT IV. SCENE I.\n\nA public place.\n\n  _Enter _Second Merchant_, ANGELO, and an _Officer_._\n\n_Sec. Mer._ You know since Pentecost the sum is due,\nAnd since I have not much importuned you;\nNor now I had not, but that I am bound\nTo Persia, and want guilders for my voyage:\nTherefore make present satisfaction,                                 5\nOr I'll attach you by this officer.\n\n_Ang._ Even just the sum that I do owe to you\nIs growing to me by Antipholus;\nAnd in the instant that I met with you\nHe had of me a chain: at five o'clock                               10\nI shall receive the money for the same.\nPleaseth you walk with me down to his house,\nI will discharge my bond, and thank you too.\n\n  _Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_ and _DROMIO of Ephesus_ from\n  the courtezan's._\n\n_Off._ That labour may you save: see where he comes.\n\n_Ant. E._ While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou              15\nAnd buy a rope's end: that will I bestow\nAmong my wife and her confederates,\nFor locking me out of my doors by day.--\nBut, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;\nBuy thou a rope, and bring it home to me.                           20\n\n_Dro. E._ I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope.\n    [_Exit._\n\n_Ant. E._ A man is well holp up that trusts to you:\nI promised your presence and the chain;\nBut neither chain nor goldsmith came to me.\nBelike you thought our love would last too long,                    25\nIf it were chain'd together, and therefore came not.\n\n_Ang._ Saving your merry humour, here's the note\nHow much your chain weighs to the utmost carat,\nThe fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion,\nWhich doth amount to three odd ducats more                          30\nThan I stand debted to this gentleman:\nI pray you, see him presently discharged,\nFor he is bound to sea, and stays but for it.\n\n_Ant. E._ I am not furnish'd with the present money;\nBesides, I have some business in the town.                          35\nGood signior, take the stranger to my house,\nAnd with you take the chain, and bid my wife\nDisburse the sum on the receipt thereof:\nPerchance I will be there as soon as you.\n\n_Ang._ Then you will bring the chain to her yourself?               40\n\n_Ant. E._ No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.\n\n_Ang._ Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?\n\n_Ant. E._ An if I have not, sir, I hope you have;\nOr else you may return without your money.\n\n_Ang._ Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain:               45\nBoth wind and tide stays for this gentleman,\nAnd I, to blame, have held him here too long.\n\n_Ant. E._ Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse\nYour breach of promise to the Porpentine.\nI should have chid you for not bringing it,                         50\nBut, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.\n\n_Sec. Mer._ The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch.\n\n_Ang._ You hear how he importunes me;--the chain!\n\n_Ant. E._ Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money.\n\n_Ang._ Come, come, you know I gave it you even now.                 55\nEither send the chain, or send me by some token.\n\n_Ant. E._ Fie, now you run this humour out of breath.\nCome, where's the chain? I pray you, let me see it.\n\n_Sec. Mer._ My business cannot brook this dalliance.\nGood sir, say whether you'll answer me or no:                       60\nIf not, I'll leave him to the officer.\n\n_Ant. E._ I answer you! what should I answer you?\n\n_Ang._ The money that you owe me for the chain.\n\n_Ant. E._ I owe you none till I receive the chain.\n\n_Ang._ You know I gave it you half an hour since.                   65\n\n_Ant. E._ You gave me none: you wrong me much to say so.\n\n_Ang._ You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:\nConsider how it stands upon my credit.\n\n_Sec. Mer._ Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.\n\n_Off._ I do; and charge you in the duke's name to obey me.          70\n\n_Ang._ This touches me in reputation.\nEither consent to pay this sum for me,\nOr I attach you by this officer.\n\n_Ant. E._ Consent to pay thee that I never had!\nArrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest.                          75\n\n_Ang._ Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer.\nI would not spare my brother in this case,\nIf he should scorn me so apparently.\n\n_Off._ I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit.\n\n_Ant. E._ I do obey thee till I give thee bail.                     80\nBut, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear\nAs all the metal in your shop will answer.\n\n_Ang._ Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus,\nTo your notorious shame; I doubt it not.\n\n  _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_, from the bay._\n\n_Dro. S._ Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum                      85\nThat stays but till her owner comes aboard,\nAnd then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,\nI have convey'd aboard; and I have bought\nThe oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitae.\nThe ship is in her trim; the merry wind                             90\nBlows fair from land: they stay for nought at all\nBut for their owner, master, and yourself.\n\n_Ant. E._ How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,\nWhat ship of Epidamnum stays for me?\n\n_Dro. S._ A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.                   95\n\n_Ant. E._ Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope,\nAnd told thee to what purpose and what end.\n\n_Dro. S._ You sent me for a rope's end as soon:\nYou sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.\n\n_Ant. E._ I will debate this matter at more leisure,               100\nAnd teach your ears to list me with more heed.\nTo Adriana, villain, hie thee straight:\nGive her this key, and tell her, in the desk\nThat's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry\nThere is a purse of ducats; let her send it:                       105\nTell her I am arrested in the street,\nAnd that shall bail me: hie thee, slave, be gone!\nOn, officer, to prison till it come.\n\n    [_Exeunt Sec. Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and Ant. E._\n\n_Dro. S._ To Adriana! that is where we dined,\nWhere Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:                       110\nShe is too big, I hope, for me to compass.\nThither I must, although against my will,\nFor servants must their masters' minds fulfil.    [_Exit._\n\n\n\n  NOTES: IV, 1.\n\n  8: _growing_] _owing_ Pope.\n  12: _Pleaseth you_] Ff. _Please you but_ Pope. _Please it you_\n    Anon. conj.\n  14: _may you_] F1 F2 F3. _you may_ F4.\n  17: _her_] Rowe. _their_ Ff. _these_ Collier MS.\n  26: _and_] om. Pope.\n  28: _carat_] Pope. _charect_ F1. _Raccat_ F2 F3 F4. _caract_ Collier.\n  29: _chargeful_] _charge for_ Anon. conj.\n  41: _time enough_] _in time_ Hanmer.\n  46: _stays_] _stay_ Pope.\n  _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.\n  47: _to blame_] F3. _too blame_ F1 F2 F4.\n  53: _the chain!_] Dyce. _the chain,_ Ff. _the chain--_ Johnson.\n  56: _Either_] _Or_ Pope.\n  _me by_] _by me_ Heath conj.\n  60: _whether_] _whe'r_ Ff. _where_ Rowe. _if_ Pope.\n  62: _what_] F1. _why_ F2 F3 F4.\n  67: _more_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.\n  70: Printed as verse by Capell.\n  73: _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.\n  74: _thee_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _for_ Rowe.\n  85: SCENE II. Pope.\n  _there is_] Pope. _there's_ Ff.\n  87: _And then, sir,_] F1. _Then, sir,_ F2 F3 F4. _And then_ Capell.\n  _she_] om. Steevens.\n  88: _bought_] F1. _brought_ F2 F3 F4.\n  98: _You sent me_] _A rope! You sent me_ Capell.\n    _You sent me, Sir,_ Steevens.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nThe house of _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_.\n\n  _Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA._\n\n_Adr._ Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so?\n    Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye\nThat he did plead in earnest? yea or no?\n    Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily?\nWhat observation madest thou, in this case,                          5\nOf his heart's meteors tilting in his face?\n\n_Luc._ First he denied you had in him no right.\n\n_Adr._ He meant he did me none; the more my spite.\n\n_Luc._ Then swore he that he was a stranger here.\n\n_Adr._ And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were.              10\n\n_Luc._ Then pleaded I for you.\n\n_Adr._                       And what said he?\n\n_Luc._ That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me.\n\n_Adr._ With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?\n\n_Luc._ With words that in an honest suit might move.\nFirst he did praise my beauty, then my speech.                      15\n\n_Adr._ Didst speak him fair?\n\n_Luc._                      Have patience, I beseech.\n\n_Adr._ I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still;\nMy tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.\nHe is deformed, crooked, old, and sere,\nIll-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere;                      20\nVicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;\nStigmatical in making, worse in mind.\n\n_Luc._ Who would be jealous, then, of such a one?\nNo evil lost is wail'd when it is gone.\n\n_Adr._ Ah, but I think him better than I say,                       25\n    And yet would herein others' eyes were worse.\nFar from her nest the lapwing cries away:\n    My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.\n\n  _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._\n\n_Dro. S._ Here! go; the desk, the purse! sweet, now, make haste.\n\n_Luc._ How hast thou lost thy breath?\n\n_Dro. S._                            By running fast.               30\n\n_Adr._ Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?\n\n_Dro. S._ No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.\nA devil in an everlasting garment hath him;\nOne whose hard heart is button'd up with steel;\nA fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough;                                35\nA wolf, nay, worse; a fellow all in buff;\nA back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands\nThe passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands;\nA hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well;\nOne that, before the Judgment, carries poor souls to hell.          40\n\n_Adr._ Why, man, what is the matter?\n\n_Dro. S._ I do not know the matter: he is 'rested on the case.\n\n_Adr._ What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit.\n\n_Dro. S._ I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;\nBut he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell.      45\nWill you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?\n\n_Adr._ Go fetch it, sister. [_Exit Luciana._] This I wonder at,\nThat he, unknown to me, should be in debt.\nTell me, was he arrested on a band?\n\n_Dro. S._ Not on a band, but on a stronger thing;                   50\nA chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring?\n\n_Adr._ What, the chain?\n\n_Dro. S._ No, no, the bell: 'tis time that I were gone:\nIt was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.\n\n_Adr._ The hours come back! that did I never hear.                  55\n\n_Dro. S._ O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, 'a turns back\n        for very fear.\n\n_Adr._ As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!\n\n_Dro. S._ Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's\n        worth to season.\nNay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say,\nThat Time comes stealing on by night and day?                       60\nIf Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,\nHath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?\n\n  _Re-enter LUCIANA with a purse._\n\n_Adr._ Go, Dromio; there's the money, bear it straight;\n  And bring thy master home immediately.\nCome, sister: I am press'd down with conceit,--                     65\n  Conceit, my comfort and my injury.\n\n    [_Exeunt._\n\n\n\n  NOTES: IV, 2.\n\n  SCENE II.] SCENE III. Pope.\n  2: _austerely_] _assuredly_ Heath conj.\n  4: _or sad or_] _sad_ Capell.\n  _merrily_] _merry_ Collier MS.\n  6: _Of_] F2 F3 F4. _Oh,_ F1.\n  7: _you_] _you; you_ Capell.\n  _no_] _a_ Rowe.\n  18: _his_] _it's_ Rowe.\n  22: _in mind_] F1. _the mind_ F2 F3 F4.\n  26: _herein_] _he in_ Hanmer.\n  29: SCENE IV. Pope.\n  _sweet_] _swift_ Collier MS.\n  33: _hath him_] _hath him fell_ Collier MS. _hath him by the heel_\n    Spedding conj.\n  34: _One_] F2 F3 F4. _On_ F1.\n  After this line Collier MS. inserts: _Who knows no touch of mercy,\n    cannot feel_.\n  35: _fury_] Pope, ed. 2 (Theobald). _Fairie_ Ff.\n  37: _countermands_] _commands_ Theobald.\n  38: _of_] _and_ Collier MS.\n  _alleys_] _allies_ Ff.\n  _lands_] _lanes_ Grey conj. See note (V).\n  37, 38: _countermands The ... lands_] _his court maintains I' the\n    ... lanes_ Becket conj.\n  42, 45: _'rested_] Theobald. _rested_ Ff.\n  43: _Tell_] _Well, tell_ Edd. conj.\n  44: _arrested well;_] F1. _arrested, well;_ F2 F3.\n    _arrested: well:_ F4.\n  45: _But he's_] F3 F4. _But is_ F1 F2. _But 'a's_ Edd. conj.\n  _can I_] F1 F2. _I can_ F3 F4.\n  46: _mistress, redemption_] Hanmer. _Mistris redemption_ F1 F2 F3.\n    _Mistris Redemption_ F4. See note (VI).\n  48: _That_] _Thus_ F1.\n  49, 50: _band_] _bond_ Rowe.\n  50: _but on_] _but_ Pope.\n  54-62: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.\n  55: _hear_] _here_ F1.\n  56: _'a turns_] _it turns_ Pope. _he turns_ Capell.\n  58: _bankrupt_] _bankrout_ Ff.\n  _to season_] om. Pope.\n  61: _Time_] Rowe. _I_ Ff. _he_ Malone. _'a_ Staunton.\n  62: _an hour_] _any hour_ Collier MS.\n\n\n", "summary": "At E. Antipholus's house, the women are a mess. Luciana tells Adriana about E. Antipholus's proclamations of love. Adriana wants every dirty detail of her husband's trespass. Luciana admits that S. Antipholus's words were exactly the right kind to win a girl--if a girl were to be won, of course. This continues on for a while, with Adriana declaring her hatred for E. Antipholus, even as she still prays for him. S. Dromio arrives, out of breath, and explains that Antipholus has been jailed. S. Dromio can't explain the details exactly, but h gets the bail money from Adriana and rushes off. Adriana is left to wonder at why her husband is locked up."}, {"": "136", "document": "SCENE III.\n\nA public place.\n\n  _Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse_._\n\n_Ant. S._ There's not a man I meet but doth salute me\nAs if I were their well-acquainted friend;\nAnd every one doth call me by my name.\nSome tender money to me; some invite me;\nSome other give me thanks for kindnesses;                            5\nSome offer me commodities to buy;--\nEven now a tailor call'd me in his shop,\nAnd show'd me silks that he had bought for me,\nAnd therewithal took measure of my body.\nSure, these are but imaginary wiles,                                10\nAnd Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.\n\n  _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._\n\n_Dro. S._ Master, here's the gold you sent me for.--\nWhat, have you got the picture of old Adam new-apparelled?\n\n_Ant. S._ What gold is this? what Adam dost thou mean?\n\n_Dro. S._ Not that Adam that kept the Paradise, but that            15\nAdam that keeps the prison: he that goes in the calf's skin\nthat was killed for the Prodigal; he that came behind you,\nsir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty.\n\n_Ant. S._ I understand thee not.\n\n_Dro. S._ No? why, 'tis a plain case: he that went, like a          20\nbase-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir, that, when\ngentlemen are tired, gives them a sob, and 'rests them; he, sir,\nthat takes pity on decayed men, and gives them suits of\ndurance; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with\nhis mace than a morris-pike.                                        25\n\n_Ant. S._ What, thou meanest an officer?\n\n_Dro. S._ Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band; he that\nbrings any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that\nthinks a man always going to bed, and says, 'God give you\ngood rest!'                                                         30\n\n_Ant. S._ Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there\nany ship puts forth to-night? may we be gone?\n\n_Dro. S._ Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since,\nthat the bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were\nyou hindered by the sergeant, to tarry for the hoy Delay.           35\nHere are the angels that you sent for to deliver you.\n\n_Ant. S._ The fellow is distract, and so am I;\nAnd here we wander in illusions:\nSome blessed power deliver us from hence!\n\n  _Enter a _Courtezan_._\n\n_Cour._ Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.                      40\nI see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:\nIs that the chain you promised me to-day?\n\n_Ant. S._ Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not.\n\n_Dro. S._ Master, is this Mistress Satan?\n\n_Ant. S._ It is the devil.                                          45\n\n_Dro. S._ Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's dam; and\nhere she comes in the habit of a light wench: and thereof\ncomes that the wenches say, 'God damn me;' that's as\nmuch to say, 'God make me a light wench.' It is written,\nthey appear to men like angels of light: light is an effect of      50\nfire, and fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come\nnot near her.\n\n_Cour._ Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir.\nWill you go with me? We'll mend our dinner here?\n\n_Dro. S._ Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat; or bespeak          55\na long spoon.\n\n_Ant. S._ Why, Dromio?\n\n_Dro. S._ Marry, he must have a long spoon that must\neat with the devil.\n\n_Ant. S._ Avoid then, fiend! what tell'st thou me of supping?       60\nThou art, as you are all, a sorceress:\nI conjure thee to leave me and be gone.\n\n_Cour._ Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,\nOr, for my diamond, the chain you promised,\nAnd I'll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.                         65\n\n_Dro. S._ Some devils ask but the parings of one's nail,\nA rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,\nA nut, a cherry-stone;\nBut she, more covetous, would have a chain.\nMaster, be wise: an if you give it her,                             70\nThe devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it.\n\n_Cour._ I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain:\nI hope you do not mean to cheat me so.\n\n_Ant. S._ Avaunt, thou witch! --Come, Dromio, let us go.\n\n_Dro. S._ 'Fly pride,' says the peacock: mistress, that you know.\n\n    [_Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S._                                   75\n\n_Cour._ Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad,\nElse would he never so demean himself.\nA ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,\nAnd for the same he promised me a chain:\nBoth one and other he denies me now.                                80\nThe reason that I gather he is mad,--\nBesides this present instance of his rage,--\nIs a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,\nOf his own doors being shut against his entrance.\nBelike his wife, acquainted with his fits,                          85\nOn purpose shut the doors against his way.\nMy way is now to his home to his house,\nAnd tell his wife that, being lunatic,\nHe rush'd into my house, and took perforce\nMy ring away. This course I fittest choose;                         90\nFor forty ducats is too much to lose.    [_Exit._\n\n\n\n  NOTES: IV, 3.\n\n  SCENE III.] SCENE V. Pope.\n  13: _What, have_] Pope. _What have_ Ff.\n  _got_] _got rid of_ Theobald. _not_ Anon. conj.\n  16: _calf's skin_] _calves-skin_ Ff.\n  22: _sob_] _fob_ Rowe. _bob_ Hanmer. _sop_ Dyce conj.\n    _stop_ Grant White.\n  _'rests_] Warburton. _rests_ Ff.\n  25: _morris_] _Moris_ Ff. _Maurice_ Hanmer (Warburton).\n  28: _band_] _bond_ Rowe.\n  29: _says_] Capell. _saies_ F1. _saieth_ F2. _saith_ F3 F4.\n  32: _ship_] F2 F3 F4. _ships_ F1.\n  34: _put_] _puts_ Pope.\n  40: SCENE VI. Pope.\n  44-62: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.\n  47-49: _and ... wench.'_] Marked as spurious by Capell, MS.\n  48, 49: _as much_] _as much as_ Pope.\n  54: _me? ... here?_] _me, ... here?_ Ff. _me? ... here._ Steevens.\n  55: _if you do, expect_] F2 F3 F4. _if do expect_ F1.\n  _or_] om. Rowe. _so_ Capell. _either stay away, or_ Malone conj.\n    _and_ Ritson conj. _Oh!_ Anon. conj.\n  60: _then_] F1 F2 F3. _thou_ F4. _thee_ Dyce.\n  61: _are all_] _all are_ Boswell.\n  66-71: Printed as prose by Ff, as verse by Capell, ending the\n    third line at _covetous_.\n  75: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.\n  76: SCENE VII. Pope.\n  84: _doors_] _door_ Johnson.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT III. SCENE I.\n\n_Before PROSPERO'S cell._\n\n  _Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log._\n\n_Fer._ There be some sports are painful, and their labour\nDelight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness\nAre nobly undergone, and most poor matters\nPoint to rich ends. This my mean task\nWould be as heavy to me as odious, but                               5\nThe mistress which I serve quickens what's dead,\nAnd makes my labours pleasures: O, she is\nTen times more gentle than her father's crabbed.\nAnd he's composed of harshness. I must remove\nSome thousands of these logs, and pile them up,                     10\nUpon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress\nWeeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness\nHad never like executor. I forget:\nBut these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,\nMost busy lest, when I do it.\n\n  _Enter MIRANDA; and PROSPERO at a distance, unseen._\n\n_Mir._                  Alas, now, pray you,                        15\nWork not so hard: I would the lightning had\nBurnt up those logs that you are enjoin'd to pile!\nPray, set it down, and rest you: when this burns,\n'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father\nIs hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself;                         20\nHe's safe for these three hours.\n\n_Fer._                         O most dear mistress,\nThe sun will set before I shall discharge\nWhat I must strive to do.\n\n_Mir._                  If you'll sit down,\nI'll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that;\nI'll carry it to the pile.\n\n_Fer._                   No, precious creature;                     25\nI had rather crack my sinews, break my back,\nThan you should such dishonour undergo,\nWhile I sit lazy by.\n\n_Mir._             It would become me\nAs well as it does you: and I should do it\nWith much more ease; for my good will is to it,                     30\nAnd yours it is against.\n\n_Pros._                Poor worm, thou art infected!\nThis visitation shows it.\n\n_Mir._                  You look wearily.\n\n_Fer._ No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me\nWhen you are by at night. I do beseech you,--\nChiefly that I might set it in my prayers,--                        35\nWhat is your name?\n\n_Mir._           Miranda. --O my father,\nI have broke your hest to say so!\n\n_Fer._                          Admired Miranda!\nIndeed the top of admiration! worth\nWhat's dearest to the world! Full many a lady\nI have eyed with best regard, and many a time                       40\nThe harmony of their tongues hath into bondage\nBrought my too diligent ear: for several virtues\nHave I liked several women; never any\nWith so full soul, but some defect in her\nDid quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,                        45\nAnd put it to the foil: but you, O you,\nSo perfect and so peerless, are created\nOf every creature's best!\n\n_Mir._             I do not know\nOne of my sex; no woman's face remember,\nSave, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen                      50\nMore that I may call men than you, good friend,\nAnd my dear father: how features are abroad,\nI am skilless of; but, by my modesty,\nThe jewel in my dower, I would not wish\nAny companion in the world but you;                                 55\nNor can imagination form a shape,\nBesides yourself, to like of. But I prattle\nSomething too wildly, and my father's precepts\nI therein do forget.\n\n_Fer._             I am, in my condition,\nA prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;                              60\nI would, not so!--and would no more endure\nThis wooden slavery than to suffer\nThe flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:\nThe very instant that I saw you, did\nMy heart fly to your service; there resides,                        65\nTo make me slave to it; and for your sake\nAm I this patient log-man.\n\n_Mir._                   Do you love me?\n\n_Fer._ O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound,\nAnd crown what I profess with kind event,\nIf I speak true! if hollowly, invert                                70\nWhat best is boded me to mischief! I,\nBeyond all limit of what else i' the world,\nDo love, prize, honour you.\n\n_Mir._                    I am a fool\nTo weep at what I am glad of.\n\n_Pros._                     Fair encounter\nOf two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace                     75\nOn that which breeds between 'em!\n\n_Fer._                          Wherefore weep you?\n\n_Mir._ At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer\nWhat I desire to give; and much less take\nWhat I shall die to want. But this is trifling;\nAnd all the more it seeks to hide itself,                           80\nThe bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!\nAnd prompt me, plain and holy innocence!\nI am your wife, if you will marry me;\nIf not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow\nYou may deny me; but I'll be your servant,                          85\nWhether you will or no.\n\n_Fer._                My mistress, dearest;\nAnd I thus humble ever.\n\n_Mir._                My husband, then?\n\n_Fer._ Ay, with a heart as willing\nAs bondage e'er of freedom: here's my hand.\n\n_Mir._ And mine, with my heart in't: and now farewell               90\nTill half an hour hence.\n\n_Fer._                 A thousand thousand!\n\n    [_Exeunt Fer. and Mir. severally._\n\n_Pros._ So glad of this as they I cannot be,\nWho are surprised withal; but my rejoicing\nAt nothing can be more. I'll to my book;\nFor yet, ere supper-time, must I perform                            95\nMuch business appertaining.    [_Exit._\n\n\n  Notes: III, 1.\n\n  1: _and_] _but_ Pope.\n  2: _sets_] Rowe. _set_ Ff.\n  4, 5: _my ... odious_] _my mean task would be As heavy to me as\n    'tis odious_ Pope.\n  9: _remove_] _move_ Pope.\n  14: _labours_] _labour_ Hanmer.\n  15: _Most busy lest_] F1. _Most busy least_ F2 F3 F4. _Least busy_\n    Pope. _Most busie-less_ Theobald._ Most busiest_ Holt White conj.\n    _Most busy felt_ Staunton. _Most busy still_ Staunton conj.\n    _Most busy-blest_ Collier MS. _Most busiliest_ Bullock conj.\n  _Most busy lest, when I do_ (_doe_ F1 F2 F3) _it_] _Most busy when\n    least I do it_ Brae conj. _Most busiest when idlest_ Spedding\n    conj. _Most busy left when idlest_ Edd. conj. See note (XIII).\n  at a distance, unseen] Rowe.\n  17: _you are_] F1. _thou art_ F2 F3 F4.\n  31: _it is_] _is it_ Steevens conj. (ed. 1, 2, and 3). om. Steevens\n    (ed. 4) (Farmer conj.).\n  34, 35: _I do beseech you,--Chiefly_] _I do beseech you Chiefly_ Ff.\n  59: _I therein do_] _I do_ Pope. _Therein_ Steevens.\n  62: _wooden_] _wodden_ F1.\n  _than to_] _than I would_ Pope.\n  72: _what else_] _aught else_ Malone conj. (withdrawn).\n  80: _seeks_] _seekd_ F3 F4.\n  88: _as_] F1. _so_ F2 F3 F4.\n  91: _severally_] Capell.\n  93: _withal_] Theobald. _with all_ Ff.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE III.\n\n_Another part of the island._\n\n  _Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO,\n  and others._\n\n_Gon._ By'r lakin, I can go no further, sir;\nMy old bones ache: here's a maze trod, indeed,\nThrough forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,\nI needs must rest me.\n\n_Alon._             Old lord, I cannot blame thee,\nWho am myself attach'd with weariness,                               5\nTo the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.\nEven here I will put off my hope, and keep it\nNo longer for my flatterer: he is drown'd\nWhom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks\nOur frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.                     10\n\n_Ant._ [_Aside to Seb._] I am right glad that he's so out of hope.\nDo not, for one repulse, forego the purpose\nThat you resolved to effect.\n\n_Seb._ [_Aside to Ant._] The next advantage\nWill we take throughly.\n\n_Ant._ [_Aside to Seb._] Let it be to-night;\nFor, now they are oppress'd with travel, they                       15\nWill not, nor cannot, use such vigilance\nAs when they are fresh.\n\n_Seb._ [_Aside to Ant._] I say, to-night: no more.\n\n  [_Solemn and strange music._\n\n_Alon._ What harmony is this?--My good friends, hark!\n\n_Gon._ Marvellous sweet music!\n\n  _Enter PROSPERO above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes,\n  bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of\n  salutation; and, inviting the King, &c. to eat, they depart._\n\n_Alon._ Give us kind keepers, heavens!--What were these?            20\n\n_Seb._ A living drollery. Now I will believe\nThat there are unicorns; that in Arabia\nThere is one tree, the phoenix' throne; one phoenix\nAt this hour reigning there.\n\n_Ant._                     I'll believe both;\nAnd what does else want credit, come to me,                         25\nAnd I'll be sworn 'tis true: travellers ne'er did lie,\nThough fools at home condemn 'em.\n\n_Gon._                          If in Naples\nI should report this now, would they believe me?\nIf I should say, I saw such islanders,--\nFor, certes, these are people of the island,--                      30\nWho, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,\nTheir manners are more gentle-kind than of\nOur human generation you shall find\nMany, nay, almost any.\n\n_Pros._              [_Aside_] Honest lord,\nThou hast said well; for some of you there present                  35\nAre worse than devils.\n\n_Alon._              I cannot too much muse\nSuch shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing--\nAlthough they want the use of tongue--a kind\nOf excellent dumb discourse.\n\n_Pros._                    [_Aside_] Praise in departing.\n\n_Fran._ They vanish'd strangely.\n\n_Seb._                         No matter, since                     40\nThey have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.--\nWill't please you taste of what is here?\n\n_Alon._                                Not I.\n\n_Gon._ Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,\nWho would believe that there were mountaineers\nDew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'em             45\nWallets of flesh? or that there were such men\nWhose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find\nEach putter-out of five for one will bring us\nGood warrant of.\n\n_Alon._        I will stand to, and feed,\nAlthough my last: no matter, since I feel                           50\nThe best is past. Brother, my lord the duke,\nStand to, and do as we.\n\n  _Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL, like a harpy; claps his\n  wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet\n  vanishes._\n\n_Ari._ You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,--\nThat hath to instrument this lower world\nAnd what is in't,--the never-surfeited sea                          55\nHath caused to belch up you; and on this island,\nWhere man doth not inhabit,--you 'mongst men\nBeing most unfit to live. I have made you mad;\nAnd even with such-like valour men hang and drown\nTheir proper selves.    [_Alon., Seb. &c. draw their swords._\n                   You fools! I and my fellows                      60\nAre ministers of Fate: the elements,\nOf whom your swords are temper'd, may as well\nWound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs\nKill the still-closing waters, as diminish\nOne dowle that's in my plume: my fellow-ministers                   65\nAre like invulnerable. If you could hurt,\nYour swords are now too massy for your strengths,\nAnd will not be uplifted. But remember,--\nFor that's my business to you,--that you three\nFrom Milan did supplant good Prospero;                              70\nExposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,\nHim and his innocent child: for which foul deed\nThe powers, delaying, not forgetting, have\nIncensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,\nAgainst your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,                        75\nThey have bereft; and do pronounce by me:\nLingering perdition--worse than any death\nCan be at once--shall step by step attend\nYou and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from,--\nWhich here, in this most desolate isle, else falls                  80\nUpon your heads,--is nothing but heart-sorrow\nAnd a clear life ensuing.\n\n  _He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the Shapes\n  again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carrying out the\n  table._\n\n_Pros._ Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou\nPerform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:\nOf my instruction hast thou nothing bated                           85\nIn what thou hadst to say: so, with good life\nAnd observation strange, my meaner ministers\nTheir several kinds have done. My high charms work,\nAnd these mine enemies are all knit up\nIn their distractions: they now are in my power;                    90\nAnd in these fits I leave them, while I visit\nYoung Ferdinand,--whom they suppose is drown'd,--\nAnd his and mine loved darling.    [_Exit above._\n\n_Gon._ I' the name of something holy, sir, why stand you\nIn this strange stare?\n\n_Alon._              O, it is monstrous, monstrous!                 95\nMethought the billows spoke, and told me of it;\nThe winds did sing it to me; and the thunder,\nThat deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced\nThe name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.\nTherefore my son i' th' ooze is bedded; and                        100\nI'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded,\nAnd with him there lie mudded.    [_Exit._\n\n_Seb._                       But one fiend at a time,\nI'll fight their legions o'er.\n\n_Ant._                       I'll be thy second.\n\n    [_Exeunt Seb. and Ant._\n\n_Gon._ All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,\nLike poison given to work a great time after,                      105\nNow 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you,\nThat are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly,\nAnd hinder them from what this ecstasy\nMay now provoke them to.\n\n_Adr._                 Follow, I pray you.    [_Exeunt._\n\n\n  Notes: III, 3.\n\n  2: _ache_] _ake_ F2 F3 F4. _akes_ F1.\n  3: _forth-rights_] F2 F3 F4. _fourth rights_ F1.\n  8: _flatterer_] F1. _flatterers_ F2 F3 F4.\n  17: Prospero above] Malone. Prosper on the top Ff. See note (XIV).\n  20: _were_] F1 F2 F3. _are_ F4.\n  26: _'tis true_] _to 't_ Steevens conj.\n  _did lie_] _lied_ Hanmer.\n  29: _islanders_] F2 F3 F4. _islands_ F1.\n  32: _gentle-kind_] Theobald. _gentle, kind_ Ff. _gentle kind_ Rowe.\n  36: _muse_] F1 F2 F3. _muse_, F4. _muse_; Capell.\n  48: _of five for one_] Ff. _on five for one_ Theobald.\n    _of one for five_ Malone, (Thirlby conj.) See note (XV).\n  49-51: _I will ... past_] Mason conjectured that these lines formed\n    a rhyming couplet.\n  53: SCENE IV. Pope.\n  54: _instrument_] _instruments_ F4.\n  56: _belch up you_] F1 F2 F3. _belch you up_ F4. _belch up_ Theobald.\n  60: [... draw their swords] Hanmer.\n  65: _dowle_] _down_ Pope.]\n  _plume_] Rowe. _plumbe_ F1 F2 F3. _plumb_ F4.\n  67: _strengths_] _strength_ F4.\n  79: _wraths_] _wrath_ Theobald.\n  81: _heart-sorrow_] Edd. _hearts-sorrow_ Ff. _heart's-sorrow_ Rowe.\n    _heart's sorrow_ Pope.\n  82: mocks] mopps Theobald.\n  86: _life_] _list_ Johnson conj.\n  90: _now_] om. Pope.\n  92: _whom_] _who_ Hanmer.\n  93: _mine_] _my_ Rowe.\n  [Exit above] Theobald.]\n  94: _something holy, sir_,] _something, holy Sir_, F4.\n  99: _bass_] Johnson. _base_ Ff.\n  106: _do_] om. Pope.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT I. SCENE I.\n\nOn a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise of thunder\nand lightning heard._\n\n  _Enter _a Ship-Master_ and _a Boatswain_._\n\n_Mast._ Boatswain!\n\n_Boats._ Here, master: what cheer?\n\n_Mast._ Good, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely, or\nwe run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.    [_Exit._\n\n  _Enter _Mariners_._\n\n_Boats._ Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts!              5\nyare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's\nwhistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!\n\n  _Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND, GONZALO,\n  and others._\n\n_Alon._ Good boatswain, have care. Where's the master?\nPlay the men.\n\n_Boats._ I pray now, keep below.                                    10\n\n_Ant._ Where is the master, boatswain?\n\n_Boats._ Do you not hear him? You mar our labour:\nkeep your cabins: you do assist the storm.\n\n_Gon._ Nay, good, be patient.\n\n_Boats._ When the sea is. Hence! What cares these                   15\nroarers for the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble\nus not.\n\n_Gon._ Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.\n\n_Boats._ None that I more love than myself. You are a\nCounsellor; if you can command these elements to silence,           20\nand work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope\nmore; use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you\nhave lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin\nfor the mischance of the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good\nhearts! Out of our way, I say.    [_Exit._                          25\n\n_Gon._ I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks\nhe hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is\nperfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging:\nmake the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth\nlittle advantage. If he be not born to be hanged, our case          30\nis miserable.    [_Exeunt._\n\n  _Re-enter Boatswain._\n\n_Boats._ Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower!\nBring her to try with main-course. [_A cry within._] A\nplague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather\nor our office.                                                      35\n\n  _Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO._\n\nYet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er, and\ndrown? Have you a mind to sink?\n\n_Seb._ A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous,\nincharitable dog!\n\n_Boats._ Work you, then.                                            40\n\n_Ant._ Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noise-maker.\nWe are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.\n\n_Gon._ I'll warrant him for drowning; though the ship\nwere no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched\nwench.                                                              45\n\n_Boats._ Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses off\nto sea again; lay her off.\n\n  _Enter _Mariners_ wet._\n\n_Mariners._ All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!\n\n_Boats._ What, must our mouths be cold?\n\n_Gon._ The king and prince at prayers! let's assist them,           50\nFor our case is as theirs.\n\n_Seb._                   I'm out of patience.\n\n_Ant._ We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards:\nThis wide-chapp'd rascal,--would thou mightst lie drowning\nThe washing of ten tides!\n\n_Gon._                  He'll be hang'd yet,\nThough every drop of water swear against it,                        55\nAnd gape at widest to glut him.\n\n  [_A confused noise within:_ \"Mercy on us!\"--\n  \"We split, we split!\"-- \"Farewell my wife and children!\"--\n  \"Farewell, brother!\"-- \"We split, we split, we split!\"]\n\n_Ant._ Let's all sink with the king.                                60\n\n_Seb._ Let's take leave of him. [_Exeunt Ant. and Seb._\n\n_Gon._ Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for\nan acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any\nthing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a\ndry death.    [_Exeunt._                                            65\n\n\n  Notes: I, 1.\n\n  SC. I. On a ship at sea] Pope.\n  Enter ... Boatswain] Collier MS. adds 'shaking off wet.'\n  3: _Good,_] Rowe. _Good:_ Ff. _Good._ Collier.\n  7: _till thou burst thy wind_] _till thou burst, wind_ Johnson conj.\n    _till thou burst thee, wind_ Steevens conj.\n  8: Capell adds stage direction [Exeunt Mariners aloft.\n  11: _boatswain_] Pope. _boson_ Ff.\n  11-18: Verse. S. Walker conj.\n  15: _cares_] _care_ Rowe. See note (I).\n  31:  [Exeunt] Theobald. [Exit. Ff.\n  33: _Bring her to try_] F4. _Bring her to Try_ F1 F2 F3.\n    _Bring her to. Try_ Story conj.\n  33-35: Text as in Capell. _A plague_--A cry within. Enter Sebastian,\n    Anthonio, and Gonzalo. _upon this howling._ Ff.\n  34-37: Verse. S. Walker conj.\n  43: _for_] _from_ Theobald.\n  46: _two courses off to sea_] _two courses; off to sea_ Steevens\n    (Holt conj.).\n  46: [Enter...] [Re-enter... Dyce.\n  47: [Exeunt. Theobald.\n  50: _at_] _are at_ Rowe.\n  50-54: Printed as prose in Ff.\n  56: _to glut_] _t' englut_ Johnson conj.\n  57: See note (II).\n  59: _Farewell, brother!_] _Brother, farewell!_ Theobald.\n  60: _with the_] Rowe. _with'_ F1 F2. _with_ F3 F4.\n  61: [Exeunt A. and S.] [Exit. Ff.\n  63: _furze_ Rowe. _firrs_ F1 F2 F3. _firs_ F4.\n  _long heath, brown furze_] _ling, heath, broom, furze_ Hanmer.]\n  65: [Exeunt] [Exit F1, om. F2 F3 F4.]\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT I. SCENE I.\nAlexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace\n\nEnter DEMETRIUS and PHILO\n\n  PHILO. Nay, but this dotage of our general's\n    O'erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes,\n    That o'er the files and musters of the war\n    Have glow'd like plated Mars, now bend, now turn,\n    The office and devotion of their view\n    Upon a tawny front. His captain's heart,\n    Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst\n    The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper,\n    And is become the bellows and the fan\n    To cool a gipsy's lust.\n\n     Flourish. Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, her LADIES, the train,\n                    with eunuchs fanning her\n\n    Look where they come!\n    Take but good note, and you shall see in him\n    The triple pillar of the world transform'd\n    Into a strumpet's fool. Behold and see.\n  CLEOPATRA. If it be love indeed, tell me how much.\n  ANTONY. There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.\n  CLEOPATRA. I'll set a bourn how far to be belov'd.\n  ANTONY. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.\n\n                       Enter a MESSENGER\n\n  MESSENGER. News, my good lord, from Rome.\n  ANTONY. Grates me the sum.\n  CLEOPATRA. Nay, hear them, Antony.\n    Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows\n    If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent\n    His pow'rful mandate to you: 'Do this or this;\n    Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that;\n    Perform't, or else we damn thee.'\n  ANTONY. How, my love?\n  CLEOPATRA. Perchance? Nay, and most like,\n    You must not stay here longer; your dismission\n    Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.\n    Where's Fulvia's process? Caesar's I would say? Both?\n    Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt's Queen,\n    Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine\n    Is Caesar's homager. Else so thy cheek pays shame\n    When shrill-tongu'd Fulvia scolds. The messengers!\n  ANTONY. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch\n    Of the rang'd empire fall! Here is my space.\n    Kingdoms are clay; our dungy earth alike\n    Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life\n    Is to do thus [emhracing], when such a mutual pair\n    And such a twain can do't, in which I bind,\n    On pain of punishment, the world to weet\n    We stand up peerless.\n  CLEOPATRA. Excellent falsehood!\n    Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?\n    I'll seem the fool I am not. Antony\n    Will be himself.\n  ANTONY. But stirr'd by Cleopatra.\n    Now for the love of Love and her soft hours,\n    Let's not confound the time with conference harsh;\n    There's not a minute of our lives should stretch\n    Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night?\n  CLEOPATRA. Hear the ambassadors.\n  ANTONY. Fie, wrangling queen!\n    Whom everything becomes- to chide, to laugh,\n    To weep; whose every passion fully strives\n    To make itself in thee fair and admir'd.\n    No messenger but thine, and all alone\n    To-night we'll wander through the streets and note\n    The qualities of people. Come, my queen;\n    Last night you did desire it. Speak not to us.\n                     Exeunt ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, with the train\n  DEMETRIUS. Is Caesar with Antonius priz'd so slight?\n  PHILO. Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony,\n    He comes too short of that great property\n    Which still should go with Antony.\n  DEMETRIUS. I am full sorry\n    That he approves the common liar, who\n    Thus speaks of him at Rome; but I will hope\n    Of better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy!            Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE III.\nAlexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace\n\nEnter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS\n\n  CLEOPATRA. Where is he?\n  CHARMIAN. I did not see him since.\n  CLEOPATRA. See where he is, who's with him, what he does.\n    I did not send you. If you find him sad,\n    Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report\n    That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return.        Exit ALEXAS\n  CHARMIAN. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,\n    You do not hold the method to enforce\n    The like from him.\n  CLEOPATRA. What should I do I do not?\n  CHARMIAN. In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.\n  CLEOPATRA. Thou teachest like a fool- the way to lose him.\n  CHARMIAN. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear;\n    In time we hate that which we often fear.\n\n                            Enter ANTONY\n\n    But here comes Antony.\n  CLEOPATRA. I am sick and sullen.\n  ANTONY. I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose-\n  CLEOPATRA. Help me away, dear Charmian; I shall fall.\n    It cannot be thus long; the sides of nature\n    Will not sustain it.\n  ANTONY. Now, my dearest queen-\n  CLEOPATRA. Pray you, stand farther from me.\n  ANTONY. What's the matter?\n  CLEOPATRA. I know by that same eye there's some good news.\n    What says the married woman? You may go.\n    Would she had never given you leave to come!\n    Let her not say 'tis I that keep you here-\n    I have no power upon you; hers you are.\n  ANTONY. The gods best know-\n  CLEOPATRA. O, never was there queen\n    So mightily betray'd! Yet at the first\n    I saw the treasons planted.\n  ANTONY. Cleopatra-\n  CLEOPATRA. Why should I think you can be mine and true,\n    Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,\n    Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,\n    To be entangled with those mouth-made vows,\n    Which break themselves in swearing!\n  ANTONY. Most sweet queen-\n  CLEOPATRA. Nay, pray you seek no colour for your going,\n    But bid farewell, and go. When you sued staying,\n    Then was the time for words. No going then!\n    Eternity was in our lips and eyes,\n    Bliss in our brows' bent, none our parts so poor\n    But was a race of heaven. They are so still,\n    Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,\n    Art turn'd the greatest liar.\n  ANTONY. How now, lady!\n  CLEOPATRA. I would I had thy inches. Thou shouldst know\n    There were a heart in Egypt.\n  ANTONY. Hear me, queen:\n    The strong necessity of time commands\n    Our services awhile; but my full heart\n    Remains in use with you. Our Italy\n    Shines o'er with civil swords: Sextus Pompeius\n    Makes his approaches to the port of Rome;\n    Equality of two domestic powers\n    Breed scrupulous faction; the hated, grown to strength,\n    Are newly grown to love. The condemn'd Pompey,\n    Rich in his father's honour, creeps apace\n    Into the hearts of such as have not thrived\n    Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten;\n    And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge\n    By any desperate change. My more particular,\n    And that which most with you should safe my going,\n    Is Fulvia's death.\n  CLEOPATRA. Though age from folly could not give me freedom,\n     It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?\n  ANTONY. She's dead, my Queen.\n    Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read\n    The garboils she awak'd. At the last, best.\n    See when and where she died.\n  CLEOPATRA. O most false love!\n    Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill\n    With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,\n    In Fulvia's death how mine receiv'd shall be.\n  ANTONY. Quarrel no more, but be prepar'd to know\n    The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,\n    As you shall give th' advice. By the fire\n    That quickens Nilus' slime, I go from hence\n    Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war\n    As thou affects.\n  CLEOPATRA. Cut my lace, Charmian, come!\n    But let it be; I am quickly ill and well-\n    So Antony loves.\n  ANTONY. My precious queen, forbear,\n    And give true evidence to his love, which stands\n    An honourable trial.\n  CLEOPATRA. So Fulvia told me.\n    I prithee turn aside and weep for her;\n    Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears\n    Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene\n    Of excellent dissembling, and let it look\n    Like perfect honour.\n  ANTONY. You'll heat my blood; no more.\n  CLEOPATRA. You can do better yet; but this is meetly.\n  ANTONY. Now, by my sword-\n  CLEOPATRA. And target. Still he mends;\n    But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,\n    How this Herculean Roman does become\n    The carriage of his chafe.\n  ANTONY. I'll leave you, lady.\n  CLEOPATRA. Courteous lord, one word.\n    Sir, you and I must part- but that's not it.\n    Sir, you and I have lov'd- but there's not it.\n    That you know well. Something it is I would-\n    O, my oblivion is a very Antony,\n    And I am all forgotten!\n  ANTONY. But that your royalty\n    Holds idleness your subject, I should take you\n    For idleness itself.\n  CLEOPATRA. 'Tis sweating labour\n    To bear such idleness so near the heart\n    As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me;\n    Since my becomings kill me when they do not\n    Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence;\n    Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,\n    And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword\n    Sit laurel victory, and smooth success\n    Be strew'd before your feet!\n  ANTONY. Let us go. Come.\n    Our separation so abides and flies\n    That thou, residing here, goes yet with me,\n    And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.\n    Away!                                                 Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IV.\nRome. CAESAR'S house\n\nEnter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, reading a letter; LEPIDUS, and their train\n\n  CAESAR. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,\n    It is not Caesar's natural vice to hate\n    Our great competitor. From Alexandria\n    This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes\n    The lamps of night in revel; is not more manlike\n    Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy\n    More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or\n    Vouchsaf'd to think he had partners. You shall find there\n    A man who is the abstract of all faults\n    That all men follow.\n  LEPIDUS. I must not think there are\n    Evils enow to darken all his goodness.\n    His faults, in him, seem as the spots of heaven,\n    More fiery by night's blackness; hereditary\n    Rather than purchas'd; what he cannot change\n    Than what he chooses.\n  CAESAR. You are too indulgent. Let's grant it is not\n    Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy,\n    To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit\n    And keep the turn of tippling with a slave,\n    To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet\n    With knaves that smell of sweat. Say this becomes him-\n    As his composure must be rare indeed\n    Whom these things cannot blemish- yet must Antony\n    No way excuse his foils when we do bear\n    So great weight in his lightness. If he fill'd\n    His vacancy with his voluptuousness,\n    Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones\n    Call on him for't! But to confound such time\n    That drums him from his sport and speaks as loud\n    As his own state and ours- 'tis to be chid\n    As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge,\n    Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,\n    And so rebel to judgment.\n\n                   Enter a MESSENGER\n\n  LEPIDUS. Here's more news.\n  MESSENGER. Thy biddings have been done; and every hour,\n    Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report\n    How 'tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea,\n    And it appears he is belov'd of those\n    That only have fear'd Caesar. To the ports\n    The discontents repair, and men's reports\n    Give him much wrong'd.\n  CAESAR. I should have known no less.\n    It hath been taught us from the primal state\n    That he which is was wish'd until he were;\n    And the ebb'd man, ne'er lov'd till ne'er worth love,\n    Comes dear'd by being lack'd. This common body,\n    Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,\n    Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,\n    To rot itself with motion.\n  MESSENGER. Caesar, I bring thee word\n    Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates,\n    Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound\n    With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads\n    They make in Italy; the borders maritime\n    Lack blood to think on't, and flush youth revolt.\n    No vessel can peep forth but 'tis as soon\n    Taken as seen; for Pompey's name strikes more\n    Than could his war resisted.\n  CAESAR. Antony,\n    Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once\n    Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew'st\n    Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel\n    Did famine follow; whom thou fought'st against,\n    Though daintily brought up, with patience more\n    Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink\n    The stale of horses and the gilded puddle\n    Which beasts would cough at. Thy palate then did deign\n    The roughest berry on the rudest hedge;\n    Yea, like the stag when snow the pasture sheets,\n    The barks of trees thou brows'd. On the Alps\n    It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh,\n    Which some did die to look on. And all this-\n    It wounds thine honour that I speak it now-\n    Was borne so like a soldier that thy cheek\n    So much as lank'd not.\n  LEPIDUS. 'Tis pity of him.\n  CAESAR. Let his shames quickly\n    Drive him to Rome. 'Tis time we twain\n    Did show ourselves i' th' field; and to that end\n    Assemble we immediate council. Pompey\n    Thrives in our idleness.\n  LEPIDUS. To-morrow, Caesar,\n    I shall be furnish'd to inform you rightly\n    Both what by sea and land I can be able\n    To front this present time.\n  CAESAR. Till which encounter\n    It is my business too. Farewell.\n  LEPIDUS. Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime\n    Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,\n    To let me be partaker.\n  CAESAR. Doubt not, sir;\n    I knew it for my bond.                                Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE V.\nAlexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace\n\nEnter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN\n\n  CLEOPATRA. Charmian!\n  CHARMIAN. Madam?\n  CLEOPATRA. Ha, ha!\n    Give me to drink mandragora.\n  CHARMIAN. Why, madam?\n  CLEOPATRA. That I might sleep out this great gap of time\n    My Antony is away.\n  CHARMIAN. You think of him too much.\n  CLEOPATRA. O, 'tis treason!\n  CHARMIAN. Madam, I trust, not so.\n  CLEOPATRA. Thou, eunuch Mardian!\n  MARDIAN. What's your Highness' pleasure?\n  CLEOPATRA. Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleasure\n    In aught an eunuch has. 'Tis well for thee\n    That, being unseminar'd, thy freer thoughts\n    May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?\n  MARDIAN. Yes, gracious madam.\n  CLEOPATRA. Indeed?\n  MARDIAN. Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing\n    But what indeed is honest to be done.\n    Yet have I fierce affections, and think\n    What Venus did with Mars.\n  CLEOPATRA. O Charmian,\n    Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he or sits he?\n    Or does he walk? or is he on his horse?\n    O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!\n    Do bravely, horse; for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?\n    The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm\n    And burgonet of men. He's speaking now,\n    Or murmuring 'Where's my serpent of old Nile?'\n    For so he calls me. Now I feed myself\n    With most delicious poison. Think on me,\n    That am with Phoebus' amorous pinches black,\n    And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,\n    When thou wast here above the ground, I was\n    A morsel for a monarch; and great Pompey\n    Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;\n    There would he anchor his aspect and die\n    With looking on his life.\n\n                         Enter ALEXAS\n\n  ALEXAS. Sovereign of Egypt, hail!\n  CLEOPATRA. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!\n    Yet, coming from him, that great med'cine hath\n    With his tinct gilded thee.\n    How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?\n  ALEXAS. Last thing he did, dear Queen,\n    He kiss'd- the last of many doubled kisses-\n    This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.\n  CLEOPATRA. Mine ear must pluck it thence.\n  ALEXAS. 'Good friend,' quoth he\n    'Say the firm Roman to great Egypt sends\n    This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,\n    To mend the petty present, I will piece\n    Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the East,\n    Say thou, shall call her mistress.' So he nodded,\n    And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,\n    Who neigh'd so high that what I would have spoke\n    Was beastly dumb'd by him.\n  CLEOPATRA. What, was he sad or merry?\n  ALEXAS. Like to the time o' th' year between the extremes\n    Of hot and cold; he was nor sad nor merry.\n  CLEOPATRA. O well-divided disposition! Note him,\n    Note him, good Charmian; 'tis the man; but note him!\n    He was not sad, for he would shine on those\n    That make their looks by his; he was not merry,\n    Which seem'd to tell them his remembrance lay\n    In Egypt with his joy; but between both.\n    O heavenly mingle! Be'st thou sad or merry,\n    The violence of either thee becomes,\n    So does it no man else. Met'st thou my posts?\n  ALEXAS. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers.\n    Why do you send so thick?\n  CLEOPATRA. Who's born that day\n    When I forget to send to Antony\n    Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.\n    Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,\n    Ever love Caesar so?\n  CHARMIAN. O that brave Caesar!\n  CLEOPATRA. Be chok'd with such another emphasis!\n    Say 'the brave Antony.'\n  CHARMIAN. The valiant Caesar!\n  CLEOPATRA. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth\n    If thou with Caesar paragon again\n    My man of men.\n  CHARMIAN. By your most gracious pardon,\n    I sing but after you.\n  CLEOPATRA. My salad days,\n    When I was green in judgment, cold in blood,\n    To say as I said then. But come, away!\n    Get me ink and paper.\n    He shall have every day a several greeting,\n    Or I'll unpeople Egypt.                               Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT II. SCENE I.\nMessina. POMPEY'S house\n\nEnter POMPEY, MENECRATES, and MENAS, in warlike manner\n\n  POMPEY. If the great gods be just, they shall assist\n    The deeds of justest men.\n  MENECRATES. Know, worthy Pompey,\n    That what they do delay they not deny.\n  POMPEY. Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays\n    The thing we sue for.\n  MENECRATES. We, ignorant of ourselves,\n    Beg often our own harms, which the wise pow'rs\n    Deny us for our good; so find we profit\n    By losing of our prayers.\n  POMPEY. I shall do well.\n    The people love me, and the sea is mine;\n    My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope\n    Says it will come to th' full. Mark Antony\n    In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make\n    No wars without doors. Caesar gets money where\n    He loses hearts. Lepidus flatters both,\n    Of both is flatter'd; but he neither loves,\n    Nor either cares for him.\n  MENAS. Caesar and Lepidus\n    Are in the field. A mighty strength they carry.\n  POMPEY. Where have you this? 'Tis false.\n  MENAS. From Silvius, sir.\n  POMPEY. He dreams. I know they are in Rome together,\n    Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love,\n    Salt Cleopatra, soften thy wan'd lip!\n    Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both;\n    Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts,\n    Keep his brain fuming. Epicurean cooks\n    Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite,\n    That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour\n    Even till a Lethe'd dullness-\n\n                       Enter VARRIUS\n\n    How now, Varrius!\n  VARRIUS. This is most certain that I shall deliver:\n    Mark Antony is every hour in Rome\n    Expected. Since he went from Egypt 'tis\n    A space for farther travel.\n  POMPEY. I could have given less matter\n    A better ear. Menas, I did not think\n    This amorous surfeiter would have donn'd his helm\n    For such a petty war; his soldiership\n    Is twice the other twain. But let us rear\n    The higher our opinion, that our stirring\n    Can from the lap of Egypt's widow pluck\n    The ne'er-lust-wearied Antony.\n  MENAS. I cannot hope\n    Caesar and Antony shall well greet together.\n    His wife that's dead did trespasses to Caesar;\n    His brother warr'd upon him; although, I think,\n    Not mov'd by Antony.\n  POMPEY. I know not, Menas,\n    How lesser enmities may give way to greater.\n    Were't not that we stand up against them all,\n    'Twere pregnant they should square between themselves;\n    For they have entertained cause enough\n    To draw their swords. But how the fear of us\n    May cement their divisions, and bind up\n    The petty difference we yet not know.\n    Be't as our gods will have't! It only stands\n    Our lives upon to use our strongest hands.\n    Come, Menas.                                          Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IV.\nRome. A street\n\nEnter LEPIDUS, MAECENAS, and AGRIPPA\n\n  LEPIDUS. Trouble yourselves no further. Pray you hasten\n    Your generals after.\n  AGRIPPA. Sir, Mark Antony\n    Will e'en but kiss Octavia, and we'll follow.\n  LEPIDUS. Till I shall see you in your soldier's dress,\n    Which will become you both, farewell.\n  MAECENAS. We shall,\n    As I conceive the journey, be at th' Mount\n    Before you, Lepidus.\n  LEPIDUS. Your way is shorter;\n    My purposes do draw me much about.\n    You'll win two days upon me.\n  BOTH. Sir, good success!\n  LEPIDUS. Farewell.                                      Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE VI.\nNear Misenum\n\nFlourish. Enter POMPEY and MENAS at one door, with drum and\ntrumpet;\nat another, CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, ENOBARBUS, MAECENAS,\nAGRIPPA,\nwith soldiers marching\n\n  POMPEY. Your hostages I have, so have you mine;\n    And we shall talk before we fight.\n  CAESAR. Most meet\n    That first we come to words; and therefore have we\n    Our written purposes before us sent;\n    Which if thou hast considered, let us know\n    If 'twill tie up thy discontented sword\n    And carry back to Sicily much tall youth\n    That else must perish here.\n  POMPEY. To you all three,\n    The senators alone of this great world,\n    Chief factors for the gods: I do not know\n    Wherefore my father should revengers want,\n    Having a son and friends, since Julius Caesar,\n    Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,\n    There saw you labouring for him. What was't\n    That mov'd pale Cassius to conspire? and what\n    Made the all-honour'd honest Roman, Brutus,\n    With the arm'd rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom,\n    To drench the Capitol, but that they would\n    Have one man but a man? And that is it\n    Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden\n    The anger'd ocean foams; with which I meant\n    To scourge th' ingratitude that despiteful Rome\n    Cast on my noble father.\n  CAESAR. Take your time.\n  ANTONY. Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails;\n    We'll speak with thee at sea; at land thou know'st\n    How much we do o'er-count thee.\n  POMPEY. At land, indeed,\n    Thou dost o'er-count me of my father's house.\n    But since the cuckoo builds not for himself,\n    Remain in't as thou mayst.\n  LEPIDUS. Be pleas'd to tell us-\n    For this is from the present- how you take\n    The offers we have sent you.\n  CAESAR. There's the point.\n  ANTONY. Which do not be entreated to, but weigh\n    What it is worth embrac'd.\n  CAESAR. And what may follow,\n    To try a larger fortune.\n  POMPEY. You have made me offer\n    Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must\n    Rid all the sea of pirates; then to send\n    Measures of wheat to Rome; this 'greed upon,\n    To part with unhack'd edges and bear back\n    Our targes undinted.\n  ALL. That's our offer.\n  POMPEY. Know, then,\n    I came before you here a man prepar'd\n    To take this offer; but Mark Antony\n    Put me to some impatience. Though I lose\n    The praise of it by telling, you must know,\n    When Caesar and your brother were at blows,\n    Your mother came to Sicily and did find\n    Her welcome friendly.\n  ANTONY. I have heard it, Pompey,\n    And am well studied for a liberal thanks\n    Which I do owe you.\n  POMPEY. Let me have your hand.\n    I did not think, sir, to have met you here.\n  ANTONY. The beds i' th' East are soft; and thanks to you,\n    That call'd me timelier than my purpose hither;\n    For I have gained by't.\n  CAESAR. Since I saw you last\n    There is a change upon you.\n  POMPEY. Well, I know not\n    What counts harsh fortune casts upon my face;\n    But in my bosom shall she never come\n    To make my heart her vassal.\n  LEPIDUS. Well met here.\n  POMPEY. I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed.\n    I crave our composition may be written,\n    And seal'd between us.\n  CAESAR. That's the next to do.\n  POMPEY. We'll feast each other ere we part, and let's\n    Draw lots who shall begin.\n  ANTONY. That will I, Pompey.\n  POMPEY. No, Antony, take the lot;\n    But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery\n    Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar\n    Grew fat with feasting there.\n  ANTONY. You have heard much.\n  POMPEY. I have fair meanings, sir.\n  ANTONY. And fair words to them.\n  POMPEY. Then so much have I heard;\n    And I have heard Apollodorus carried-\n  ENOBARBUS. No more of that! He did so.\n  POMPEY. What, I pray you?\n  ENOBARBUS. A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.\n  POMPEY. I know thee now. How far'st thou, soldier?\n  ENOBARBUS. Well;\n    And well am like to do, for I perceive\n    Four feasts are toward.\n  POMPEY. Let me shake thy hand.\n    I never hated thee; I have seen thee fight,\n    When I have envied thy behaviour.\n  ENOBARBUS. Sir,\n    I never lov'd you much; but I ha' prais'd ye\n    When you have well deserv'd ten times as much\n    As I have said you did.\n  POMPEY. Enjoy thy plainness;\n    It nothing ill becomes thee.\n    Aboard my galley I invite you all.\n    Will you lead, lords?\n  ALL. Show's the way, sir.\n  POMPEY. Come.               Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS\n  MENAS. [Aside] Thy father, Pompey, would ne'er have made this\n    treaty.- You and I have known, sir.\n  ENOBARBUS. At sea, I think.\n  MENAS. We have, sir.\n  ENOBARBUS. You have done well by water.\n  MENAS. And you by land.\n  ENOBARBUS. I Will praise any man that will praise me; though it\n\n\n    cannot be denied what I have done by land.\n  MENAS. Nor what I have done by water.\n  ENOBARBUS. Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you\n    have been a great thief by sea.\n  MENAS. And you by land.\n  ENOBARBUS. There I deny my land service. But give me your hand,\n    Menas; if our eyes had authority, here they might take two\n    thieves kissing.\n  MENAS. All men's faces are true, whatsome'er their hands are.\n  ENOBARBUS. But there is never a fair woman has a true face.\n  MENAS. No slander: they steal hearts.\n  ENOBARBUS. We came hither to fight with you.\n  MENAS. For my part, I am sorry it is turn'd to a drinking.\n    Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune.\n  ENOBARBUS. If he do, sure he cannot weep't back again.\n  MENAS. Y'have said, sir. We look'd not for Mark Antony here.\nPray\n    you, is he married to Cleopatra?\n  ENOBARBUS. Caesar' sister is call'd Octavia.\n  MENAS. True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus.\n  ENOBARBUS. But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.\n  MENAS. Pray ye, sir?\n  ENOBARBUS. 'Tis true.\n  MENAS. Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.\n  ENOBARBUS. If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not\n    prophesy so.\n  MENAS. I think the policy of that purpose made more in the\nmarriage\n    than the love of the parties.\n  ENOBARBUS. I think so too. But you shall find the band that\nseems\n    to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler\nof\n    their amity: Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still\nconversation.\n  MENAS. Who would not have his wife so?\n  ENOBARBUS. Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony.\nHe\n    will to his Egyptian dish again; then shall the sighs of\nOctavia\n    blow the fire up in Caesar, and, as I said before, that which\nis\n    the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author\nof\n    their variance. Antony will use his affection where it is; he\n    married but his occasion here.\n  MENAS. And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a\n    health for you.\n  ENOBARBUS. I shall take it, sir. We have us'd our throats in\nEgypt.\n  MENAS. Come, let's away.                                Exeunt\n\nACT_2|SC_7\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE VII.\n             On board POMPEY'S galley, off Misenum\n\n     Music plays. Enter two or three SERVANTS with a banquet\n\n  FIRST SERVANT. Here they'll be, man. Some o' their plants are\n    ill-rooted already; the least wind i' th' world will blow\nthem\n    down.\n  SECOND SERVANT. Lepidus is high-colour'd.\n  FIRST SERVANT. They have made him drink alms-drink.\n  SECOND SERVANT. As they pinch one another by the disposition,\nhe\n    cries out 'No more!'; reconciles them to his entreaty and\nhimself\n    to th' drink.\n  FIRST SERVANT. But it raises the greater war between him and\nhis\n    discretion.\n  SECOND SERVANT. Why, this it is to have a name in great men's\n    fellowship. I had as lief have a reed that will do me no\nservice\n    as a partizan I could not heave.\n  FIRST SERVANT. To be call'd into a huge sphere, and not to be\nseen\n    to move in't, are the holes where eyes should be, which\npitifully\n    disaster the cheeks.\n\n           A sennet sounded. Enter CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS,\n            POMPEY, AGRIPPA, MAECENAS, ENOBARBUS, MENAS,\n                         with other CAPTAINS\n\n  ANTONY. [To CAESAR] Thus do they, sir: they take the flow o'\nth'\n      Nile\n    By certain scales i' th' pyramid; they know\n    By th' height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth\n    Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells\n    The more it promises; as it ebbs, the seedsman\n    Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain,\n    And shortly comes to harvest.\n  LEPIDUS. Y'have strange serpents there.\n  ANTONY. Ay, Lepidus.\n  LEPIDUS. Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the\n    operation of your sun; so is your crocodile.\n  ANTONY. They are so.\n  POMPEY. Sit- and some wine! A health to Lepidus!\n  LEPIDUS. I am not so well as I should be, but I'll ne'er out.\n  ENOBARBUS. Not till you have slept. I fear me you'll be in till\n\n\n    then.\n  LEPIDUS. Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies' pyramises\nare\n    very goodly things. Without contradiction I have heard that.\n  MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] Pompey, a word.\n  POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] Say in mine ear; what is't?\n  MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee,\n      Captain,\n    And hear me speak a word.\n  POMPEY. [ Whispers in's ear ] Forbear me till anon-\n    This wine for Lepidus!\n  LEPIDUS. What manner o' thing is your crocodile?\n  ANTONY. It is shap'd, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as\nit\n    hath breadth; it is just so high as it is, and moves with it\nown\n    organs. It lives by that which nourisheth it, and the\nelements\n    once out of it, it transmigrates.\n  LEPIDUS. What colour is it of?\n  ANTONY. Of it own colour too.\n  LEPIDUS. 'Tis a strange serpent.\n  ANTONY. 'Tis so. And the tears of it are wet.\n  CAESAR. Will this description satisfy him?\n  ANTONY. With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a\nvery\n    epicure.\n  POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] Go, hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that!\n      Away!\n    Do as I bid you.- Where's this cup I call'd for?\n  MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] If for the sake of merit thou wilt\nhear\n      me,\n    Rise from thy stool.\n  POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] I think th'art mad. [Rises and walks\n    aside] The matter?\n  MENAS. I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.\n  POMPEY. Thou hast serv'd me with much faith. What's else to\nsay?-\n    Be jolly, lords.\n  ANTONY. These quicksands, Lepidus,\n    Keep off them, for you sink.\n  MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of all the world?\n  POMPEY. What say'st thou?\n  MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That's twice.\n  POMPEY. How should that be?\n  MENAS. But entertain it,\n    And though you think me poor, I am the man\n    Will give thee all the world.\n  POMPEY. Hast thou drunk well?\n  MENAS. No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.\n    Thou art, if thou dar'st be, the earthly Jove;\n    Whate'er the ocean pales or sky inclips\n    Is thine, if thou wilt ha't.\n  POMPEY. Show me which way.\n  MENAS. These three world-sharers, these competitors,\n    Are in thy vessel. Let me cut the cable;\n    And when we are put off, fall to their throats.\n    All there is thine.\n  POMPEY. Ah, this thou shouldst have done,\n    And not have spoke on't. In me 'tis villainy:\n    In thee't had been good service. Thou must know\n    'Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour:\n    Mine honour, it. Repent that e'er thy tongue\n    Hath so betray'd thine act. Being done unknown,\n    I should have found it afterwards well done,\n    But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.\n  MENAS. [Aside] For this,\n    I'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more.\n    Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,\n    Shall never find it more.\n  POMPEY. This health to Lepidus!\n  ANTONY. Bear him ashore. I'll pledge it for him, Pompey.\n  ENOBARBUS. Here's to thee, Menas!\n  MENAS. Enobarbus, welcome!\n  POMPEY. Fill till the cup be hid.\n  ENOBARBUS. There's a strong fellow, Menas.\n               [Pointing to the servant who carries off LEPIDUS]\n  MENAS. Why?\n  ENOBARBUS. 'A bears the third part of the world, man; see'st\nnot?\n  MENAS. The third part, then, is drunk. Would it were all,\n    That it might go on wheels!\n  ENOBARBUS. Drink thou; increase the reels.\n  MENAS. Come.\n  POMPEY. This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.\n  ANTONY. It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho!\n    Here's to Caesar!\n  CAESAR. I could well forbear't.\n    It's monstrous labour when I wash my brain\n    And it grows fouler.\n  ANTONY. Be a child o' th' time.\n  CAESAR. Possess it, I'll make answer.\n    But I had rather fast from all four days\n    Than drink so much in one.\n  ENOBARBUS. [To ANTONY] Ha, my brave emperor!\n    Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals\n    And celebrate our drink?\n  POMPEY. Let's ha't, good soldier.\n  ANTONY. Come, let's all take hands,\n    Till that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense\n    In soft and delicate Lethe.\n  ENOBARBUS. All take hands.\n    Make battery to our ears with the loud music,\n    The while I'll place you; then the boy shall sing;\n    The holding every man shall bear as loud\n    As his strong sides can volley.\n               [Music plays. ENOBARBUS places them hand in hand]\n\n\n                        THE SONG\n            Come, thou monarch of the vine,\n            Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!\n            In thy fats our cares be drown'd,\n            With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd.\n            Cup us till the world go round,\n            Cup us till the world go round!\n\n  CAESAR. What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother,\n    Let me request you off; our graver business\n    Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let's part;\n    You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb\n    Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue\n    Splits what it speaks. The wild disguise hath almost\n    Antick'd us all. What needs more words? Good night.\n    Good Antony, your hand.\n  POMPEY. I'll try you on the shore.\n  ANTONY. And shall, sir. Give's your hand.\n  POMPEY. O Antony,\n    You have my father's house- but what? We are friends.\n    Come, down into the boat.\n  ENOBARBUS. Take heed you fall not.\n                              Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS\n    Menas, I'll not on shore.\n  MENAS. No, to my cabin.\n    These drums! these trumpets, flutes! what!\n    Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell\n    To these great fellows. Sound and be hang'd, sound out!\n                                  [Sound a flourish, with drums]\n  ENOBARBUS. Hoo! says 'a. There's my cap.\n  MENAS. Hoo! Noble Captain, come.                        Exeunt\nACT_3|SC_1\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT III. SCENE I.\n                     A plain in Syria\n\n       Enter VENTIDIUS, as it were in triumph, with SILIUS\n      and other Romans, OFFICERS and soldiers; the dead body\n                of PACORUS borne before him\n\n  VENTIDIUS. Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck, and now\n    Pleas'd fortune does of Marcus Crassus' death\n    Make me revenger. Bear the King's son's body\n    Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes,\n    Pays this for Marcus Crassus.\n  SILIUS. Noble Ventidius,\n    Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm\n    The fugitive Parthians follow; spur through Media,\n    Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither\n    The routed fly. So thy grand captain, Antony,\n    Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and\n    Put garlands on thy head.\n  VENTIDIUS. O Silius, Silius,\n    I have done enough. A lower place, note well,\n    May make too great an act; for learn this, Silius:\n    Better to leave undone than by our deed\n    Acquire too high a fame when him we serve's away.\n    Caesar and Antony have ever won\n    More in their officer, than person. Sossius,\n    One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant,\n    For quick accumulation of renown,\n    Which he achiev'd by th' minute, lost his favour.\n    Who does i' th' wars more than his captain can\n    Becomes his captain's captain; and ambition,\n    The soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss\n    Than gain which darkens him.\n    I could do more to do Antonius good,\n    But 'twould offend him; and in his offence\n    Should my performance perish.\n  SILIUS. Thou hast, Ventidius, that\n    Without the which a soldier and his sword\n    Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony?\n  VENTIDIUS. I'll humbly signify what in his name,\n    That magical word of war, we have effected;\n    How, with his banners, and his well-paid ranks,\n    The ne'er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia\n    We have jaded out o' th' field.\n  SILIUS. Where is he now?\n  VENTIDIUS. He purposeth to Athens; whither, with what haste\n    The weight we must convey with's will permit,\n    We shall appear before him.- On, there; pass along.\n                                                          Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_2\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nRome. CAESAR'S house\n\n        Enter AGRIPPA at one door, ENOBARBUS at another\n\n  AGRIPPA. What, are the brothers parted?\n  ENOBARBUS. They have dispatch'd with Pompey; he is gone;\n    The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps\n    To part from Rome; Caesar is sad; and Lepidus,\n    Since Pompey's feast, as Menas says, is troubled\n    With the green sickness.\n  AGRIPPA. 'Tis a noble Lepidus.\n  ENOBARBUS. A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar!\n  AGRIPPA. Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!\n  ENOBARBUS. Caesar? Why he's the Jupiter of men.\n  AGRIPPA. What's Antony? The god of Jupiter.\n  ENOBARBUS. Spake you of Caesar? How! the nonpareil!\n  AGRIPPA. O, Antony! O thou Arabian bird!\n  ENOBARBUS. Would you praise Caesar, say 'Caesar'- go no\nfurther.\n  AGRIPPA. Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.\n  ENOBARBUS. But he loves Caesar best. Yet he loves Antony.\n    Hoo! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot\n\n    Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number- hoo!-\n    His love to Antony. But as for Caesar,\n    Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.\n  AGRIPPA. Both he loves.\n  ENOBARBUS. They are his shards, and he their beetle. [Trumpets\n      within] So-\n    This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.\n  AGRIPPA. Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell.\n\n           Enter CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, and OCTAVIA\n\n  ANTONY. No further, sir.\n  CAESAR. You take from me a great part of myself;\n    Use me well in't. Sister, prove such a wife\n    As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest band\n    Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony,\n    Let not the piece of virtue which is set\n    Betwixt us as the cement of our love\n    To keep it builded be the ram to batter\n    The fortress of it; for better might we\n    Have lov'd without this mean, if on both parts\n    This be not cherish'd.\n  ANTONY. Make me not offended\n    In your distrust.\n  CAESAR. I have said.\n  ANTONY. You shall not find,\n    Though you be therein curious, the least cause\n    For what you seem to fear. So the gods keep you,\n    And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends!\n    We will here part.\n  CAESAR. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well.\n    The elements be kind to thee and make\n    Thy spirits all of comfort! Fare thee well.\n  OCTAVIA. My noble brother!\n  ANTONY. The April's in her eyes. It is love's spring,\n    And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful.\n  OCTAVIA. Sir, look well to my husband's house; and-\n  CAESAR. What, Octavia?\n  OCTAVIA. I'll tell you in your ear.\n  ANTONY. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can\n    Her heart inform her tongue- the swan's down feather,\n    That stands upon the swell at the full of tide,\n    And neither way inclines.\n  ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] Will Caesar weep?\n  AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] He has a cloud in's face.\n  ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] He were the worse for that, were\nhe a\n      horse;\n    So is he, being a man.\n  AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] Why, Enobarbus,\n    When Antony found Julius Caesar dead,\n    He cried almost to roaring; and he wept\n    When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.\n  ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] That year, indeed, he was\ntroubled\n      with a rheum;\n    What willingly he did confound he wail'd,\n    Believe't- till I weep too.\n  CAESAR. No, sweet Octavia,\n    You shall hear from me still; the time shall not\n    Out-go my thinking on you.\n  ANTONY. Come, sir, come;\n    I'll wrestle with you in my strength of love.\n    Look, here I have you; thus I let you go,\n    And give you to the gods.\n  CAESAR. Adieu; be happy!\n  LEPIDUS. Let all the number of the stars give light\n    To thy fair way!\n  CAESAR. Farewell, farewell!                   [Kisses OCTAVIA]\n  ANTONY. Farewell!                       Trumpets sound. Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_3\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Back at Caesar's house in Rome, Enobarbus and Agrippa talk while the rest of the group work out the details of the truce and its aftermath: Pompey has already left, Antony will take Octavia and go back to Athens, Caesar is sad to see them go, and Lepidus is pitifully hung over. Enobarbus and Agrippa go back and forth, gently mocking Lepidus about whether he loves Antony or Caesar better. They decide he's the beetle in the center, and the other two men his wings on either side. Clearly, Lepidus is a joke. Just then, Lepidus, Antony, Caesar, and Octavia enter the scene. They're about to say their big goodbyes before they part ways, and Caesar bids Antony to take care of his sister, whose love will seal the bond between the two men. Octavia bids her brother a teary goodbye, and asks to speak to him in his ear. Hearing her words, Enobarbus and Agrippa worry Caesar will cry, as he wept at Philippi over Brutus. Instead, Caesar responds to Octavia's secret plea that he'll think of her and be in touch often. Caesar gives the couple a final blessing, and all exit."}, {"": "150", "document": "SCENE III.\n              Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace\n\n         Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS\n\n  CLEOPATRA. Where is the fellow?\n  ALEXAS. Half afeard to come.\n  CLEOPATRA. Go to, go to.\n\n                Enter the MESSENGER as before\n\n    Come hither, sir.\n  ALEXAS. Good Majesty,\n    Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you\n    But when you are well pleas'd.\n  CLEOPATRA. That Herod's head\n    I'll have. But how, when Antony is gone,\n    Through whom I might command it? Come thou near.\n  MESSENGER. Most gracious Majesty!\n  CLEOPATRA. Didst thou behold Octavia?\n  MESSENGER. Ay, dread Queen.\n  CLEOPATRA. Where?\n  MESSENGER. Madam, in Rome\n    I look'd her in the face, and saw her led\n    Between her brother and Mark Antony.\n  CLEOPATRA. Is she as tall as me?\n  MESSENGER. She is not, madam.\n  CLEOPATRA. Didst hear her speak? Is she shrill-tongu'd or low?\n  MESSENGER. Madam, I heard her speak: she is low-voic'd.\n  CLEOPATRA. That's not so good. He cannot like her long.\n  CHARMIAN. Like her? O Isis! 'tis impossible.\n  CLEOPATRA. I think so, Charmian. Dull of tongue and dwarfish!\n    What majesty is in her gait? Remember,\n    If e'er thou look'dst on majesty.\n  MESSENGER. She creeps.\n    Her motion and her station are as one;\n    She shows a body rather than a life,\n    A statue than a breather.\n  CLEOPATRA. Is this certain?\n  MESSENGER. Or I have no observance.\n  CHARMIAN. Three in Egypt\n    Cannot make better note.\n  CLEOPATRA. He's very knowing;\n    I do perceive't. There's nothing in her yet.\n    The fellow has good judgment.\n  CHARMIAN. Excellent.\n  CLEOPATRA. Guess at her years, I prithee.\n  MESSENGER. Madam,\n    She was a widow.\n  CLEOPATRA. Widow? Charmian, hark!\n  MESSENGER. And I do think she's thirty.\n  CLEOPATRA. Bear'st thou her face in mind? Is't long or round?\n  MESSENGER. Round even to faultiness.\n  CLEOPATRA. For the most part, too, they are foolish that are\nso.\n    Her hair, what colour?\n  MESSENGER. Brown, madam; and her forehead\n    As low as she would wish it.\n  CLEOPATRA. There's gold for thee.\n    Thou must not take my former sharpness ill.\n    I will employ thee back again; I find thee\n    Most fit for business. Go make thee ready;\n    Our letters are prepar'd.                   Exeunt MESSENGER\n\n  CHARMIAN. A proper man.\n  CLEOPATRA. Indeed, he is so. I repent me much\n    That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him,\n    This creature's no such thing.\n  CHARMIAN. Nothing, madam.\n  CLEOPATRA. The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.\n  CHARMIAN. Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend,\n    And serving you so long!\n  CLEOPATRA. I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian.\n    But 'tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me\n    Where I will write. All may be well enough.\n  CHARMIAN. I warrant you, madam.                         Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_4\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IV.\n                  Athens. ANTONY'S house\n\n                 Enter ANTONY and OCTAVIA\n\n  ANTONY. Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that-\n    That were excusable, that and thousands more\n    Of semblable import- but he hath wag'd\n    New wars 'gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it\n    To public ear;\n    Spoke scandy of me; when perforce he could not\n    But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly\n    He vented them, most narrow measure lent me;\n    When the best hint was given him, he not took't,\n    Or did it from his teeth.\n  OCTAVIA. O my good lord,\n    Believe not all; or if you must believe,\n    Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,\n    If this division chance, ne'er stood between,\n    Praying for both parts.\n    The good gods will mock me presently\n    When I shall pray 'O, bless my lord and husband!'\n    Undo that prayer by crying out as loud\n    'O, bless my brother!' Husband win, win brother,\n    Prays, and destroys the prayer; no mid-way\n    'Twixt these extremes at all.\n  ANTONY. Gentle Octavia,\n    Let your best love draw to that point which seeks\n    Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour,\n    I lose myself; better I were not yours\n    Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested,\n    Yourself shall go between's. The meantime, lady,\n    I'll raise the preparation of a war\n    Shall stain your brother. Make your soonest haste;\n    So your desires are yours.\n  OCTAVIA. Thanks to my lord.\n    The Jove of power make me, most weak, most weak,\n    Your reconciler! Wars 'twixt you twain would be\n    As if the world should cleave, and that slain men\n    Should solder up the rift.\n  ANTONY. When it appears to you where this begins,\n    Turn your displeasure that way, for our faults\n    Can never be so equal that your love\n    Can equally move with them. Provide your going;\n    Choose your own company, and command what cost\n    Your heart has mind to.                               Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_5\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE V.\n                   Athens. ANTONY'S house\n\n             Enter ENOBARBUS and EROS, meeting\n\n  ENOBARBUS. How now, friend Eros!\n  EROS. There's strange news come, sir.\n  ENOBARBUS. What, man?\n  EROS. Caesar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey.\n  ENOBARBUS. This is old. What is the success?\n  EROS. Caesar, having made use of him in the wars 'gainst\nPompey,\n    presently denied him rivality, would not let him partake in\nthe\n    glory of the action; and not resting here, accuses him of\nletters\n    he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes\nhim.\n    So the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine.\n  ENOBARBUS. Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps- no more;\n    And throw between them all the food thou hast,\n    They'll grind the one the other. Where's Antony?\n  EROS. He's walking in the garden- thus, and spurns\n    The rush that lies before him; cries 'Fool Lepidus!'\n    And threats the throat of that his officer\n    That murd'red Pompey.\n  ENOBARBUS. Our great navy's rigg'd.\n  EROS. For Italy and Caesar. More, Domitius:\n    My lord desires you presently; my news\n    I might have told hereafter.\n  ENOBARBUS. 'Twill be naught;\n    But let it be. Bring me to Antony.\n  EROS. Come, sir.                                        Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_6\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE VI.\n                   Rome. CAESAR'S house\n\n             Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, and MAECENAS\n\n  CAESAR. Contemning Rome, he has done all this and more\n    In Alexandria. Here's the manner of't:\n    I' th' market-place, on a tribunal silver'd,\n    Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold\n    Were publicly enthron'd; at the feet sat\n    Caesarion, whom they call my father's son,\n    And all the unlawful issue that their lust\n    Since then hath made between them. Unto her\n    He gave the stablishment of Egypt; made her\n    Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia,\n    Absolute queen.\n  MAECENAS. This in the public eye?\n  CAESAR. I' th' common show-place, where they exercise.\n    His sons he there proclaim'd the kings of kings:\n    Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia,\n    He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assign'd\n    Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She\n    In th' habiliments of the goddess Isis\n    That day appear'd; and oft before gave audience,\n    As 'tis reported, so.\n  MAECENAS. Let Rome be thus\n    Inform'd.\n  AGRIPPA. Who, queasy with his insolence\n    Already, will their good thoughts call from him.\n  CAESAR. The people knows it, and have now receiv'd\n    His accusations.\n  AGRIPPA. Who does he accuse?\n  CAESAR. Caesar; and that, having in Sicily\n    Sextus Pompeius spoil'd, we had not rated him\n    His part o' th' isle. Then does he say he lent me\n    Some shipping, unrestor'd. Lastly, he frets\n    That Lepidus of the triumvirate\n    Should be depos'd; and, being, that we detain\n    All his revenue.\n  AGRIPPA. Sir, this should be answer'd.\n  CAESAR. 'Tis done already, and messenger gone.\n    I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel,\n    That he his high authority abus'd,\n    And did deserve his change. For what I have conquer'd\n    I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia\n    And other of his conquer'd kingdoms,\n    Demand the like.\n  MAECENAS. He'll never yield to that.\n  CAESAR. Nor must not then be yielded to in this.\n\n                Enter OCTAVIA, with her train\n\n  OCTAVIA. Hail, Caesar, and my lord! hail, most dear Caesar!\n  CAESAR. That ever I should call thee cast-away!\n  OCTAVIA. You have not call'd me so, nor have you cause.\n  CAESAR. Why have you stol'n upon us thus? You come not\n    Like Caesar's sister. The wife of Antony\n    Should have an army for an usher, and\n    The neighs of horse to tell of her approach\n    Long ere she did appear. The trees by th' way\n    Should have borne men, and expectation fainted,\n    Longing for what it had not. Nay, the dust\n    Should have ascended to the roof of heaven,\n    Rais'd by your populous troops. But you are come\n    A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented\n    The ostentation of our love, which left unshown\n    Is often left unlov'd. We should have met you\n    By sea and land, supplying every stage\n    With an augmented greeting.\n  OCTAVIA. Good my lord,\n    To come thus was I not constrain'd, but did it\n    On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony,\n    Hearing that you prepar'd for war, acquainted\n    My grieved ear withal; whereon I begg'd\n    His pardon for return.\n  CAESAR. Which soon he granted,\n    Being an obstruct 'tween his lust and him.\n  OCTAVIA. Do not say so, my lord.\n  CAESAR. I have eyes upon him,\n    And his affairs come to me on the wind.\n    Where is he now?\n  OCTAVIA. My lord, in Athens.\n  CAESAR. No, my most wronged sister: Cleopatra\n    Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire\n    Up to a whore, who now are levying\n    The kings o' th' earth for war. He hath assembled\n    Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus\n    Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos, king\n    Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas;\n    King Manchus of Arabia; King of Pont;\n    Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king\n    Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas,\n    The kings of Mede and Lycaonia, with\n    More larger list of sceptres.\n  OCTAVIA. Ay me most wretched,\n    That have my heart parted betwixt two friends,\n    That does afflict each other!\n  CAESAR. Welcome hither.\n    Your letters did withhold our breaking forth,\n    Till we perceiv'd both how you were wrong led\n    And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart;\n    Be you not troubled with the time, which drives\n    O'er your content these strong necessities,\n    But let determin'd things to destiny\n    Hold unbewail'd their way. Welcome to Rome;\n    Nothing more dear to me. You are abus'd\n    Beyond the mark of thought, and the high gods,\n    To do you justice, make their ministers\n    Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort,\n    And ever welcome to us.\n  AGRIPPA. Welcome, lady.\n  MAECENAS. Welcome, dear madam.\n    Each heart in Rome does love and pity you;\n    Only th' adulterous Antony, most large\n    In his abominations, turns you off,\n    And gives his potent regiment to a trull\n    That noises it against us.\n  OCTAVIA. Is it so, sir?\n  CAESAR. Most certain. Sister, welcome. Pray you\n    Be ever known to patience. My dear'st sister!         Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_7\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE VII.\n                  ANTONY'S camp near Actium\n\n                Enter CLEOPATRA and ENOBARBUS\n\n  CLEOPATRA. I will be even with thee, doubt it not.\n  ENOBARBUS. But why, why,\n  CLEOPATRA. Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars,\n    And say'st it is not fit.\n  ENOBARBUS. Well, is it, is it?\n  CLEOPATRA. Is't not denounc'd against us? Why should not we\n    Be there in person?\n  ENOBARBUS. [Aside] Well, I could reply:\n    If we should serve with horse and mares together\n    The horse were merely lost; the mares would bear\n    A soldier and his horse.\n  CLEOPATRA. What is't you say?\n  ENOBARBUS. Your presence needs must puzzle Antony;\n    Take from his heart, take from his brain, from's time,\n    What should not then be spar'd. He is already\n    Traduc'd for levity; and 'tis said in Rome\n    That Photinus an eunuch and your maids\n    Manage this war.\n  CLEOPATRA. Sink Rome, and their tongues rot\n    That speak against us! A charge we bear i' th' war,\n    And, as the president of my kingdom, will\n    Appear there for a man. Speak not against it;\n    I will not stay behind.\n\n                   Enter ANTONY and CANIDIUS\n\n  ENOBARBUS. Nay, I have done.\n    Here comes the Emperor.\n  ANTONY. Is it not strange, Canidius,\n    That from Tarentum and Brundusium\n    He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea,\n    And take in Toryne?- You have heard on't, sweet?\n  CLEOPATRA. Celerity is never more admir'd\n    Than by the negligent.\n  ANTONY. A good rebuke,\n    Which might have well becom'd the best of men\n    To taunt at slackness. Canidius, we\n    Will fight with him by sea.\n  CLEOPATRA. By sea! What else?\n  CANIDIUS. Why will my lord do so?\n  ANTONY. For that he dares us to't.\n  ENOBARBUS. So hath my lord dar'd him to single fight.\n  CANIDIUS. Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia,\n    Where Caesar fought with Pompey. But these offers,\n    Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off;\n    And so should you.\n  ENOBARBUS. Your ships are not well mann'd;\n    Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people\n    Ingross'd by swift impress. In Caesar's fleet\n    Are those that often have 'gainst Pompey fought;\n    Their ships are yare; yours heavy. No disgrace\n    Shall fall you for refusing him at sea,\n    Being prepar'd for land.\n  ANTONY. By sea, by sea.\n  ENOBARBUS. Most worthy sir, you therein throw away\n    The absolute soldiership you have by land;\n    Distract your army, which doth most consist\n    Of war-mark'd footmen; leave unexecuted\n    Your own renowned knowledge; quite forgo\n    The way which promises assurance; and\n    Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard\n    From firm security.\n  ANTONY. I'll fight at sea.\n  CLEOPATRA. I have sixty sails, Caesar none better.\n  ANTONY. Our overplus of shipping will we burn,\n    And, with the rest full-mann'd, from th' head of Actium\n    Beat th' approaching Caesar. But if we fail,\n    We then can do't at land.\n\n                       Enter a MESSENGER\n\n    Thy business?\n  MESSENGER. The news is true, my lord: he is descried;\n    Caesar has taken Toryne.\n  ANTONY. Can he be there in person? 'Tis impossible-\n    Strange that his power should be. Canidius,\n    Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land,\n    And our twelve thousand horse. We'll to our ship.\n    Away, my Thetis!\n\n                       Enter a SOLDIER\n\n    How now, worthy soldier?\n  SOLDIER. O noble Emperor, do not fight by sea;\n    Trust not to rotten planks. Do you misdoubt\n    This sword and these my wounds? Let th' Egyptians\n    And the Phoenicians go a-ducking; we\n    Have us'd to conquer standing on the earth\n    And fighting foot to foot.\n  ANTONY. Well, well- away.\n                         Exeunt ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, and ENOBARBUS\n  SOLDIER. By Hercules, I think I am i' th' right.\n  CANIDIUS. Soldier, thou art; but his whole action grows\n    Not in the power on't. So our leader's led,\n    And we are women's men.\n  SOLDIER. You keep by land\n    The legions and the horse whole, do you not?\n  CANIDIUS. Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius,\n    Publicola, and Caelius are for sea;\n    But we keep whole by land. This speed of Caesar's\n    Carries beyond belief.\n  SOLDIER. While he was yet in Rome,\n    His power went out in such distractions as\n    Beguil'd all spies.\n  CANIDIUS. Who's his lieutenant, hear you?\n  SOLDIER. They say one Taurus.\n  CANIDIUS. Well I know the man.\n\n                        Enter a MESSENGER\n\n  MESSENGER. The Emperor calls Canidius.\n  CANIDIUS. With news the time's with labour and throes forth\n    Each minute some.                                     Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_8\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE VIII.\n                      A plain near Actium\n\n             Enter CAESAR, with his army, marching\n\n  CAESAR. Taurus!\n  TAURUS. My lord?\n  CAESAR. Strike not by land; keep whole; provoke not battle\n    Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed\n    The prescript of this scroll. Our fortune lies\n    Upon this jump.                                       Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_9\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IX.\n                  Another part of the plain\n\n                  Enter ANTONY and ENOBARBUS\n\n  ANTONY. Set we our squadrons on yon side o' th' hill,\n    In eye of Caesar's battle; from which place\n    We may the number of the ships behold,\n    And so proceed accordingly.                           Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_10\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE X.\n                 Another part of the plain\n\n        CANIDIUS marcheth with his land army one way\n        over the stage, and TAURUS, the Lieutenant of\n      CAESAR, the other way. After their going in is heard\n                   the noise of a sea-fight\n\n                    Alarum. Enter ENOBARBUS\n\n  ENOBARBUS. Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer.\n    Th' Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral,\n    With all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder.\n    To see't mine eyes are blasted.\n\n                        Enter SCARUS\n\n  SCARUS. Gods and goddesses,\n    All the whole synod of them!\n  ENOBARBUS. What's thy passion?\n  SCARUS. The greater cantle of the world is lost\n    With very ignorance; we have kiss'd away\n    Kingdoms and provinces.\n  ENOBARBUS. How appears the fight?\n  SCARUS. On our side like the token'd pestilence,\n    Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt-\n    Whom leprosy o'ertake!- i' th' midst o' th' fight,\n    When vantage like a pair of twins appear'd,\n    Both as the same, or rather ours the elder-\n    The breese upon her, like a cow in June-\n    Hoists sails and flies.\n  ENOBARBUS. That I beheld;\n    Mine eyes did sicken at the sight and could not\n    Endure a further view.\n  SCARUS. She once being loof'd,\n    The noble ruin of her magic, Antony,\n    Claps on his sea-wing, and, like a doting mallard,\n    Leaving the fight in height, flies after her.\n    I never saw an action of such shame;\n    Experience, manhood, honour, ne'er before\n    Did violate so itself.\n  ENOBARBUS. Alack, alack!\n\n                       Enter CANIDIUS\n\n  CANIDIUS. Our fortune on the sea is out of breath,\n    And sinks most lamentably. Had our general\n    Been what he knew himself, it had gone well.\n    O, he has given example for our flight\n    Most grossly by his own!\n  ENOBARBUS. Ay, are you thereabouts?\n    Why then, good night indeed.\n  CANIDIUS. Toward Peloponnesus are they fled.\n  SCARUS. 'Tis easy to't; and there I will attend\n    What further comes.\n  CANIDIUS. To Caesar will I render\n    My legions and my horse; six kings already\n    Show me the way of yielding.\n  ENOBARBUS. I'll yet follow\n    The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason\n    Sits in the wind against me.                          Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_11\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Stage directions show Taurus with Caesar's army and Canidius with Antony's army as they both cross paths. We can hear the battle off-stage, but Enobarbus comes in to deliver the horrifying news: in the middle of the battle, just when fortune could have gone one way or the other, Cleopatra's ship turned sail and ran away. Antony, seeing her flee, also turned his sails and followed her, leaving the battle to ruins and his honor to mockery. Canidius enters, announcing that this defeat was due to Antony not being remotely noble. Canidius decides to defect to Caesar's side with his troops, and Enobarbus leans toward defecting also, though he's not too happy about it."}, {"": "158", "document": "SCENE XI.\n              Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace\n\n               Enter ANTONY With attendants\n\n  ANTONY. Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon't;\n    It is asham'd to bear me. Friends, come hither.\n    I am so lated in the world that I\n    Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship\n    Laden with gold; take that; divide it. Fly,\n    And make your peace with Caesar.\n  ALL. Fly? Not we!\n  ANTONY. I have fled myself, and have instructed cowards\n    To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone;\n    I have myself resolv'd upon a course\n    Which has no need of you; be gone.\n    My treasure's in the harbour, take it. O,\n    I follow'd that I blush to look upon.\n    My very hairs do mutiny; for the white\n    Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them\n    For fear and doting. Friends, be gone; you shall\n    Have letters from me to some friends that will\n    Sweep your way for you. Pray you look not sad,\n    Nor make replies of loathness; take the hint\n    Which my despair proclaims. Let that be left\n    Which leaves itself. To the sea-side straight way.\n    I will possess you of that ship and treasure.\n    Leave me, I pray, a little; pray you now;\n    Nay, do so, for indeed I have lost command;\n    Therefore I pray you. I'll see you by and by.    [Sits down]\n\n            Enter CLEOPATRA, led by CHARMIAN and IRAS,\n                         EROS following\n\n  EROS. Nay, gentle madam, to him! Comfort him.\n  IRAS. Do, most dear Queen.\n  CHARMIAN. Do? Why, what else?\n  CLEOPATRA. Let me sit down. O Juno!\n  ANTONY. No, no, no, no, no.\n  EROS. See you here, sir?\n  ANTONY. O, fie, fie, fie!\n  CHARMIAN. Madam!\n  IRAS. Madam, O good Empress!\n  EROS. Sir, sir!\n  ANTONY. Yes, my lord, yes. He at Philippi kept\n    His sword e'en like a dancer, while I struck\n    The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and 'twas I\n    That the mad Brutus ended; he alone\n    Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had\n    In the brave squares of war. Yet now- no matter.\n  CLEOPATRA. Ah, stand by!\n  EROS. The Queen, my lord, the Queen!\n  IRAS. Go to him, madam, speak to him.\n    He is unqualitied with very shame.\n  CLEOPATRA. Well then, sustain me. O!\n EROS. Most noble sir, arise; the Queen approaches.\n    Her head's declin'd, and death will seize her but\n    Your comfort makes the rescue.\n  ANTONY. I have offended reputation-\n    A most unnoble swerving.\n  EROS. Sir, the Queen.\n  ANTONY. O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See\n    How I convey my shame out of thine eyes\n    By looking back what I have left behind\n    'Stroy'd in dishonour.\n  CLEOPATRA. O my lord, my lord,\n    Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought\n    You would have followed.\n  ANTONY. Egypt, thou knew'st too well\n    My heart was to thy rudder tied by th' strings,\n    And thou shouldst tow me after. O'er my spirit\n    Thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that\n    Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods\n    Command me.\n  CLEOPATRA. O, my pardon!\n  ANTONY. Now I must\n    To the young man send humble treaties, dodge\n    And palter in the shifts of lowness, who\n    With half the bulk o' th' world play'd as I pleas'd,\n    Making and marring fortunes. You did know\n    How much you were my conqueror, and that\n    My sword, made weak by my affection, would\n    Obey it on all cause.\n  CLEOPATRA. Pardon, pardon!\n  ANTONY. Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates\n    All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss;\n    Even this repays me.\n    We sent our schoolmaster; is 'a come back?\n    Love, I am full of lead. Some wine,\n    Within there, and our viands! Fortune knows\n    We scorn her most when most she offers blows.         Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_12\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE XII.\n                   CAESAR'S camp in Egypt\n\n   Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, THYREUS, with others\n\n  CAESAR. Let him appear that's come from Antony.\n    Know you him?\n  DOLABELLA. Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster:\n    An argument that he is pluck'd, when hither\n    He sends so poor a pinion of his wing,\n    Which had superfluous kings for messengers\n    Not many moons gone by.\n\n            Enter EUPHRONIUS, Ambassador from ANTONY\n\n  CAESAR. Approach, and speak.\n  EUPHRONIUS. Such as I am, I come from Antony.\n    I was of late as petty to his ends\n    As is the morn-dew on the myrtle leaf\n    To his grand sea.\n  CAESAR. Be't so. Declare thine office.\n  EUPHRONIUS. Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and\n    Requires to live in Egypt; which not granted,\n    He lessens his requests and to thee sues\n    To let him breathe between the heavens and earth,\n    A private man in Athens. This for him.\n    Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness,\n    Submits her to thy might, and of thee craves\n    The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs,\n    Now hazarded to thy grace.\n  CAESAR. For Antony,\n    I have no ears to his request. The Queen\n    Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she\n    From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend,\n    Or take his life there. This if she perform,\n    She shall not sue unheard. So to them both.\n  EUPHRONIUS. Fortune pursue thee!\n  CAESAR. Bring him through the bands.           Exit EUPHRONIUS\n    [To THYREUS] To try thy eloquence, now 'tis time. Dispatch;\n    From Antony win Cleopatra. Promise,\n    And in our name, what she requires; add more,\n    From thine invention, offers. Women are not\n    In their best fortunes strong; but want will perjure\n    The ne'er-touch'd vestal. Try thy cunning, Thyreus;\n    Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we\n    Will answer as a law.\n  THYREUS. Caesar, I go.\n  CAESAR. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw,\n    And what thou think'st his very action speaks\n    In every power that moves.\n  THYREUS. Caesar, I shall.                               Exeunt\n\nACT_3|SC_13\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT IV. SCENE I.\n              CAESAR'S camp before Alexandria\n\n      Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, and MAECENAS, with his army;\n                 CAESAR reading a letter\n\n  CAESAR. He calls me boy, and chides as he had power\n    To beat me out of Egypt. My messenger\n    He hath whipt with rods; dares me to personal combat,\n    Caesar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know\n    I have many other ways to die, meantime\n    Laugh at his challenge.\n  MAECENAS. Caesar must think\n    When one so great begins to rage, he's hunted\n    Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now\n    Make boot of his distraction. Never anger\n    Made good guard for itself.\n  CAESAR. Let our best heads\n    Know that to-morrow the last of many battles\n    We mean to fight. Within our files there are\n    Of those that serv'd Mark Antony but late\n    Enough to fetch him in. See it done;\n    And feast the army; we have store to do't,\n    And they have earn'd the waste. Poor Antony!          Exeunt\n\nACT_4|SC_2\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE II.\n               Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace\n\n      Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, ENOBARBUS, CHARMIAN, IRAS,\n                     ALEXAS, with others\n\n  ANTONY. He will not fight with me, Domitius?\n  ENOBARBUS. No.\n  ANTONY. Why should he not?\n  ENOBARBUS. He thinks, being twenty times of better fortune,\n    He is twenty men to one.\n  ANTONY. To-morrow, soldier,\n    By sea and land I'll fight. Or I will live,\n    Or bathe my dying honour in the blood\n    Shall make it live again. Woo't thou fight well?\n  ENOBARBUS. I'll strike, and cry 'Take all.'\n  ANTONY. Well said; come on.\n    Call forth my household servants; let's to-night\n    Be bounteous at our meal.\n\n                Enter three or four servitors\n\n    Give me thy hand,\n    Thou has been rightly honest. So hast thou;\n    Thou, and thou, and thou. You have serv'd me well,\n    And kings have been your fellows.\n  CLEOPATRA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] What means this?\n  ENOBARBUS. [Aside to CLEOPATRA] 'Tis one of those odd tricks\nwhich\n      sorrow shoots\n    Out of the mind.\n  ANTONY. And thou art honest too.\n    I wish I could be made so many men,\n    And all of you clapp'd up together in\n    An Antony, that I might do you service\n    So good as you have done.\n  SERVANT. The gods forbid!\n  ANTONY. Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night.\n    Scant not my cups, and make as much of me\n    As when mine empire was your fellow too,\n    And suffer'd my command.\n  CLEOPATRA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] What does he mean?\n    ENOBARBUS. [Aside to CLEOPATRA] To make his followers weep.\n  ANTONY. Tend me to-night;\n    May be it is the period of your duty.\n    Haply you shall not see me more; or if,\n    A mangled shadow. Perchance to-morrow\n    You'll serve another master. I look on you\n    As one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends,\n    I turn you not away; but, like a master\n    Married to your good service, stay till death.\n    Tend me to-night two hours, I ask no more,\n    And the gods yield you for't!\n  ENOBARBUS. What mean you, sir,\n    To give them this discomfort? Look, they weep;\n    And I, an ass, am onion-ey'd. For shame!\n    Transform us not to women.\n  ANTONY. Ho, ho, ho!\n    Now the witch take me if I meant it thus!\n    Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty friends,\n    You take me in too dolorous a sense;\n    For I spake to you for your comfort, did desire you\n    To burn this night with torches. Know, my hearts,\n    I hope well of to-morrow, and will lead you\n    Where rather I'll expect victorious life\n    Than death and honour. Let's to supper, come,\n    And drown consideration.                              Exeunt\n\nACT_4|SC_3\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE III.\n             Alexandria. Before CLEOPATRA's palace\n\n                 Enter a company of soldiers\n\n  FIRST SOLDIER. Brother, good night. To-morrow is the day.\n  SECOND SOLDIER. It will determine one way. Fare you well.\n    Heard you of nothing strange about the streets?\n  FIRST SOLDIER. Nothing. What news?\n  SECOND SOLDIER. Belike 'tis but a rumour. Good night to you.\n  FIRST SOLDIER. Well, sir, good night.\n                                      [They meet other soldiers]\n  SECOND SOLDIER. Soldiers, have careful watch.\n  FIRST SOLDIER. And you. Good night, good night.\n                [The two companies separate and place themselves\n                                   in every corner of the stage]\n  SECOND SOLDIER. Here we. And if to-morrow\n    Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope\n    Our landmen will stand up.\n  THIRD SOLDIER. 'Tis a brave army,\n    And full of purpose.\n                      [Music of the hautboys is under the stage]\n\n  SECOND SOLDIER. Peace, what noise?\n  THIRD SOLDIER. List, list!\n  SECOND SOLDIER. Hark!\n  THIRD SOLDIER. Music i' th' air.\n  FOURTH SOLDIER. Under the earth.\n  THIRD SOLDIER. It signs well, does it not?\n  FOURTH SOLDIER. No.\n  THIRD SOLDIER. Peace, I say!\n    What should this mean?\n  SECOND SOLDIER. 'Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony lov'd,\n    Now leaves him.\n  THIRD SOLDIER. Walk; let's see if other watchmen\n    Do hear what we do.\n  SECOND SOLDIER. How now, masters!\n  SOLDIERS. [Speaking together] How now!\n    How now! Do you hear this?\n  FIRST SOLDIER. Ay; is't not strange?\n  THIRD SOLDIER. Do you hear, masters? Do you hear?\n  FIRST SOLDIER. Follow the noise so far as we have quarter;\n    Let's see how it will give off.\n  SOLDIERS. Content. 'Tis strange.                        Exeunt\n\nACT_4|SC_4\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE V.\n                  Alexandria. ANTONY'S camp\n\n        Trumpets sound. Enter ANTONY and EROS, a SOLDIER\n                       meeting them\n\n  SOLDIER. The gods make this a happy day to Antony!\n  ANTONY. Would thou and those thy scars had once prevail'd\n    To make me fight at land!\n  SOLDIER. Hadst thou done so,\n    The kings that have revolted, and the soldier\n    That has this morning left thee, would have still\n    Followed thy heels.\n  ANTONY. Who's gone this morning?\n  SOLDIER. Who?\n    One ever near thee. Call for Enobarbus,\n    He shall not hear thee; or from Caesar's camp\n    Say 'I am none of thine.'\n  ANTONY. What say'st thou?\n  SOLDIER. Sir,\n    He is with Caesar.\n  EROS. Sir, his chests and treasure\n    He has not with him.\n  ANTONY. Is he gone?\n  SOLDIER. Most certain.\n  ANTONY. Go, Eros, send his treasure after; do it;\n    Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him-\n    I will subscribe- gentle adieus and greetings;\n    Say that I wish he never find more cause\n    To change a master. O, my fortunes have\n    Corrupted honest men! Dispatch. Enobarbus!            Exeunt\n\nACT_4|SC_6\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE VII.\n             Field of battle between the camps\n\n         Alarum. Drums and trumpets. Enter AGRIPPA\n                        and others\n\n  AGRIPPA. Retire. We have engag'd ourselves too far.\n    Caesar himself has work, and our oppression\n    Exceeds what we expected.                             Exeunt\n\n          Alarums. Enter ANTONY, and SCARUS wounded\n\n  SCARUS. O my brave Emperor, this is fought indeed!\n    Had we done so at first, we had droven them home\n    With clouts about their heads.\n  ANTONY. Thou bleed'st apace.\n  SCARUS. I had a wound here that was like a T,\n    But now 'tis made an H.\n  ANTONY. They do retire.\n  SCARUS. We'll beat'em into bench-holes. I have yet\n    Room for six scotches more.\n\n                        Enter EROS\n\n  EROS. They are beaten, sir, and our advantage serves\n    For a fair victory.\n  SCARUS. Let us score their backs\n    And snatch 'em up, as we take hares, behind.\n    'Tis sport to maul a runner.\n  ANTONY. I will reward thee\n    Once for thy sprightly comfort, and tenfold\n    For thy good valour. Come thee on.\n    SCARUS. I'll halt after.                              Exeunt\n\nACT_4|SC_8\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE VIII.\n               Under the walls of Alexandria\n\n        Alarum. Enter ANTONY, again in a march; SCARUS\n                        with others\n\n  ANTONY. We have beat him to his camp. Run one before\n    And let the Queen know of our gests. To-morrow,\n    Before the sun shall see's, we'll spill the blood\n    That has to-day escap'd. I thank you all;\n    For doughty-handed are you, and have fought\n    Not as you serv'd the cause, but as't had been\n    Each man's like mine; you have shown all Hectors.\n    Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends,\n    Tell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears\n    Wash the congealment from your wounds and kiss\n    The honour'd gashes whole.\n\n                 Enter CLEOPATRA, attended\n\n    [To SCARUS] Give me thy hand-\n    To this great fairy I'll commend thy acts,\n    Make her thanks bless thee. O thou day o' th' world,\n    Chain mine arm'd neck. Leap thou, attire and all,\n    Through proof of harness to my heart, and there\n    Ride on the pants triumphing.\n  CLEOPATRA. Lord of lords!\n    O infinite virtue, com'st thou smiling from\n    The world's great snare uncaught?\n  ANTONY. Mine nightingale,\n    We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! though grey\n    Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha' we\n    A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can\n    Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man;\n    Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand-\n    Kiss it, my warrior- he hath fought to-day\n    As if a god in hate of mankind had\n    Destroyed in such a shape.\n  CLEOPATRA. I'll give thee, friend,\n    An armour all of gold; it was a king's.\n  ANTONY. He has deserv'd it, were it carbuncled\n    Like holy Phoebus' car. Give me thy hand.\n    Through Alexandria make a jolly march;\n    Bear our hack'd targets like the men that owe them.\n    Had our great palace the capacity\n    To camp this host, we all would sup together,\n    And drink carouses to the next day's fate,\n    Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters,\n    With brazen din blast you the city's ear;\n    Make mingle with our rattling tabourines,\n    That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together\n    Applauding our approach.                              Exeunt\n\nACT_4|SC_9\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IX.\n                      CAESAR'S camp\n\n      Enter a CENTURION and his company; ENOBARBUS follows\n\n  CENTURION. If we be not reliev'd within this hour,\n    We must return to th' court of guard. The night\n    Is shiny, and they say we shall embattle\n    By th' second hour i' th' morn.\n  FIRST WATCH. This last day was\n    A shrewd one to's.\n  ENOBARBUS. O, bear me witness, night-\n  SECOND WATCH. What man is this?\n  FIRST WATCH. Stand close and list him.\n  ENOBARBUS. Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,\n    When men revolted shall upon record\n    Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did\n    Before thy face repent!\n  CENTURION. Enobarbus?\n  SECOND WATCH. Peace!\n    Hark further.\n  ENOBARBUS. O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,\n    The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,\n    That life, a very rebel to my will,\n    May hang no longer on me. Throw my heart\n    Against the flint and hardness of my fault,\n    Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder,\n    And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony,\n    Nobler than my revolt is infamous,\n    Forgive me in thine own particular,\n    But let the world rank me in register\n    A master-leaver and a fugitive!\n    O Antony! O Antony!                                   [Dies]\n  FIRST WATCH. Let's speak to him.\n  CENTURION. Let's hear him, for the things he speaks\n    May concern Caesar.\n  SECOND WATCH. Let's do so. But he sleeps.\n  CENTURION. Swoons rather; for so bad a prayer as his\n    Was never yet for sleep.\n  FIRST WATCH. Go we to him.\n  SECOND WATCH. Awake, sir, awake; speak to us.\n  FIRST WATCH. Hear you, sir?\n  CENTURION. The hand of death hath raught him.\n    [Drums afar off ] Hark! the drums\n    Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him\n    To th' court of guard; he is of note. Our hour\n    Is fully out.\n  SECOND WATCH. Come on, then;\n    He may recover yet.                     Exeunt with the body\n\nACT_4|SC_10\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE X.\n                    Between the two camps\n\n            Enter ANTONY and SCARUS, with their army\n\n  ANTONY. Their preparation is to-day by sea;\n    We please them not by land.\n  SCARUS. For both, my lord.\n  ANTONY. I would they'd fight i' th' fire or i' th' air;\n    We'd fight there too. But this it is, our foot\n    Upon the hills adjoining to the city\n    Shall stay with us- Order for sea is given;\n    They have put forth the haven-\n    Where their appointment we may best discover\n    And look on their endeavour.                          Exeunt\n\nACT_4|SC_11\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE XI.\n                    Between the camps\n\n                Enter CAESAR and his army\n\n  CAESAR. But being charg'd, we will be still by land,\n    Which, as I take't, we shall; for his best force\n    Is forth to man his galleys. To the vales,\n    And hold our best advantage.                          Exeunt\n\nACT_4|SC_12\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE XII.\n                  A hill near Alexandria\n\n                  Enter ANTONY and SCARUS\n\n  ANTONY. Yet they are not join'd. Where yond pine does stand\n    I shall discover all. I'll bring thee word\n    Straight how 'tis like to go.                           Exit\n  SCARUS. Swallows have built\n    In Cleopatra's sails their nests. The augurers\n    Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly,\n    And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony\n    Is valiant and dejected; and by starts\n    His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear\n    Of what he has and has not.\n                            [Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight]\n\n                      Re-enter ANTONY\n\n  ANTONY. All is lost!\n    This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.\n    My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder\n    They cast their caps up and carouse together\n    Like friends long lost. Triple-turn'd whore! 'tis thou\n    Hast sold me to this novice; and my heart\n    Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;\n    For when I am reveng'd upon my charm,\n    I have done all. Bid them all fly; begone.       Exit SCARUS\n    O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more!\n    Fortune and Antony part here; even here\n    Do we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts\n    That spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave\n    Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets\n    On blossoming Caesar; and this pine is bark'd\n    That overtopp'd them all. Betray'd I am.\n    O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm-\n    Whose eye beck'd forth my wars and call'd them home,\n    Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end-\n    Like a right gypsy hath at fast and loose\n    Beguil'd me to the very heart of loss.\n    What, Eros, Eros!\n\n                      Enter CLEOPATRA\n\n    Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!\n  CLEOPATRA. Why is my lord enrag'd against his love?\n  ANTONY. Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving\n    And blemish Caesar's triumph. Let him take thee\n    And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians;\n    Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot\n    Of all thy sex; most monster-like, be shown\n    For poor'st diminutives, for doits, and let\n    Patient Octavia plough thy visage up\n    With her prepared nails.                      Exit CLEOPATRA\n    'Tis well th'art gone,\n    If it be well to live; but better 'twere\n    Thou fell'st into my fury, for one death\n    Might have prevented many. Eros, ho!\n    The shirt of Nessus is upon me; teach me,\n    Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage;\n    Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o' th' moon,\n    And with those hands that grasp'd the heaviest club\n    Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die.\n    To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall\n    Under this plot. She dies for't. Eros, ho!              Exit\n\nACT_4|SC_13\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE XIII.\n               Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace\n\n      Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN\n\n  CLEOPATRA. Help me, my women. O, he is more mad\n    Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly\n    Was never so emboss'd.\n  CHARMIAN. To th'monument!\n    There lock yourself, and send him word you are dead.\n    The soul and body rive not more in parting\n    Than greatness going off.\n  CLEOPATRA. To th' monument!\n    Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself;\n    Say that the last I spoke was 'Antony'\n    And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, Mardian,\n    And bring me how he takes my death. To th' monument!\n                                                          Exeunt\n\nACT_4|SC_14\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE XIV.\n                     CLEOPATRA'S palace\n\n                   Enter ANTONY and EROS\n\n  ANTONY. Eros, thou yet behold'st me?\n  EROS. Ay, noble lord.\n  ANTONY. Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish;\n    A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,\n    A tower'd citadel, a pendent rock,\n    A forked mountain, or blue promontory\n    With trees upon't that nod unto the world\n    And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs;\n    They are black vesper's pageants.\n  EROS. Ay, my lord.\n  ANTONY. That which is now a horse, even with a thought\n    The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,\n    As water is in water.\n  EROS. It does, my lord.\n  ANTONY. My good knave Eros, now thy captain is\n    Even such a body. Here I am Antony;\n    Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave.\n    I made these wars for Egypt; and the Queen-\n    Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine,\n    Which, whilst it was mine, had annex'd unto't\n    A million moe, now lost- she, Eros, has\n    Pack'd cards with Caesar, and false-play'd my glory\n    Unto an enemy's triumph.\n    Nay, weep not, gentle Eros; there is left us\n    Ourselves to end ourselves.\n\n                         Enter MARDIAN\n\n    O, thy vile lady!\n    She has robb'd me of my sword.\n  MARDIAN. No, Antony;\n    My mistress lov'd thee, and her fortunes mingled\n    With thine entirely.\n  ANTONY. Hence, saucy eunuch; peace!\n    She hath betray'd me, and shall die the death.\n  MARDIAN. Death of one person can be paid but once,\n    And that she has discharg'd. What thou wouldst do\n    Is done unto thy hand. The last she spake\n    Was 'Antony! most noble Antony!'\n    Then in the midst a tearing groan did break\n    The name of Antony; it was divided\n    Between her heart and lips. She rend'red life,\n    Thy name so buried in her.\n  ANTONY. Dead then?\n  MARDIAN. Dead.\n  ANTONY. Unarm, Eros; the long day's task is done,\n    And we must sleep. That thou depart'st hence safe\n    Does pay thy labour richly. Go.                 Exit MARDIAN\n    Off, pluck off!\n    The sevenfold shield of Ajax cannot keep\n    The battery from my heart. O, cleave, my sides!\n    Heart, once be stronger than thy continent,\n    Crack thy frail case. Apace, Eros, apace.-\n    No more a soldier. Bruised pieces, go;\n    You have been nobly borne.- From me awhile.        Exit EROS\n    I will o'ertake thee, Cleopatra, and\n    Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now\n    All length is torture. Since the torch is out,\n    Lie down, and stray no farther. Now all labour\n    Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles\n    Itself with strength. Seal then, and all is done.\n    Eros!- I come, my queen.- Eros!- Stay for me;\n    Where souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand,\n    And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze.\n    Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops,\n    And all the haunt be ours.- Come, Eros, Eros!\n\n                       Re-enter EROS\n\n  EROS. What would my lord?\n  ANTONY. Since Cleopatra died,\n    I have liv'd in such dishonour that the gods\n    Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword\n    Quarter'd the world, and o'er green Neptune's back\n    With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack\n    The courage of a woman; less noble mind\n    Than she which by her death our Caesar tells\n    'I am conqueror of myself.' Thou art sworn, Eros,\n    That, when the exigent should come- which now\n    Is come indeed- when I should see behind me\n    Th' inevitable prosecution of\n    Disgrace and horror, that, on my command,\n    Thou then wouldst kill me. Do't; the time is come.\n    Thou strik'st not me; 'tis Caesar thou defeat'st.\n    Put colour in thy cheek.\n  EROS. The gods withhold me!\n    Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts,\n    Though enemy, lost aim and could not?\n  ANTONY. Eros,\n    Wouldst thou be window'd in great Rome and see\n    Thy master thus with pleach'd arms, bending down\n    His corrigible neck, his face subdu'd\n    To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel'd seat\n    Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded\n    His baseness that ensued?\n  EROS. I would not see't.\n  ANTONY. Come, then; for with a wound I must be cur'd.\n    Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn\n    Most useful for thy country.\n  EROS. O, sir, pardon me!\n  ANTONY. When I did make thee free, swor'st thou not then\n    To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once,\n    Or thy precedent services are all\n    But accidents unpurpos'd. Draw, and come.\n  EROS. Turn from me then that noble countenance,\n    Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.\n  ANTONY. Lo thee!                            [Turning from him]\n  EROS. My sword is drawn.\n  ANTONY. Then let it do at once\n    The thing why thou hast drawn it.\n  EROS. My dear master,\n    My captain and my emperor, let me say,\n    Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.\n  ANTONY. 'Tis said, man; and farewell.\n  EROS. Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now?\n  ANTONY. Now, Eros.\n  EROS. Why, there then! Thus do I escape the sorrow\n    Of Antony's death.                            [Kills himself\n  ANTONY. Thrice nobler than myself!\n    Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what\n    I should, and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros\n    Have, by their brave instruction, got upon me\n    A nobleness in record. But I will be\n    A bridegroom in my death, and run into't\n    As to a lover's bed. Come, then; and, Eros,\n    Thy master dies thy scholar. To do thus\n                                          [Falling on his sword]\n    I learn'd of thee. How? not dead? not dead?-\n    The guard, ho! O, dispatch me!\n\n                  Enter DERCETAS and a guard\n\n  FIRST GUARD. What's the noise?\n  ANTONY. I have done my work ill, friends. O, make an end\n    Of what I have begun.\n  SECOND GUARD. The star is fall'n.\n  FIRST GUARD. And time is at his period.\n  ALL. Alas, and woe!\n  ANTONY. Let him that loves me, strike me dead.\n  FIRST GUARD. Not I.\n  SECOND GUARD. Nor I.\n  THIRD GUARD. Nor any one.                         Exeunt guard\n  DERCETAS. Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly.\n    This sword but shown to Caesar, with this tidings,\n    Shall enter me with him.\n\n                       Enter DIOMEDES\n\n  DIOMEDES. Where's Antony?\n  DERCETAS. There, Diomed, there.\n  DIOMEDES. Lives he?\n    Wilt thou not answer, man?                     Exit DERCETAS\n  ANTONY. Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword and give me\n    Sufficing strokes for death.\n  DIOMEDES. Most absolute lord,\n    My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.\n  ANTONY. When did she send thee?\n  DIOMEDES. Now, my lord.\n  ANTONY. Where is she?\n  DIOMEDES. Lock'd in her monument. She had a prophesying fear\n    Of what hath come to pass; for when she saw-\n    Which never shall be found- you did suspect\n    She had dispos'd with Caesar, and that your rage\n    Would not be purg'd, she sent you word she was dead;\n    But fearing since how it might work, hath sent\n    Me to proclaim the truth; and I am come,\n    I dread, too late.\n  ANTONY. Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, I prithee.\n  DIOMEDES. What, ho! the Emperor's guard! The guard, what ho!\n    Come, your lord calls!\n\n             Enter four or five of the guard of ANTONY\n\n  ANTONY. Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides;\n    'Tis the last service that I shall command you.\n  FIRST GUARD. Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live to wear\n    All your true followers out.\n  ALL. Most heavy day!\n  ANTONY. Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate\n    To grace it with your sorrows. Bid that welcome\n    Which comes to punish us, and we punish it,\n    Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up.\n    I have led you oft; carry me now, good friends,\n    And have my thanks for all.           Exeunt, hearing ANTONY\nACT_4|SC_15\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE XV.\n                   Alexandria. A monument\n\n      Enter CLEOPATRA and her maids aloft, with CHARMIAN\n                         and IRAS\n\n  CLEOPATRA. O Charmian, I will never go from hence!\n  CHARMIAN. Be comforted, dear madam.\n  CLEOPATRA. No, I will not.\n    All strange and terrible events are welcome,\n    But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,\n    Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great\n    As that which makes it.\n\n                   Enter DIOMEDES, below\n\n    How now! Is he dead?\n  DIOMEDES. His death's upon him, but not dead.\n    Look out o' th' other side your monument;\n    His guard have brought him thither.\n\n            Enter, below, ANTONY, borne by the guard\n\n  CLEOPATRA. O sun,\n    Burn the great sphere thou mov'st in! Darkling stand\n    The varying shore o' th' world. O Antony,\n    Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian; help, Iras, help;\n    Help, friends below! Let's draw him hither.\n  ANTONY. Peace!\n    Not Caesar's valour hath o'erthrown Antony,\n    But Antony's hath triumph'd on itself.\n  CLEOPATRA. So it should be, that none but Antony\n    Should conquer Antony; but woe 'tis so!\n  ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying; only\n    I here importune death awhile, until\n    Of many thousand kisses the poor last\n    I lay upon thy lips.\n  CLEOPATRA. I dare not, dear.\n    Dear my lord, pardon! I dare not,\n    Lest I be taken. Not th' imperious show\n    Of the full-fortun'd Caesar ever shall\n    Be brooch'd with me. If knife, drugs, serpents, have\n    Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe.\n    Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes\n    And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour\n    Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony-\n    Help me, my women- we must draw thee up;\n    Assist, good friends.\n  ANTONY. O, quick, or I am gone.\n  CLEOPATRA. Here's sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord!\n    Our strength is all gone into heaviness;\n    That makes the weight. Had I great Juno's power,\n    The strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up,\n    And set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little.\n    Wishers were ever fools. O come, come,\n                          [They heave ANTONY aloft to CLEOPATRA]\n    And welcome, welcome! Die where thou hast liv'd.\n    Quicken with kissing. Had my lips that power,\n    Thus would I wear them out.\n  ALL. A heavy sight!\n  ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying.\n    Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.\n  CLEOPATRA. No, let me speak; and let me rail so high\n    That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel,\n    Provok'd by my offence.\n  ANTONY. One word, sweet queen:\n    Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O!\n  CLEOPATRA. They do not go together.\n  ANTONY. Gentle, hear me:\n    None about Caesar trust but Proculeius.\n  CLEOPATRA. My resolution and my hands I'll trust;\n    None about Caesar\n  ANTONY. The miserable change now at my end\n    Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts\n    In feeding them with those my former fortunes\n    Wherein I liv'd the greatest prince o' th' world,\n    The noblest; and do now not basely die,\n    Not cowardly put off my helmet to\n    My countryman- a Roman by a Roman\n    Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going\n    I can no more.\n  CLEOPATRA. Noblest of men, woo't die?\n    Hast thou no care of me? Shall I abide\n    In this dull world, which in thy absence is\n    No better than a sty? O, see, my women,        [Antony dies]\n    The crown o' th' earth doth melt. My lord!\n    O, wither'd is the garland of the war,\n    The soldier's pole is fall'n! Young boys and girls\n    Are level now with men. The odds is gone,\n    And there is nothing left remarkable\n    Beneath the visiting moon.                          [Swoons]\n  CHARMIAN. O, quietness, lady!\n  IRAS. She's dead too, our sovereign.\n  CHARMIAN. Lady!\n  IRAS. Madam!\n  CHARMIAN. O madam, madam, madam!\n  IRAS. Royal Egypt, Empress!\n  CHARMIAN. Peace, peace, Iras!\n  CLEOPATRA. No more but e'en a woman, and commanded\n    By such poor passion as the maid that milks\n    And does the meanest chares. It were for me\n    To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;\n    To tell them that this world did equal theirs\n    Till they had stol'n our jewel. All's but nought;\n    Patience is sottish, and impatience does\n    Become a dog that's mad. Then is it sin\n    To rush into the secret house of death\n    Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?\n    What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian!\n    My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look,\n    Our lamp is spent, it's out! Good sirs, take heart.\n    We'll bury him; and then, what's brave, what's noble,\n    Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,\n    And make death proud to take us. Come, away;\n    This case of that huge spirit now is cold.\n    Ah, women, women! Come; we have no friend\n    But resolution and the briefest end.\n                   Exeunt; those above hearing off ANTONY'S body\n\nACT_5|SC_1\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT V. SCENE I.\n                  Alexandria. CAESAR'S camp\n\n      Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, MAECENAS, GALLUS,\n          PROCULEIUS, and others, his Council of War\n\n  CAESAR. Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield;\n    Being so frustrate, tell him he mocks\n    The pauses that he makes.\n  DOLABELLA. Caesar, I shall.                               Exit\n\n             Enter DERCETAS With the sword of ANTONY\n\n  CAESAR. Wherefore is that? And what art thou that dar'st\n    Appear thus to us?\n  DERCETAS. I am call'd Dercetas;\n    Mark Antony I serv'd, who best was worthy\n    Best to be serv'd. Whilst he stood up and spoke,\n    He was my master, and I wore my life\n    To spend upon his haters. If thou please\n    To take me to thee, as I was to him\n    I'll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not,\n    I yield thee up my life.\n  CAESAR. What is't thou say'st?\n  DERCETAS. I say, O Caesar, Antony is dead.\n  CAESAR. The breaking of so great a thing should make\n    A greater crack. The round world\n    Should have shook lions into civil streets,\n    And citizens to their dens. The death of Antony\n    Is not a single doom; in the name lay\n    A moiety of the world.\n  DERCETAS. He is dead, Caesar,\n    Not by a public minister of justice,\n    Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand\n    Which writ his honour in the acts it did\n    Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it,\n    Splitted the heart. This is his sword;\n    I robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd\n    With his most noble blood.\n  CAESAR. Look you sad, friends?\n    The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings\n    To wash the eyes of kings.\n  AGRIPPA. And strange it is\n    That nature must compel us to lament\n    Our most persisted deeds.\n  MAECENAS. His taints and honours\n    Wag'd equal with him.\n  AGRIPPA. A rarer spirit never\n    Did steer humanity. But you gods will give us\n    Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touch'd.\n  MAECENAS. When such a spacious mirror's set before him,\n    He needs must see himself.\n  CAESAR. O Antony,\n    I have follow'd thee to this! But we do lance\n    Diseases in our bodies. I must perforce\n    Have shown to thee such a declining day\n    Or look on thine; we could not stall together\n    In the whole world. But yet let me lament,\n    With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,\n    That thou, my brother, my competitor\n    In top of all design, my mate in empire,\n    Friend and companion in the front of war,\n    The arm of mine own body, and the heart\n    Where mine his thoughts did kindle- that our stars,\n    Unreconciliable, should divide\n    Our equalness to this. Hear me, good friends-\n\n                    Enter an EGYPTIAN\n\n    But I will tell you at some meeter season.\n    The business of this man looks out of him;\n    We'll hear him what he says. Whence are you?\n  EGYPTIAN. A poor Egyptian, yet the Queen, my mistress,\n    Confin'd in all she has, her monument,\n    Of thy intents desires instruction,\n    That she preparedly may frame herself\n    To th' way she's forc'd to.\n  CAESAR. Bid her have good heart.\n    She soon shall know of us, by some of ours,\n    How honourable and how kindly we\n    Determine for her; for Caesar cannot learn\n    To be ungentle.\n  EGYPTIAN. So the gods preserve thee!                      Exit\n  CAESAR. Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say\n    We purpose her no shame. Give her what comforts\n    The quality of her passion shall require,\n    Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke\n    She do defeat us; for her life in Rome\n    Would be eternal in our triumph. Go,\n    And with your speediest bring us what she says,\n    And how you find her.\n  PROCULEIUS. Caesar, I shall.                              Exit\n  CAESAR. Gallus, go you along.                      Exit GALLUS\n    Where's Dolabella, to second Proculeius?\n  ALL. Dolabella!\n  CAESAR. Let him alone, for I remember now\n    How he's employ'd; he shall in time be ready.\n    Go with me to my tent, where you shall see\n    How hardly I was drawn into this war,\n    How calm and gentle I proceeded still\n    In all my writings. Go with me, and see\n    What I can show in this.                              Exeunt\n\nACT_5|SC_2\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE II.\n\n--At CHARLES's House\n\n     Enter TRIP, MOSES, and SIR OLIVER\n\nTRIP. Here Master Moses--if you'll stay a moment--I'll try whether\nMr.----what's the Gentleman's Name?\n\nSIR OLIVER. Mr.----Moses--what IS my name----\n\nMOSES. Mr. Premium----\n\nTRIP. Premium--very well.\n\n     [Exit TRIP--taking snuff.]\n\nSIR OLIVER. To judge by the Servants--one wouldn't believe the master\nwas ruin'd--but what--sure this was my Brother's House----\n\nMOSES. Yes Sir Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. Joseph with the Furniture,\nPictures, &c.--just as the old Gentleman left it--Sir Peter thought it a\ngreat piece of extravagance in him.\n\nSIR OLIVER. In my mind the other's economy in selling it to him was more\nreprehensible by half.----\n\n     Enter TRIP\n\nTRIP. My Master[,] Gentlemen[,] says you must wait, he has company, and\ncan't speak with you yet.\n\nSIR OLIVER. If he knew who it was wanted to see him, perhaps he wouldn't\nhave sent such a Message.\n\nTRIP. Yes--yes--Sir--He knows you are here--I didn't forget little\nPremium--no--no----\n\nSIR OLIVER. Very well--and pray Sir what may be your Name?\n\nTRIP. Trip Sir--my Name is Trip, at your Service.\n\nSIR OLIVER. Well then Mr. Trip--I presume your master is seldom without\ncompany----\n\nTRIP. Very seldom Sir--the world says ill-natured things of him but 'tis\nall malice--no man was ever better beloved--Sir he seldom sits down to\ndinner without a dozen particular Friends----\n\nSIR OLIVER. He's very happy indeed--you have a pleasant sort of Place\nhere I guess?\n\nTRIP. Why yes--here are three or four of us pass our time agreeably\nenough--but then our wages are sometimes a little in arrear--and not\nvery great either--but fifty Pounds a year and find our own Bags and\nBouquets----\n\nSIR OLIVER. Bags and Bouquets!--Halters and Bastinadoes! [Aside.]\n\nTRIP. But a propos Moses--have you been able to get me that little Bill\ndiscounted?\n\nSIR OLIVER. Wants to raise money too!--mercy on me! has his distresses,\nI warrant[,] like a Lord--and affects Creditors and Duns! [Aside.]\n\nMOSES. 'Twas not be done, indeed----\n\nTRIP. Good lack--you surprise me--My Friend Brush has indorsed it and\nI thought when he put his name at the Back of a Bill 'twas as good as\ncash.\n\nMOSES. No 'twouldn't do.\n\nTRIP. A small sum--but twenty Pound--harkee, Moses do you think you\ncould get it me by way of annuity?\n\nSIR OLIVER. An annuity! ha! ha! a Footman raise money by annuity--Well\ndone Luxury egad! [Aside.]\n\nMOSES. Who would you get to join with you?\n\nTRIP. You know my Lord Applice--you have seen him however----\n\nMOSES. Yes----\n\nTRIP. You must have observed what an appearance he makes--nobody dresses\nbetter, nobody throws off faster--very well this Gentleman will stand my\nsecurity.\n\nMOSES. Well--but you must insure your Place.\n\nTRIP. O with all my Heart--I'll insure my Place, and my Life too, if you\nplease.\n\nSIR OLIVER. It's more than I would your neck----\n\nMOSES. But is there nothing you could deposit?\n\nTRIP. Why nothing capital of my master's wardrobe has drop'd lately--but\nI could give you a mortgage on some of his winter Cloaths with equity\nof redemption before November or--you shall have the reversion--of the\nFrench velvet, or a post obit on the Blue and Silver--these I\nshould think Moses--with a few Pair of Point Ruffles as a collateral\nsecurity--hey, my little Fellow?\n\nMOSES. Well well--we'll talk presently--we detain the Gentlemen----\n\nSIR OLIVER. O pray don't let me interrupt Mr. Trip's Negotiation.\n\nTRIP. Harkee--I heard the Bell--I believe, Gentlemen I can now introduce\nyou--don't forget the annuity little Moses.\n\nSIR OLIVER. If the man be a shadow of his Master this is the Temple of\nDissipation indeed!\n\n     [Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "IV. Calm in Storm\n\n\nDoctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his\nabsence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be\nkept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that\nnot until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she\nknow that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all\nages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been\ndarkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been\ntainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon\nthe prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that\nsome had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.\n\nTo Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on\nwhich he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a\nscene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had\nfound a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were\nbrought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth\nto be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back\nto their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he\nhad announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen\nyears a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the\nbody so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this\nman was Defarge.\n\nThat, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,\nthat his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard\nto the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some\ndirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life\nand liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as\na notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded\nto him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and\nexamined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when\nthe tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible\nto the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,\nthe man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that\nthe prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held\ninviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner\nwas removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the\nDoctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and\nassure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,\ndelivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had\noften drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and\nhad remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.\n\nThe sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by\nintervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were\nsaved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against\nthose who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had\nbeen discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had\nthrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress\nthe wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him\nin the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies\nof their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this\nawful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man\nwith the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him\ncarefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged\nanew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes\nwith his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.\n\nAs Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of\nhis friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that\nsuch dread experiences would revive the old danger.\n\nBut, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never\nat all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor\nfelt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time\nhe felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which\ncould break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.\n\"It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.\nAs my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be\nhelpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid\nof Heaven I will do it!\" Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw\nthe kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing\nof the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a\nclock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which\nhad lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.\n\nGreater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would\nhave yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself\nin his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees\nof mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his\npersonal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician\nof three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie\nthat her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the\ngeneral body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet\nmessages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself\nsent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was\nnot permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of\nplots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were\nknown to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.\n\nThis new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the\nsagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.\nNothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;\nbut he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that\ntime, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter\nand his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.\nNow that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through\nthat old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's\nultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,\nthat he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to\ntrust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself\nand Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and\naffection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in\nrendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. \"All\ncurious to see,\" thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, \"but all\nnatural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it\ncouldn't be in better hands.\"\n\nBut, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get\nCharles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,\nthe public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new\nera began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of\nLiberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death\nagainst the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the\ngreat towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise\nagainst the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils\nof France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and\nhad yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and\nalluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of\nthe North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds\nand among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the\nfruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.\nWhat private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year\nOne of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,\nand with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!\n\nThere was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no\nmeasurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when\ntime was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other\ncount of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever\nof a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the\nunnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the\nhead of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the\nhead of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned\nwidowhood and misery, to turn it grey.\n\nAnd yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in\nall such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A\nrevolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand\nrevolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,\nwhich struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over\nany good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged\nwith people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;\nthese things became the established order and nature of appointed\nthings, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.\nAbove all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before\nthe general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the\nsharp female called La Guillotine.\n\nIt was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,\nit infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a\npeculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which\nshaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window\nand sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the\nhuman race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts\nfrom which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and\nbelieved in where the Cross was denied.\n\nIt sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,\nwere a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young\nDevil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed\nthe eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and\ngood. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one\ndead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.\nThe name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief\nfunctionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his\nnamesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every\nday.\n\nAmong these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked\nwith a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his\nend, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the\ncurrent of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time\naway so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three\nmonths when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more\nwicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,\nthat the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the\nviolently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares\nunder the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the\nterrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at\nthat day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable\nin hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and\nvictims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the\nappearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all\nother men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if\nhe had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were\na Spirit moving among mortals.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "Scene 2.\n\nEnter Benedicke and Margaret.\n\n  Ben. Praie thee sweete Mistris Margaret, deserue\nwell at my hands, by helping mee to the speech of Beatrice\n\n   Mar. Will you then write me a Sonnet in praise of\nmy beautie?\n  Bene. In so high a stile Margaret, that no man liuing\nshall come ouer it, for in most comely truth thou deseruest\nit\n\n   Mar. To haue no man come ouer me, why, shall I alwaies\nkeepe below staires?\n  Bene. Thy wit is as quicke as the grey-hounds mouth,\nit catches\n\n   Mar. And yours, as blunt as the Fencers foiles, which\nhit, but hurt not\n\n   Bene. A most manly wit Margaret, it will not hurt a\nwoman: and so I pray thee call Beatrice, I giue thee the\nbucklers\n\n   Mar. Giue vs the swords, wee haue bucklers of our\nowne\n\n   Bene. If you vse them Margaret, you must put in the\npikes with a vice, and they are dangerous weapons for\nMaides\n\n   Mar. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I thinke\nhath legges.\n\nExit Margarite.\n\n  Ben. And therefore will come. The God of loue that\nsits aboue, and knowes me, and knowes me, how pittifull\nI deserue. I meane in singing, but in louing, Leander\nthe good swimmer, Troilous the first imploier of\npandars, and a whole booke full of these quondam carpet-mongers,\nwhose name yet runne smoothly in the euen\nrode of a blanke verse, why they were neuer so truely\nturned ouer and ouer as my poore selfe in loue: marrie\nI cannot shew it rime, I haue tried, I can finde out no\nrime to Ladie but babie, an innocent rime: for scorne,\nhorne, a hard rime: for schoole foole, a babling rime:\nverie ominous endings, no, I was not borne vnder a riming\nPlannet, for I cannot wooe in festiuall tearmes:\nEnter Beatrice.\n\nsweete Beatrice would'st thou come when I cal'd\nthee?\n  Beat. Yea Signior, and depart when you bid me\n\n   Bene. O stay but till then\n\n   Beat. Then, is spoken: fare you well now, and yet ere\nI goe, let me goe with that I came, which is, with knowing\nwhat hath past betweene you and Claudio\n\n   Bene. Onely foule words, and thereupon I will kisse\nthee\n\n   Beat. Foule words is but foule wind, and foule wind\nis but foule breath, and foule breath is noisome, therefore\nI will depart vnkist\n\n   Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right\nsence, so forcible is thy wit, but I must tell thee plainely,\nClaudio vndergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly\nheare from him, or I will subscribe him a coward, and\nI pray thee now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst\nthou first fall in loue with me?\n  Beat. For them all together, which maintain'd so\npolitique a state of euill, that they will not admit any\ngood part to intermingle with them: but for which of\nmy good parts did you first suffer loue for me?\n  Bene. Suffer loue! a good epithite, I do suffer loue indeede,\nfor I loue thee against my will,\n  Beat. In spight of your heart I think, alas poore heart,\nif you spight it for my sake, I will spight it for yours, for\nI will neuer loue that which my friend hates\n\n   Bened. Thou and I are too wise to wooe peaceablie\n\n   Bea. It appeares not in this confession, there's not one\nwise man among twentie that will praise himselfe\n\n   Bene. An old, an old instance Beatrice, that liu'd in\nthe time of good neighbours, if a man doe not erect in\nthis age his owne tombe ere he dies, hee shall liue no\nlonger in monuments, then the Bels ring, & the Widdow\nweepes\n\n   Beat. And how long is that thinke you?\n  Ben. Question, why an hower in clamour and a quarter\nin rhewme, therfore is it most expedient for the wise,\nif Don worme (his conscience) finde no impediment to\nthe contrarie, to be the trumpet of his owne vertues, as\nI am to my selfe so much for praising my selfe, who I my\nselfe will beare witnesse is praise worthie, and now tell\nme, how doth your cosin?\n  Beat. Verie ill\n\n   Bene. And how doe you?\n  Beat. Verie ill too.\nEnter Vrsula.\n\n  Bene. Serue God, loue me, and mend, there will I leaue\nyou too, for here comes one in haste\n\n   Vrs. Madam, you must come to your Vncle, yonders\nold coile at home, it is prooued my Ladie Hero\nhath bin falselie accusde, the Prince and Claudio\nmightilie abusde, and Don Iohn is the author of all, who\nis fled and gone: will you come presentlie?\n  Beat. Will you go heare this newes Signior?\n  Bene. I will liue in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried\nin thy eies: and moreouer, I will goe with thee to\nthy Vncles.\n\nExeunt.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nHe had only received the chemist's letter thirty-six hours after the\nevent; and, from consideration for his feelings, Homais had so worded it\nthat it was impossible to make out what it was all about.\n\nFirst, the old fellow had fallen as if struck by apoplexy. Next, he\nunderstood that she was not dead, but she might be. At last, he had put\non his blouse, taken his hat, fastened his spurs to his boots, and set\nout at full speed; and the whole of the way old Rouault, panting, was\ntorn by anguish. Once even he was obliged to dismount. He was dizzy; he\nheard voices round about him; he felt himself going mad.\n\nDay broke. He saw three black hens asleep in a tree. He shuddered,\nhorrified at this omen. Then he promised the Holy Virgin three chasubles\nfor the church, and that he would go barefooted from the cemetery at\nBertaux to the chapel of Vassonville.\n\nHe entered Maromme shouting for the people of the inn, burst open the\ndoor with a thrust of his shoulder, made for a sack of oats, emptied a\nbottle of sweet cider into the manger, and again mounted his nag, whose\nfeet struck fire as it dashed along.\n\nHe said to himself that no doubt they would save her; the doctors would\ndiscover some remedy surely. He remembered all the miraculous cures\nhe had been told about. Then she appeared to him dead. She was there;\nbefore his eyes, lying on her back in the middle of the road. He reined\nup, and the hallucination disappeared.\n\nAt Quincampoix, to give himself heart, he drank three cups of coffee\none after the other. He fancied they had made a mistake in the name in\nwriting. He looked for the letter in his pocket, felt it there, but did\nnot dare to open it.\n\nAt last he began to think it was all a joke; someone's spite, the jest\nof some wag; and besides, if she were dead, one would have known it. But\nno! There was nothing extraordinary about the country; the sky was blue,\nthe trees swayed; a flock of sheep passed. He saw the village; he was\nseen coming bending forward upon his horse, belabouring it with great\nblows, the girths dripping with blood.\n\nWhen he had recovered consciousness, he fell, weeping, into Bovary's\narms: \"My girl! Emma! my child! tell me--\"\n\nThe other replied, sobbing, \"I don't know! I don't know! It's a curse!\"\n\nThe druggist separated them. \"These horrible details are useless. I will\ntell this gentleman all about it. Here are the people coming. Dignity!\nCome now! Philosophy!\"\n\nThe poor fellow tried to show himself brave, and repeated several times.\n\"Yes! courage!\"\n\n\"Oh,\" cried the old man, \"so I will have, by God! I'll go along o' her\nto the end!\"\n\nThe bell began tolling. All was ready; they had to start. And seated in\na stall of the choir, side by side, they saw pass and repass in front of\nthem continually the three chanting choristers.\n\nThe serpent-player was blowing with all his might. Monsieur Bournisien,\nin full vestments, was singing in a shrill voice. He bowed before the\ntabernacle, raising his hands, stretched out his arms. Lestiboudois\nwent about the church with his whalebone stick. The bier stood near the\nlectern, between four rows of candles. Charles felt inclined to get up\nand put them out.\n\nYet he tried to stir himself to a feeling of devotion, to throw himself\ninto the hope of a future life in which he should see her again. He\nimagined to himself she had gone on a long journey, far away, for a long\ntime. But when he thought of her lying there, and that all was over,\nthat they would lay her in the earth, he was seized with a fierce,\ngloomy, despairful rage. At times he thought he felt nothing more, and\nhe enjoyed this lull in his pain, whilst at the same time he reproached\nhimself for being a wretch.\n\nThe sharp noise of an iron-ferruled stick was heard on the stones,\nstriking them at irregular intervals. It came from the end of the\nchurch, and stopped short at the lower aisles. A man in a coarse brown\njacket knelt down painfully. It was Hippolyte, the stable-boy at the\n\"Lion d'Or.\" He had put on his new leg.\n\nOne of the choristers went round the nave making a collection, and the\ncoppers chinked one after the other on the silver plate.\n\n\"Oh, make haste! I am in pain!\" cried Bovary, angrily throwing him a\nfive-franc piece. The churchman thanked him with a deep bow.\n\nThey sang, they knelt, they stood up; it was endless! He remembered that\nonce, in the early times, they had been to mass together, and they had\nsat down on the other side, on the right, by the wall. The bell began\nagain. There was a great moving of chairs; the bearers slipped their\nthree staves under the coffin, and everyone left the church.\n\nThen Justin appeared at the door of the shop. He suddenly went in again,\npale, staggering.\n\nPeople were at the windows to see the procession pass. Charles at the\nhead walked erect. He affected a brave air, and saluted with a nod those\nwho, coming out from the lanes or from their doors, stood amidst the\ncrowd.\n\nThe six men, three on either side, walked slowly, panting a little.\nThe priests, the choristers, and the two choirboys recited the De\nprofundis*, and their voices echoed over the fields, rising and falling\nwith their undulations. Sometimes they disappeared in the windings of\nthe path; but the great silver cross rose always before the trees.\n\n     *Psalm CXXX.\n\n\nThe women followed in black cloaks with turned-down hoods; each of them\ncarried in her hands a large lighted candle, and Charles felt himself\ngrowing weaker at this continual repetition of prayers and torches,\nbeneath this oppressive odour of wax and of cassocks. A fresh breeze was\nblowing; the rye and colza were sprouting, little dewdrops trembled at\nthe roadsides and on the hawthorn hedges. All sorts of joyous sounds\nfilled the air; the jolting of a cart rolling afar off in the ruts, the\ncrowing of a cock, repeated again and again, or the gambling of a foal\nrunning away under the apple-trees: The pure sky was fretted with rosy\nclouds; a bluish haze rested upon the cots covered with iris. Charles as\nhe passed recognised each courtyard. He remembered mornings like this,\nwhen, after visiting some patient, he came out from one and returned to\nher.\n\nThe black cloth bestrewn with white beads blew up from time to time,\nlaying bare the coffin. The tired bearers walked more slowly, and it\nadvanced with constant jerks, like a boat that pitches with every wave.\n\nThey reached the cemetery. The men went right down to a place in the\ngrass where a grave was dug. They ranged themselves all round; and while\nthe priest spoke, the red soil thrown up at the sides kept noiselessly\nslipping down at the corners.\n\nThen when the four ropes were arranged the coffin was placed upon them.\nHe watched it descend; it seemed descending for ever. At last a thud was\nheard; the ropes creaked as they were drawn up. Then Bournisien took\nthe spade handed to him by Lestiboudois; with his left hand all the\ntime sprinkling water, with the right he vigorously threw in a large\nspadeful; and the wood of the coffin, struck by the pebbles, gave forth\nthat dread sound that seems to us the reverberation of eternity.\n\nThe ecclesiastic passed the holy water sprinkler to his neighbour. This\nwas Homais. He swung it gravely, then handed it to Charles, who sank to\nhis knees in the earth and threw in handfuls of it, crying, \"Adieu!\" He\nsent her kisses; he dragged himself towards the grave, to engulf himself\nwith her. They led him away, and he soon grew calmer, feeling perhaps,\nlike the others, a vague satisfaction that it was all over.\n\nOld Rouault on his way back began quietly smoking a pipe, which Homais\nin his innermost conscience thought not quite the thing. He also noticed\nthat Monsieur Binet had not been present, and that Tuvache had \"made\noff\" after mass, and that Theodore, the notary's servant wore a blue\ncoat, \"as if one could not have got a black coat, since that is the\ncustom, by Jove!\" And to share his observations with others he went from\ngroup to group. They were deploring Emma's death, especially Lheureux,\nwho had not failed to come to the funeral.\n\n\"Poor little woman! What a trouble for her husband!\"\n\nThe druggist continued, \"Do you know that but for me he would have\ncommitted some fatal attempt upon himself?\"\n\n\"Such a good woman! To think that I saw her only last Saturday in my\nshop.\"\n\n\"I haven't had leisure,\" said Homais, \"to prepare a few words that I\nwould have cast upon her tomb.\"\n\nCharles on getting home undressed, and old Rouault put on his blue\nblouse. It was a new one, and as he had often during the journey wiped\nhis eyes on the sleeves, the dye had stained his face, and the traces of\ntears made lines in the layer of dust that covered it.\n\nMadame Bovary senior was with them. All three were silent. At last the\nold fellow sighed--\n\n\"Do you remember, my friend, that I went to Tostes once when you had\njust lost your first deceased? I consoled you at that time. I thought of\nsomething to say then, but now--\" Then, with a loud groan that shook his\nwhole chest, \"Ah! this is the end for me, do you see! I saw my wife go,\nthen my son, and now to-day it's my daughter.\"\n\nHe wanted to go back at once to Bertaux, saying that he could not sleep\nin this house. He even refused to see his granddaughter.\n\n\"No, no! It would grieve me too much. Only you'll kiss her many times\nfor me. Good-bye! you're a good fellow! And then I shall never forget\nthat,\" he said, slapping his thigh. \"Never fear, you shall always have\nyour turkey.\"\n\nBut when he reached the top of the hill he turned back, as he had turned\nonce before on the road of Saint-Victor when he had parted from her. The\nwindows of the village were all on fire beneath the slanting rays of the\nsun sinking behind the field. He put his hand over his eyes, and saw\nin the horizon an enclosure of walls, where trees here and there formed\nblack clusters between white stones; then he went on his way at a gentle\ntrot, for his nag had gone lame.\n\nDespite their fatigue, Charles and his mother stayed very long that\nevening talking together. They spoke of the days of the past and of the\nfuture. She would come to live at Yonville; she would keep house for\nhim; they would never part again. She was ingenious and caressing,\nrejoicing in her heart at gaining once more an affection that had\nwandered from her for so many years. Midnight struck. The village as\nusual was silent, and Charles, awake, thought always of her.\n\nRodolphe, who, to distract himself, had been rambling about the wood all\nday, was sleeping quietly in his chateau, and Leon, down yonder, always\nslept.\n\nThere was another who at that hour was not asleep.\n\nOn the grave between the pine-trees a child was on his knees weeping,\nand his heart, rent by sobs, was beating in the shadow beneath the load\nof an immense regret, sweeter than the moon and fathomless as the night.\nThe gate suddenly grated. It was Lestiboudois; he came to fetch his\nspade, that he had forgotten. He recognised Justin climbing over the\nwall, and at last knew who was the culprit who stole his potatoes.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had still\nAlan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a\nheavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On both\nthese heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning, walking to and\nfro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothing\nin view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors' and were\nnow mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take a\nglad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride.\n\nAbout my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must help\nhim out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was\nof a different mind.\n\n\"Mr. Thomson,\" says he, \"is one thing, Mr. Thomson's kinsman quite\nanother. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble\n(whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.)* has some concern and\nis even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. is\ndoubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, timeo qui nocuere deos.\nIf you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember there is\none way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in the dock.\nThere, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson's kinsman. You\nwill object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And to be tried\nfor your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel and with\na Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition to the\ngallows.\"\n\n     * The Duke of Argyle.\n\nNow I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good reply\nto them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. \"In that case, sir,\"\nsaid I, \"I would just have to be hanged--would I not?\"\n\n\"My dear boy,\" cries he, \"go in God's name, and do what you think is\nright. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advising\nyou to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology.\nGo and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There\nare worse things in the world than to be hanged.\"\n\n\"Not many, sir,\" said I, smiling.\n\n\"Why, yes, sir,\" he cried, \"very many. And it would be ten times better\nfor your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decently\nupon a gibbet.\"\n\nThereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind,\nso that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me two\nletters, making his comments on them as he wrote.\n\n\"This,\" says he, \"is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing a\ncredit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; and\nyou, with this credit, can supply the means. I trust you will be a good\nhusband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson,\nI would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way\nthan that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer\ntestimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, and\nwill turn on the D. of A. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate well\nrecommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, the\nlearned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look better\nthat you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird of\nPilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with Lord\nAdvocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with any\nparticulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer to\nMr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when you\ndeal with the Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may the\nLord guide you, Mr. David!\"\n\nThereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry,\nwhile Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went\nby the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, we\nkept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare and\ngreat and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top\nwindows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and back\nand forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had little\nwelcome when I came, and less kindness while I stayed; but at least I\nwas watched as I went away.\n\nAlan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart either\nto walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we were\nnear the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone days\nsate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and it\nwas resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, now\nthere, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might be\nable to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger.\nIn the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart,\nand a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part to\nfind a ship and to arrange for Alan's safe embarkation. No sooner was\nthis business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though I\nwould seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he with\nme on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that we\nwere nearer tears than laughter.\n\nWe came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got\nnear to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on\nCorstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we\nboth stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to\nwhere our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had been\nagreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour at\nwhich Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by any\nthat came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two of\nRankeillor's) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then we\nstood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence.\n\n\"Well, good-bye,\" said Alan, and held out his left hand.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off down\nhill.\n\nNeither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was in\nmy view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But as\nI went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I could\nhave found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep like\nany baby.\n\nIt was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the\nGrassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the\nbuildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched\nentries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants\nin their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the\nfine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention,\nstruck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd\ncarry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was\nAlan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would think\nI would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties)\nthere was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something\nwrong.\n\nThe hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors of\nthe British Linen Company's bank.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n\nJude returned to Melchester, which had the questionable\nrecommendation of being only a dozen and a half miles from his Sue's\nnow permanent residence.  At first he felt that this nearness was a\ndistinct reason for not going southward at all; but Christminster\nwas too sad a place to bear, while the proximity of Shaston to\nMelchester might afford him the glory of worsting the Enemy in a\nclose engagement, such as was deliberately sought by the priests and\nvirgins of the early Church, who, disdaining an ignominious flight\nfrom temptation, became even chamber-partners with impunity.\nJude did not pause to remember that, in the laconic words of the\nhistorian, \"insulted Nature sometimes vindicated her rights\" in such\ncircumstances.\n\nHe now returned with feverish desperation to his study for the\npriesthood--in the recognition that the single-mindedness of his\naims, and his fidelity to the cause, had been more than questionable\nof late.  His passion for Sue troubled his soul; yet his lawful\nabandonment to the society of Arabella for twelve hours seemed\ninstinctively a worse thing--even though she had not told him of her\nSydney husband till afterwards.  He had, he verily believed, overcome\nall tendency to fly to liquor--which, indeed, he had never done from\ntaste, but merely as an escape from intolerable misery of mind.  Yet\nhe perceived with despondency that, taken all round, he was a man of\ntoo many passions to make a good clergyman; the utmost he could hope\nfor was that in a life of constant internal warfare between flesh and\nspirit the former might not always be victorious.\n\nAs a hobby, auxiliary to his readings in Divinity, he developed his\nslight skill in church-music and thorough-bass, till he could join in\npart-singing from notation with some accuracy.  A mile or two from\nMelchester there was a restored village church, to which Jude had\noriginally gone to fix the new columns and capitals.  By this means\nhe had become acquainted with the organist, and the ultimate result\nwas that he joined the choir as a bass voice.\n\nHe walked out to this parish twice every Sunday, and sometimes in the\nweek.  One evening about Easter the choir met for practice, and a new\nhymn which Jude had heard of as being by a Wessex composer was to be\ntried and prepared for the following week.  It turned out to be a\nstrangely emotional composition.  As they all sang it over and over\nagain its harmonies grew upon Jude, and moved him exceedingly.\n\nWhen they had finished he went round to the organist to make\ninquiries.  The score was in manuscript, the name of the composer\nbeing at the head, together with the title of the hymn: \"The Foot\nof the Cross.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the organist.  \"He is a local man.  He is a professional\nmusician at Kennetbridge--between here and Christminster.  The\nvicar knows him.  He was brought up and educated in Christminster\ntraditions, which accounts for the quality of the piece.  I think he\nplays in the large church there, and has a surpliced choir.  He comes\nto Melchester sometimes, and once tried to get the cathedral organ\nwhen the post was vacant.  The hymn is getting about everywhere this\nEaster.\"\n\nAs he walked humming the air on his way home, Jude fell to musing\non its composer, and the reasons why he composed it.  What a man of\nsympathies he must be!  Perplexed and harassed as he himself was\nabout Sue and Arabella, and troubled as was his conscience by the\ncomplication of his position, how he would like to know that man!\n\"He of all men would understand my difficulties,\" said the impulsive\nJude.  If there were any person in the world to choose as a\nconfidant, this composer would be the one, for he must have suffered,\nand throbbed, and yearned.\n\nIn brief, ill as he could afford the time and money for the journey,\nFawley resolved, like the child that he was, to go to Kennetbridge\nthe very next Sunday.  He duly started, early in the morning, for it\nwas only by a series of crooked railways that he could get to the\ntown.  About mid-day he reached it, and crossing the bridge into the\nquaint old borough he inquired for the house of the composer.\n\nThey told him it was a red brick building some little way further on.\nAlso that the gentleman himself had just passed along the street not\nfive minutes before.\n\n\"Which way?\" asked Jude with alacrity.\n\n\"Straight along homeward from church.\"\n\nJude hastened on, and soon had the pleasure of observing a man in a\nblack coat and a black slouched felt hat no considerable distance\nahead.  Stretching out his legs yet more widely, he stalked after.\n\"A hungry soul in pursuit of a full soul!\" he said.  \"I must speak\nto that man!\"\n\nHe could not, however, overtake the musician before he had entered\nhis own house, and then arose the question if this were an expedient\ntime to call.  Whether or not he decided to do so there and then, now\nthat he had got here, the distance home being too great for him to\nwait till late in the afternoon.  This man of soul would understand\nscant ceremony, and might be quite a perfect adviser in a case in\nwhich an earthly and illegitimate passion had cunningly obtained\nentrance into his heart through the opening afforded for religion.\n\nJude accordingly rang the bell, and was admitted.\n\nThe musician came to him in a moment, and being respectably dressed,\ngood-looking, and frank in manner, Jude obtained a favourable\nreception.  He was nevertheless conscious that there would be a\ncertain awkwardness in explaining his errand.\n\n\"I have been singing in the choir of a little church near\nMelchester,\" he said.  \"And we have this week practised 'The Foot\nof the Cross,' which I understand, sir, that you composed?\"\n\n\"I did--a year or so ago.\"\n\n\"I--like it.  I think it supremely beautiful!\"\n\n\"Ah well--other people have said so too.  Yes, there's money in\nit, if I could only see about getting it published.  I have other\ncompositions to go with it, too; I wish I could bring them out; for\nI haven't made a five-pound note out of any of them yet.  These\npublishing people--they want the copyright of an obscure composer's\nwork, such as mine is, for almost less than I should have to pay a\nperson for making a fair manuscript copy of the score.  The one you\nspeak of I have lent to various friends about here and Melchester,\nand so it has got to be sung a little.  But music is a poor staff to\nlean on--I am giving it up entirely.  You must go into trade if you\nwant to make money nowadays.  The wine business is what I am thinking\nof.  This is my forthcoming list--it is not issued yet--but you can\ntake one.\"\n\nHe handed Jude an advertisement list of several pages in booklet\nshape, ornamentally margined with a red line, in which were set forth\nthe various clarets, champagnes, ports, sherries, and other wines\nwith which he purposed to initiate his new venture.  It took Jude\nmore than by surprise that the man with the soul was thus and thus;\nand he felt that he could not open up his confidences.\n\nThey talked a little longer, but constrainedly, for when the musician\nfound that Jude was a poor man his manner changed from what it had\nbeen while Jude's appearance and address deceived him as to his\nposition and pursuits.  Jude stammered out something about his\nfeelings in wishing to congratulate the author on such an exalted\ncomposition, and took an embarrassed leave.\n\nAll the way home by the slow Sunday train, sitting in the fireless\nwaiting-rooms on this cold spring day, he was depressed enough at\nhis simplicity in taking such a journey.  But no sooner did he reach\nhis Melchester lodging than he found awaiting him a letter which had\narrived that morning a few minutes after he had left the house.  It\nwas a contrite little note from Sue, in which she said, with sweet\nhumility, that she felt she had been horrid in telling him he\nwas not to come to see her, that she despised herself for having\nbeen so conventional; and that he was to be sure to come by the\neleven-forty-five train that very Sunday, and have dinner with them\nat half-past one.\n\nJude almost tore his hair at having missed this letter till it was\ntoo late to act upon its contents; but he had chastened himself\nconsiderably of late, and at last his chimerical expedition\nto Kennetbridge really did seem to have been another special\nintervention of Providence to keep him away from temptation.  But a\ngrowing impatience of faith, which he had noticed in himself more\nthan once of late, made him pass over in ridicule the idea that God\nsent people on fools' errands.  He longed to see her; he was angry\nat having missed her: and he wrote instantly, telling her what had\nhappened, and saying he had not enough patience to wait till the\nfollowing Sunday, but would come any day in the week that she liked\nto name.\n\nSince he wrote a little over-ardently, Sue, as her manner was,\ndelayed her reply till Thursday before Good Friday, when she said he\nmight come that afternoon if he wished, this being the earliest day\non which she could welcome him, for she was now assistant-teacher in\nher husband's school.  Jude therefore got leave from the cathedral\nworks at the trifling expense of a stoppage of pay, and went.\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nThe girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle.  She grew to be a most\nrare and wonderful production of a tenement district, a pretty girl.\n\nNone of the dirt of Rum Alley seemed to be in her veins.  The\nphilosophers up-stairs, down-stairs and on the same floor, puzzled over\nit.\n\nWhen a child, playing and fighting with gamins in the street, dirt\ndisguised her.  Attired in tatters and grime, she went unseen.\n\nThere came a time, however, when the young men of the vicinity said:\n\"Dat Johnson goil is a puty good looker.\"  About this period her\nbrother remarked to her: \"Mag, I'll tell yeh dis!  See?  Yeh've edder\ngot teh go teh hell or go teh work!\"  Whereupon she went to work,\nhaving the feminine aversion of going to hell.\n\nBy a chance, she got a position in an establishment where they made\ncollars and cuffs.  She received a stool and a machine in a room where\nsat twenty girls of various shades of yellow discontent.  She perched\non the stool and treadled at her machine all day, turning out collars,\nthe name of whose brand could be noted for its irrelevancy to anything\nin connection with collars.  At night she returned home to her mother.\n\nJimmie grew large enough to take the vague position of head of the\nfamily.  As incumbent of that office, he stumbled up-stairs late at\nnight, as his father had done before him.  He reeled about the room,\nswearing at his relations, or went to sleep on the floor.\n\nThe mother had gradually arisen to that degree of fame that she could\nbandy words with her acquaintances among the police-justices.\nCourt-officials called her by her first name.  When she appeared they\npursued a course which had been theirs for months.  They invariably\ngrinned and cried out: \"Hello, Mary, you here again?\"  Her grey head\nwagged in many a court.  She always besieged the bench with voluble\nexcuses, explanations, apologies and prayers.  Her flaming face and\nrolling eyes were a sort of familiar sight on the island.  She measured\ntime by means of sprees, and was eternally swollen and dishevelled.\n\nOne day the young man, Pete, who as a lad had smitten the Devil's Row\nurchin in the back of the head and put to flight the antagonists of his\nfriend, Jimmie, strutted upon the scene.  He met Jimmie one day on the\nstreet, promised to take him to a boxing match in Williamsburg, and\ncalled for him in the evening.\n\nMaggie observed Pete.\n\nHe sat on a table in the Johnson home and dangled his checked legs with\nan enticing nonchalance.  His hair was curled down over his forehead in\nan oiled bang.  His rather pugged nose seemed to revolt from contact\nwith a bristling moustache of short, wire-like hairs.  His blue\ndouble-breasted coat, edged with black braid, buttoned close to a red\npuff tie, and his patent-leather shoes looked like murder-fitted\nweapons.\n\nHis mannerisms stamped him as a man who had a correct sense of his\npersonal superiority.  There was valor and contempt for circumstances\nin the glance of his eye.  He waved his hands like a man of the world,\nwho dismisses religion and philosophy, and says \"Fudge.\"  He had\ncertainly seen everything and with each curl of his lip, he declared\nthat it amounted to nothing.  Maggie thought he must be a very elegant\nand graceful bartender.\n\nHe was telling tales to Jimmie.\n\nMaggie watched him furtively, with half-closed eyes, lit with a vague\ninterest.\n\n\"Hully gee!  Dey makes me tired,\" he said.  \"Mos' e'ry day some farmer\ncomes in an' tries teh run deh shop.  See?  But dey gits t'rowed right\nout!  I jolt dem right out in deh street before dey knows where dey is!\nSee?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" said Jimmie.\n\n\"Dere was a mug come in deh place deh odder day wid an idear he wus\ngoin' teh own deh place!  Hully gee, he wus goin' teh own deh place!  I\nsee he had a still on an' I didn' wanna giv 'im no stuff, so I says:\n'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble,' I says like dat!\nSee?  'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble'; like dat.\n'Git deh hell outa here,' I says.  See?\"\n\nJimmie nodded understandingly.  Over his features played an eager\ndesire to state the amount of his valor in a similar crisis, but the\nnarrator proceeded.\n\n\"Well, deh blokie he says: 'T'hell wid it!  I ain' lookin' for no\nscrap,' he says (See?), 'but' he says, 'I'm 'spectable cit'zen an' I\nwanna drink an' purtydamnsoon, too.'  See?  'Deh hell,' I says.  Like\ndat!  'Deh hell,' I says.  See?  'Don' make no trouble,' I says.  Like\ndat.  'Don' make no trouble.'  See?  Den deh mug he squared off an'\nsaid he was fine as silk wid his dukes (See?) an' he wanned a drink\ndamnquick.  Dat's what he said.  See?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" repeated Jimmie.\n\nPete continued.  \"Say, I jes' jumped deh bar an' deh way I plunked dat\nblokie was great.  See?  Dat's right!  In deh jaw!  See?  Hully gee, he\nt'rowed a spittoon true deh front windee.  Say, I taut I'd drop dead.\nBut deh boss, he comes in after an' he says, 'Pete, yehs done jes'\nright!  Yeh've gota keep order an' it's all right.'  See?  'It's all\nright,' he says.  Dat's what he said.\"\n\nThe two held a technical discussion.\n\n\"Dat bloke was a dandy,\" said Pete, in conclusion, \"but he hadn' oughta\nmade no trouble.  Dat's what I says teh dem: 'Don' come in here an'\nmake no trouble,' I says, like dat.  'Don' make no trouble.'  See?\"\n\nAs Jimmie and his friend exchanged tales descriptive of their prowess,\nMaggie leaned back in the shadow.  Her eyes dwelt wonderingly and\nrather wistfully upon Pete's face.  The broken furniture, grimey walls,\nand general disorder and dirt of her home of a sudden appeared before\nher and began to take a potential aspect.  Pete's aristocratic person\nlooked as if it might soil.  She looked keenly at him, occasionally,\nwondering if he was feeling contempt.  But Pete seemed to be enveloped\nin reminiscence.\n\n\"Hully gee,\" said he, \"dose mugs can't phase me.  Dey knows I kin wipe\nup deh street wid any t'ree of dem.\"\n\nWhen he said, \"Ah, what deh hell,\" his voice was burdened with disdain\nfor the inevitable and contempt for anything that fate might compel him\nto endure.\n\nMaggie perceived that here was the beau ideal of a man.  Her dim\nthoughts were often searching for far away lands where, as God says,\nthe little hills sing together in the morning.  Under the trees of her\ndream-gardens there had always walked a lover.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nThe trees began softly to sing a hymn of twilight.  The sun sank until\nslanted bronze rays struck the forest.  There was a lull in the noises\nof insects as if they had bowed their beaks and were making a\ndevotional pause.  There was silence save for the chanted chorus of the\ntrees.\n\nThen, upon this stillness, there suddenly broke a tremendous clangor of\nsounds.  A crimson roar came from the distance.\n\nThe youth stopped.  He was transfixed by this terrific medley of all\nnoises.  It was as if worlds were being rended.  There was the ripping\nsound of musketry and the breaking crash of the artillery.\n\nHis mind flew in all directions.  He conceived the two armies to be at\neach other panther fashion.  He listened for a time.  Then he began to\nrun in the direction of the battle.  He saw that it was an ironical\nthing for him to be running thus toward that which he had been at such\npains to avoid.  But he said, in substance, to himself that if the\nearth and the moon were about to clash, many persons would doubtless\nplan to get upon the roofs to witness the collision.\n\nAs he ran, he became aware that the forest had stopped its music, as if\nat last becoming capable of hearing the foreign sounds.  The trees\nhushed and stood motionless.  Everything seemed to be listening to the\ncrackle and clatter and earshaking thunder.  The chorus pealed over the\nstill earth.\n\nIt suddenly occurred to the youth that the fight in which he had been\nwas, after all, but perfunctory popping.  In the hearing of this\npresent din he was doubtful if he had seen real battle scenes.  This\nuproar explained a celestial battle; it was tumbling hordes a-struggle\nin the air.\n\nReflecting, he saw a sort of a humor in the point of view of himself\nand his fellows during the late encounter.  They had taken themselves\nand the enemy very seriously and had imagined that they were deciding\nthe war.  Individuals must have supposed that they were cutting the\nletters of their names deep into everlasting tablets of brass, or\nenshrining their reputations forever in the hearts of their countrymen,\nwhile, as to fact, the affair would appear in printed reports under a\nmeek and immaterial title.  But he saw that it was good, else, he said,\nin battle every one would surely run save forlorn hopes and their ilk.\n\nHe went rapidly on.  He wished to come to the edge of the forest that\nhe might peer out.\n\nAs he hastened, there passed through his mind pictures of stupendous\nconflicts.  His accumulated thought upon such subjects was used to form\nscenes.  The noise was as the voice of an eloquent being, describing.\n\nSometimes the brambles formed chains and tried to hold him back. Trees,\nconfronting him, stretched out their arms and forbade him to pass.\nAfter its previous hostility this new resistance of the forest filled\nhim with a fine bitterness.  It seemed that Nature could not be quite\nready to kill him.\n\nBut he obstinately took roundabout ways, and presently he was where he\ncould see long gray walls of vapor where lay battle lines.  The voices\nof cannon shook him.  The musketry sounded in long irregular surges\nthat played havoc with his ears.  He stood regardant for a moment.  His\neyes had an awestruck expression.  He gawked in the direction of the\nfight.\n\nPresently he proceeded again on his forward way.  The battle was like\nthe grinding of an immense and terrible machine to him.  Its\ncomplexities and powers, its grim processes, fascinated him.  He must\ngo close and see it produce corpses.\n\nHe came to a fence and clambered over it. On the far side, the ground\nwas littered with clothes and guns.  A newspaper, folded up, lay in the\ndirt.  A dead soldier was stretched with his face hidden in his arm.\nFarther off there was a group of four or five corpses keeping mournful\ncompany.  A hot sun had blazed upon the spot.\n\nIn this place the youth felt that he was an invader.  This forgotten\npart of the battle ground was owned by the dead men, and he hurried, in\nthe vague apprehension that one of the swollen forms would rise and\ntell him to begone.\n\nHe came finally to a road from which he could see in the distance dark\nand agitated bodies of troops, smoke-fringed.  In the lane was a\nblood-stained crowd streaming to the rear. The wounded men were\ncursing, groaning, and wailing.  In the air, always, was a mighty swell\nof sound that it seemed could sway the earth. With the courageous words\nof the artillery and the spiteful sentences of the musketry mingled red\ncheers.  And from this region of noises came the steady current of the\nmaimed.\n\nOne of the wounded men had a shoeful of blood.  He hopped like a\nschoolboy in a game. He was laughing hysterically.\n\nOne was swearing that he had been shot in the arm through the\ncommanding general's mismanagement of the army.  One was marching with\nan air imitative of some sublime drum major. Upon his features was an\nunholy mixture of merriment and agony.  As he marched he sang a bit of\ndoggerel in a high and quavering voice:\n\n\n  \"Sing a song 'a vic'try,\n    A pocketful 'a bullets,\n  Five an' twenty dead men\n    Baked in a--pie.\"\n\nParts of the procession limped and staggered to this tune.\n\nAnother had the gray seal of death already upon his face.  His lips\nwere curled in hard lines and his teeth were clinched.  His hands were\nbloody from where he had pressed them upon his wound.  He seemed to be\nawaiting the moment when he should pitch headlong.  He stalked like the\nspecter of a soldier, his eyes burning with the power of a stare into\nthe unknown.\n\nThere were some who proceeded sullenly, full of anger at their wounds,\nand ready to turn upon anything as an obscure cause.\n\nAn officer was carried along by two privates. He was peevish.  \"Don't\njoggle so, Johnson, yeh fool,\" he cried.  \"Think m' leg is made of\niron? If yeh can't carry me decent, put me down an' let some one else\ndo it.\"\n\nHe bellowed at the tottering crowd who blocked the quick march of his\nbearers.  \"Say, make way there, can't yeh?  Make way, dickens take it\nall.\"\n\nThey sulkily parted and went to the roadsides.  As he was carried past\nthey made pert remarks to him.  When he raged in reply and threatened\nthem, they told him to be damned.\n\nThe shoulder of one of the tramping bearers knocked heavily against the\nspectral soldier who was staring into the unknown.\n\nThe youth joined this crowd and marched along with it.  The torn bodies\nexpressed the awful machinery in which the men had been entangled.\n\nOrderlies and couriers occasionally broke through the throng in the\nroadway, scattering wounded men right and left, galloping on followed\nby howls.  The melancholy march was continually disturbed by the\nmessengers, and sometimes by bustling batteries that came swinging and\nthumping down upon them, the officers shouting orders to clear the way.\n\nThere was a tattered man, fouled with dust, blood and powder stain from\nhair to shoes, who trudged quietly at the youth's side.  He was\nlistening with eagerness and much humility to the lurid descriptions of\na bearded sergeant.  His lean features wore an expression of awe and\nadmiration.  He was like a listener in a country store to wondrous\ntales told among the sugar barrels.  He eyed the story-teller with\nunspeakable wonder.  His mouth was agape in yokel fashion.\n\nThe sergeant, taking note of this, gave pause to his elaborate history\nwhile he administered a sardonic comment.  \"Be keerful, honey, you 'll\nbe a-ketchin' flies,\" he said.\n\nThe tattered man shrank back abashed.\n\nAfter a time he began to sidle near to the youth, and in a different\nway try to make him a friend.  His voice was gentle as a girl's voice\nand his eyes were pleading.  The youth saw with surprise that the\nsoldier had two wounds, one in the head, bound with a blood-soaked rag,\nand the other in the arm, making that member dangle like a broken bough.\n\nAfter they had walked together for some time the tattered man mustered\nsufficient courage to speak.  \"Was pretty good fight, wa'n't it?\" he\ntimidly said.  The youth, deep in thought, glanced up at the bloody and\ngrim figure with its lamblike eyes.  \"What?\"\n\n\"Was pretty good fight, wa'n't it?\n\n\"Yes,\" said the youth shortly.  He quickened his pace.\n\nBut the other hobbled industriously after him. There was an air of\napology in his manner, but he evidently thought that he needed only to\ntalk for a time, and the youth would perceive that he was a good fellow.\n\n\"Was pretty good fight, wa'n't it?\" he began in a small voice, and then\nhe achieved the fortitude to continue.  \"Dern me if I ever see fellers\nfight so.  Laws, how they did fight!  I knowed th' boys 'd like when\nthey onct got square at it. Th' boys ain't had no fair chanct up t'\nnow, but this time they showed what they was.  I knowed it 'd turn out\nthis way.  Yeh can't lick them boys. No, sir!  They're fighters, they\nbe.\"\n\nHe breathed a deep breath of humble admiration.  He had looked at the\nyouth for encouragement several times.  He received none, but gradually\nhe seemed to get absorbed in his subject.\n\n\"I was talkin' 'cross pickets with a boy from Georgie, onct, an' that\nboy, he ses, 'Your fellers 'll all run like hell when they onct hearn a\ngun,' he ses.  'Mebbe they will,' I ses, 'but I don't b'lieve none of\nit,' I ses; 'an' b'jiminey,' I ses back t' 'um, 'mebbe your fellers 'll\nall run like hell when they onct hearn a gun,' I ses.  He larfed. Well,\nthey didn't run t' day, did they, hey?  No, sir!  They fit, an' fit,\nan' fit.\"\n\nHis homely face was suffused with a light of love for the army which\nwas to him all things beautiful and powerful.\n\nAfter a time he turned to the youth.  \"Where yeh hit, ol' boy?\" he\nasked in a brotherly tone.\n\nThe youth felt instant panic at this question, although at first its\nfull import was not borne in upon him.\n\n\"What?\" he asked.\n\n\"Where yeh hit?\" repeated the tattered man.\n\n\"Why,\" began the youth, \"I--I--that is--why--I--\"\n\nHe turned away suddenly and slid through the crowd.  His brow was\nheavily flushed, and his fingers were picking nervously at one of his\nbuttons.  He bent his head and fastened his eyes studiously upon the\nbutton as if it were a little problem.\n\nThe tattered man looked after him in astonishment.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "                [The Portuguese court.]\n\n                Enter VICEROY OF PORTINGAL, NOBLES, ALEXANDRO, VILLUPPO.\n\n  VICEROY.  Infortunate condition of kings,\n    Seated amidst so many helpless doubts!\n    First, we are plac'd upon extremest height,\n    And oft supplanted with exceeding hate,\n    But ever subject to the wheel of chance;\n    And at our highest never joy we so\n    As we doubt and dread our overthrow.\n    So striveth not the waves with sundry winds\n    As fortune toileth in the affairs of kings,\n    That would be fear'd, yet fear to be belov'd,\n    Sith fear and love to kings is flattery.\n    For instance, lordings, look upon your king,\n    By hate deprived of his dearest son,\n    The only hope of our successive line.\n\n  NOB.  I had not thought that Alexandro's heart\n    Had been envenom'd with such extreme hate;\n    But now I see that words have several works,\n    And there's no credit in the countenance.\n\n  VIL.  No, for, my lord, had you beheld the train\n    That feigned love had colour'd in his looks\n    When he in camp consorted Balthazar,\n    Far more inconstant had you thought the sun,\n    That hourly coasts the center of the earth,\n    Then Alexandro's purpose to the prince.\n\n  VICE.  No more, Villuppo! thou hast said enough,\n    And with thy words thou slay'st our wounded thoughts.\n    Nor shall I longer dally with the world,\n    Procrastinating Alexandro's death.\n    Go, some of you, and fetch the traitor forth,\n    That, as he is condemned, he may die.\n\n                Enter ALEXANDRO, with a NOBLE-MAN and\n                HALBERTS.\n\n  NOB. In such extremes will nought but patience serve.\n\n  ALEX.  But in extremes what patience shall I use?\n    Nor discontents it me to leave the world,\n    With whom there nothing can prevail but wrong.\n\n  NOB.  Yet hope the best.\n\n  ALEX.                         'Tis heav'n is my hope:\n    As for the earth, it is too much infect\n    To yield me hope of any of her mould.\n\n  VICE.  Why linger ye? bring forth that daring fiend,\n    And let him die for his accursed deed.\n\n  ALEX.  Not that I fear the extremity of death--\n    For nobles cannot stoop to servile fear--\n    Do I, O king, thus discontented live;\n    But this, O this, torments my labouring soul,\n    That thus I die suspected of a sin\n    Whereof, as Heav'ns have known my secret thoughts,\n    So am I free from this suggestion!\n\n  VICE.  No more, I say; to the tortures!  when?\n    Bind him, and burn his body in those flames,\n\n                They bind him to the stake.\n\n    That shall prefigure those unquenched fires\n    Of Phlegethon prepared for his soul.\n\n  ALEX.  My guiltless death will be aveng'd on thee!\n    On thee, Villuppo, that hath malice'd thus,\n    Or for thy meed hast falsely me accus'd!\n\n  VIL.  Nay, Alexandro, if thou menace me,\n    I'll lend a hand to send thee to the lake\n    Where those thy words shall perish with thy works,\n    Injurious traitor, monstrous homicide!\n\n                Enter AMBASSADOR.\n\n  AMBASS.  Stay!  hold a-while!\n    And here, with pardon of his Majesty,\n    Lay hands upon Villuppo!\n\n  VICE.                        Ambassador,\n   What news hath urg'd this sudden enterance?\n\n  AMBASS.  Know, sovereign lord, that Balthazar doth live.\n\n  VICE.  What say'st thou?  liveth Balthazar, our son?\n\n  AMBASS.  Your Highness' son, Lord Balthazar doth live,\n    And, well entreated in the court of Spain,\n    Humbly commends him to your Majesty.\n    These eyes beheld; and these my followers,\n    With these, the letters of the king's commends,\n\n                Gives him letters.\n\n    Are happy witnesses of his Highness' health.\n\n                The KING looks on the letters, and proceeds.\n\n  VICE. [reads]  \"Thy son doth live; your tribute is receiv'd;\n    Thy peace is made, and we are satisfied.\n    The rest resolve upon as things propos'd\n    For both our honours and thy benefit.\"\n\n  AMBASS.  These are his Highness' farther articles.\n\n                He gives him more letters.\n\n  VICE.  Accursed wretch to intimate these ills\n    Against the life and reputation\n    Of noble Alexandro!  come, my lord, unbind him!\n    [To ALEXANDRO]  Let him unbind thee that is bound to death,\n    To make acquittal for thy discontent.\n\n                They unbind him.\n\n  ALEX.  Dread lord, in kindness you could do no less,\n    Upon report of such a damned fact;\n    But thus we see our innocence hath sav'd\n    The hopeless life which thou, Villuppo, sought\n    By thy suggestions to have massacred.\n\n  VICE.  Say, false Villuppo, wherefore didst thou thus\n    Falsely betray Lord Alexandro's life?\n    Him whom thou know'st that no unkindness else\n    But even the slaughter of our dearest son\n    Could once have mov'd us to have misconceiv'd.\n\n  ALEX.  Say, treacherous Villuppo; tell the King!\n    Or wherein hath Alexandro us'd thee ill?\n\n  VIL.  Rent with remembrance of so foul a deed,\n    My guilty soul submits me to thy doom,\n    For, not for Alexandro's injuries,\n    But for reward and hope to be prefer'd,\n    Thus have I shamelessly hazarded his life.\n\n  VICE.  Which, villain, shall be ransom'd with thy death,\n    And not so mean a torment as we here\n    Devis'd for him who thou said'st slew our son,\n    But with the bitterest torments and extremes\n    That may be yet invented for thine end.\n\n                ALEXANDRO seems to entreat.\n\n    Entreat me not!  Go, take the traitor hence!\n\n                Exit VILLUPPO.\n\n    And, Alexandro, let us honour thee\n    With public notice of thy loyalty.\n    To end those things articulated here\n    By our great lord, the mighty king of Spain,\n    We with our council will deliberate.\n    Come, Alexandro, keep us company.\n\n                Exeunt.", "summary": "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", "document": "XXII. The Sea Still Rises\n\n\nHaggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften\nhis modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with\nthe relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame\nDefarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.\nMadame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of\nSpies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting\nthemselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a\nportentously elastic swing with them.\n\nMadame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,\ncontemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several\nknots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense\nof power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on\nthe wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: \"I know how\nhard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;\nbut do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to\ndestroy life in you?\" Every lean bare arm, that had been without work\nbefore, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.\nThe fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that\nthey could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;\nthe image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the\nlast finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.\n\nMadame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was\nto be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her\nsisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved\ngrocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had\nalready earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.\n\n\"Hark!\" said The Vengeance. \"Listen, then! Who comes?\"\n\nAs if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine\nQuarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading\nmurmur came rushing along.\n\n\"It is Defarge,\" said madame. \"Silence, patriots!\"\n\nDefarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked\naround him! \"Listen, everywhere!\" said madame again. \"Listen to him!\"\nDefarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open\nmouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had\nsprung to their feet.\n\n\"Say then, my husband. What is it?\"\n\n\"News from the other world!\"\n\n\"How, then?\" cried madame, contemptuously. \"The other world?\"\n\n\"Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people\nthat they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?\"\n\n\"Everybody!\" from all throats.\n\n\"The news is of him. He is among us!\"\n\n\"Among us!\" from the universal throat again. \"And dead?\"\n\n\"Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself\nto be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have\nfound him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have\nseen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have\nsaid that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?\"\n\nWretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had\nnever known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he\ncould have heard the answering cry.\n\nA moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked\nsteadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum\nwas heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.\n\n\"Patriots!\" said Defarge, in a determined voice, \"are we ready?\"\n\nInstantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating\nin the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and\nThe Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about\nher head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to\nhouse, rousing the women.\n\nThe men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked\nfrom windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into\nthe streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From\nsuch household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their\nchildren, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground\nfamished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one\nanother, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.\nVillain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant\nFoulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of\nthese, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon\nalive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon\nwho told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread\nto give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these\nbreasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our\nsuffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my\nknees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,\nand young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,\nGive us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend\nFoulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from\nhim! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,\nwhirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they\ndropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men\nbelonging to them from being trampled under foot.\n\nNevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at\nthe Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew\nhis own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out\nof the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with\nsuch a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not\na human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the\nwailing children.\n\nNo. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where\nthis old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent\nopen space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,\nand Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance\nfrom him in the Hall.\n\n\"See!\" cried madame, pointing with her knife. \"See the old villain bound\nwith ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.\nHa, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!\" Madame put her knife\nunder her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.\n\nThe people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of\nher satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to\nothers, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the\nclapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,\nand the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent\nexpressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at\na distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some\nwonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture\nto look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a\ntelegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.\n\nAt length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or\nprotection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was\ntoo much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had\nstood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got\nhim!\n\nIt was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge\nhad but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable\nwretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned\nher hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and\nJacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows\nhad not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high\nperches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, \"Bring him\nout! Bring him to the lamp!\"\n\nDown, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on\nhis knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,\nand stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his\nface by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always\nentreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of\naction, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one\nanother back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through\na forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one\nof the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat\nmight have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him\nwhile they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately\nscreeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have\nhim killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope\nbroke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope\nbroke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and\nheld him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the\nmouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.\n\nNor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted\nand danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when\nthe day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the\npeople's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard\nfive hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes\non flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the\nbreast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on\npikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession\nthrough the streets.\n\nNot before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,\nwailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by\nlong files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while\nthey waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by\nembracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them\nagain in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and\nfrayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and\nslender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in\ncommon, afterwards supping at their doors.\n\nScanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of\nmost other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused\nsome nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of\ncheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full\nshare in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;\nand lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and\nhoped.\n\nIt was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last\nknot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in\nhusky tones, while fastening the door:\n\n\"At last it is come, my dear!\"\n\n\"Eh well!\" returned madame. \"Almost.\"\n\nSaint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with\nher starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the\nonly voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The\nVengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had\nthe same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon\nwas seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint\nAntoine's bosom.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "This came home to me when, two days later, I drove over with Flora to\nmeet, as Mrs. Grose said, the little gentleman; and all the more for\nan incident that, presenting itself the second evening, had deeply\ndisconcerted me. The first day had been, on the whole, as I have\nexpressed, reassuring; but I was to see it wind up in keen apprehension.\nThe postbag, that evening--it came late--contained a letter for me,\nwhich, however, in the hand of my employer, I found to be composed but\nof a few words enclosing another, addressed to himself, with a seal\nstill unbroken. \"This, I recognize, is from the headmaster, and the\nheadmaster's an awful bore. Read him, please; deal with him; but mind\nyou don't report. Not a word. I'm off!\" I broke the seal with a great\neffort--so great a one that I was a long time coming to it; took the\nunopened missive at last up to my room and only attacked it just before\ngoing to bed. I had better have let it wait till morning, for it gave me\na second sleepless night. With no counsel to take, the next day, I\nwas full of distress; and it finally got so the better of me that I\ndetermined to open myself at least to Mrs. Grose.\n\n\"What does it mean? The child's dismissed his school.\"\n\nShe gave me a look that I remarked at the moment; then, visibly, with a\nquick blankness, seemed to try to take it back. \"But aren't they all--?\"\n\n\"Sent home--yes. But only for the holidays. Miles may never go back at\nall.\"\n\nConsciously, under my attention, she reddened. \"They won't take him?\"\n\n\"They absolutely decline.\"\n\nAt this she raised her eyes, which she had turned from me; I saw them\nfill with good tears. \"What has he done?\"\n\nI hesitated; then I judged best simply to hand her my letter--which,\nhowever, had the effect of making her, without taking it, simply put her\nhands behind her. She shook her head sadly. \"Such things are not for me,\nmiss.\"\n\nMy counselor couldn't read! I winced at my mistake, which I attenuated\nas I could, and opened my letter again to repeat it to her; then,\nfaltering in the act and folding it up once more, I put it back in my\npocket. \"Is he really BAD?\"\n\nThe tears were still in her eyes. \"Do the gentlemen say so?\"\n\n\"They go into no particulars. They simply express their regret that it\nshould be impossible to keep him. That can have only one meaning.\"\nMrs. Grose listened with dumb emotion; she forbore to ask me what\nthis meaning might be; so that, presently, to put the thing with some\ncoherence and with the mere aid of her presence to my own mind, I went\non: \"That he's an injury to the others.\"\n\nAt this, with one of the quick turns of simple folk, she suddenly flamed\nup. \"Master Miles! HIM an injury?\"\n\nThere was such a flood of good faith in it that, though I had not yet\nseen the child, my very fears made me jump to the absurdity of the idea.\nI found myself, to meet my friend the better, offering it, on the spot,\nsarcastically. \"To his poor little innocent mates!\"\n\n\"It's too dreadful,\" cried Mrs. Grose, \"to say such cruel things! Why,\nhe's scarce ten years old.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; it would be incredible.\"\n\nShe was evidently grateful for such a profession. \"See him, miss, first.\nTHEN believe it!\" I felt forthwith a new impatience to see him; it was\nthe beginning of a curiosity that, for all the next hours, was to deepen\nalmost to pain. Mrs. Grose was aware, I could judge, of what she had\nproduced in me, and she followed it up with assurance. \"You might as\nwell believe it of the little lady. Bless her,\" she added the next\nmoment--\"LOOK at her!\"\n\nI turned and saw that Flora, whom, ten minutes before, I had established\nin the schoolroom with a sheet of white paper, a pencil, and a copy of\nnice \"round o's,\" now presented herself to view at the open door.\nShe expressed in her little way an extraordinary detachment from\ndisagreeable duties, looking to me, however, with a great childish\nlight that seemed to offer it as a mere result of the affection she had\nconceived for my person, which had rendered necessary that she should\nfollow me. I needed nothing more than this to feel the full force of\nMrs. Grose's comparison, and, catching my pupil in my arms, covered her\nwith kisses in which there was a sob of atonement.\n\nNonetheless, the rest of the day I watched for further occasion to\napproach my colleague, especially as, toward evening, I began to fancy\nshe rather sought to avoid me. I overtook her, I remember, on the\nstaircase; we went down together, and at the bottom I detained her,\nholding her there with a hand on her arm. \"I take what you said to me at\nnoon as a declaration that YOU'VE never known him to be bad.\"\n\nShe threw back her head; she had clearly, by this time, and very\nhonestly, adopted an attitude. \"Oh, never known him--I don't pretend\nTHAT!\"\n\nI was upset again. \"Then you HAVE known him--?\"\n\n\"Yes indeed, miss, thank God!\"\n\nOn reflection I accepted this. \"You mean that a boy who never is--?\"\n\n\"Is no boy for ME!\"\n\nI held her tighter. \"You like them with the spirit to be naughty?\" Then,\nkeeping pace with her answer, \"So do I!\" I eagerly brought out. \"But not\nto the degree to contaminate--\"\n\n\"To contaminate?\"--my big word left her at a loss. I explained it. \"To\ncorrupt.\"\n\nShe stared, taking my meaning in; but it produced in her an odd laugh.\n\"Are you afraid he'll corrupt YOU?\" She put the question with such a\nfine bold humor that, with a laugh, a little silly doubtless, to match\nher own, I gave way for the time to the apprehension of ridicule.\n\nBut the next day, as the hour for my drive approached, I cropped up in\nanother place. \"What was the lady who was here before?\"\n\n\"The last governess? She was also young and pretty--almost as young and\nalmost as pretty, miss, even as you.\"\n\n\"Ah, then, I hope her youth and her beauty helped her!\" I recollect\nthrowing off. \"He seems to like us young and pretty!\"\n\n\"Oh, he DID,\" Mrs. Grose assented: \"it was the way he liked everyone!\"\nShe had no sooner spoken indeed than she caught herself up. \"I mean\nthat's HIS way--the master's.\"\n\nI was struck. \"But of whom did you speak first?\"\n\nShe looked blank, but she colored. \"Why, of HIM.\"\n\n\"Of the master?\"\n\n\"Of who else?\"\n\nThere was so obviously no one else that the next moment I had lost my\nimpression of her having accidentally said more than she meant; and I\nmerely asked what I wanted to know. \"Did SHE see anything in the boy--?\"\n\n\"That wasn't right? She never told me.\"\n\nI had a scruple, but I overcame it. \"Was she careful--particular?\"\n\nMrs. Grose appeared to try to be conscientious. \"About some\nthings--yes.\"\n\n\"But not about all?\"\n\nAgain she considered. \"Well, miss--she's gone. I won't tell tales.\"\n\n\"I quite understand your feeling,\" I hastened to reply; but I thought\nit, after an instant, not opposed to this concession to pursue: \"Did she\ndie here?\"\n\n\"No--she went off.\"\n\nI don't know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose's that struck\nme as ambiguous. \"Went off to die?\" Mrs. Grose looked straight out of\nthe window, but I felt that, hypothetically, I had a right to know what\nyoung persons engaged for Bly were expected to do. \"She was taken ill,\nyou mean, and went home?\"\n\n\"She was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in this house. She left it,\nat the end of the year, to go home, as she said, for a short holiday,\nto which the time she had put in had certainly given her a right. We\nhad then a young woman--a nursemaid who had stayed on and who was a good\ngirl and clever; and SHE took the children altogether for the interval.\nBut our young lady never came back, and at the very moment I was\nexpecting her I heard from the master that she was dead.\"\n\nI turned this over. \"But of what?\"\n\n\"He never told me! But please, miss,\" said Mrs. Grose, \"I must get to my\nwork.\"\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IV\n          THESEUS, HIPPOLYTUS, PHAEDRA, OENONE, THERAMENES\n\n\n          THESEUS\n          Fortune no longer fights against my wishes,\n          Madam, and to your arms restores--\n\n          PHAEDRA\n          Stay, Theseus!\n          Do not profane endearments that were once\n          So sweet, but which I am unworthy now\n          To taste. You have been wrong'd. Fortune has proved\n          Spiteful, nor in your absence spared your wife.\n          I am unfit to meet your fond caress,\n          How I may bear my shame my only care\n          Henceforth.\n\n\n\n\nScene V\n          THESEUS, HIPPOLYTUS, THERAMENES\n\n\n          THESEUS\n          Strange welcome for your father, this!\n          What does it mean, my son?\n\n          HIPPOLYTUS\n          Phaedra alone\n          Can solve this mystery. But if my wish\n          Can move you, let me never see her more;\n          Suffer Hippolytus to disappear\n          For ever from the home that holds your wife.\n\n          THESEUS\n          You, my son! Leave me?\n\n          HIPPOLYTUS\n          'Twas not I who sought her:\n          'Twas you who led her footsteps to these shores.\n          At your departure you thought meet, my lord,\n          To trust Aricia and the Queen to this\n          Troezenian land, and I myself was charged\n          With their protection. But what cares henceforth\n          Need keep me here? My youth of idleness\n          Has shown its skill enough o'er paltry foes\n          That range the woods. May I not quit a life\n          Of such inglorious ease, and dip my spear\n          In nobler blood? Ere you had reach'd my age\n          More than one tyrant, monster more than one\n          Had felt the weight of your stout arm. Already,\n          Successful in attacking insolence,\n          You had removed all dangers that infested\n          Our coasts to east and west. The traveller fear'd\n          Outrage no longer. Hearing of your deeds,\n          Already Hercules relied on you,\n          And rested from his toils. While I, unknown\n          Son of so brave a sire, am far behind\n          Even my mother's footsteps. Let my courage\n          Have scope to act, and if some monster yet\n          Has 'scaped you, let me lay the glorious spoils\n          Down at your feet; or let the memory\n          Of death faced nobly keep my name alive,\n          And prove to all the world I was your son.\n\n          THESEUS\n          Why, what is this? What terror has possess'd\n          My family to make them fly before me?\n          If I return to find myself so fear'd,\n          So little welcome, why did Heav'n release me\n          From prison? My sole friend, misled by passion,\n          Was bent on robbing of his wife the tyrant\n          Who ruled Epirus. With regret I lent\n          The lover aid, but Fate had made us blind,\n          Myself as well as him. The tyrant seized me\n          Defenceless and unarm'd. Pirithous\n          I saw with tears cast forth to be devour'd\n          By savage beasts that lapp'd the blood of men.\n          Myself in gloomy caverns he inclosed,\n          Deep in the bowels of the earth, and nigh\n          To Pluto's realms. Six months I lay ere Heav'n\n          Had pity, and I 'scaped the watchful eyes\n          That guarded me. Then did I purge the world\n          Of a foul foe, and he himself has fed\n          His monsters. But when with expectant joy\n          To all that is most precious I draw near\n          Of what the gods have left me, when my soul\n          Looks for full satisfaction in a sight\n          So dear, my only welcome is a shudder,\n          Embrace rejected, and a hasty flight.\n          Inspiring, as I clearly do, such terror,\n          Would I were still a prisoner in Epirus!\n          Phaedra complains that I have suffer'd outrage.\n          Who has betray'd me? Speak. Why was I not\n          Avenged? Has Greece, to whom mine arm so oft\n          Brought useful aid, shelter'd the criminal?\n          You make no answer. Is my son, mine own\n          Dear son, confederate with mine enemies?\n          I'll enter. This suspense is overwhelming.\n          I'll learn at once the culprit and the crime,\n          And Phaedra must explain her troubled state.\n\n\n\n\nScene VI\n          HIPPOLYTUS, THERAMENES\n\n\n          HIPPOLYTUS\n          What do these words portend, which seem'd to freeze\n          My very blood? Will Phaedra, in her frenzy\n          Accuse herself, and seal her own destruction?\n          What will the King say? Gods! What fatal poison\n          Has love spread over all his house! Myself,\n          Full of a fire his hatred disapproves,\n          How changed he finds me from the son he knew!\n          With dark forebodings in my mind alarm'd,\n          But innocence has surely naught to fear.\n          Come, let us go, and in some other place\n          Consider how I best may move my sire\n          To tenderness, and tell him of a flame\n          Vex'd but not vanquish'd by a father's blame.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n    \"Would it were yesterday and I i' the grave,\n     With her sweet faith above for monument\"\n\n\nRosamond and Will stood motionless--they did not know how long--he\nlooking towards the spot where Dorothea had stood, and she looking\ntowards him with doubt.  It seemed an endless time to Rosamond, in\nwhose inmost soul there was hardly so much annoyance as gratification\nfrom what had just happened.  Shallow natures dream of an easy sway\nover the emotions of others, trusting implicitly in their own petty\nmagic to turn the deepest streams, and confident, by pretty gestures\nand remarks, of making the thing that is not as though it were.  She\nknew that Will had received a severe blow, but she had been little used\nto imagining other people's states of mind except as a material cut\ninto shape by her own wishes; and she believed in her own power to\nsoothe or subdue.  Even Tertius, that most perverse of men, was always\nsubdued in the long-run: events had been obstinate, but still Rosamond\nwould have said now, as she did before her marriage, that she never\ngave up what she had set her mind on.\n\nShe put out her arm and laid the tips of her fingers on Will's\ncoat-sleeve.\n\n\"Don't touch me!\" he said, with an utterance like the cut of a lash,\ndarting from her, and changing from pink to white and back again, as if\nhis whole frame were tingling with the pain of the sting.  He wheeled\nround to the other side of the room and stood opposite to her, with the\ntips of his fingers in his pockets and his head thrown back, looking\nfiercely not at Rosamond but at a point a few inches away from her.\n\nShe was keenly offended, but the Signs she made of this were such as\nonly Lydgate was used to interpret.  She became suddenly quiet and\nseated herself, untying her hanging bonnet and laying it down with her\nshawl.  Her little hands which she folded before her were very cold.\n\nIt would have been safer for Will in the first instance to have taken\nup his hat and gone away; but he had felt no impulse to do this; on the\ncontrary, he had a horrible inclination to stay and shatter Rosamond\nwith his anger.  It seemed as impossible to bear the fatality she had\ndrawn down on him without venting his fury as it would be to a panther\nto bear the javelin-wound without springing and biting.  And yet--how\ncould he tell a woman that he was ready to curse her?  He was fuming\nunder a repressive law which he was forced to acknowledge: he was\ndangerously poised, and Rosamond's voice now brought the decisive\nvibration.  In flute-like tones of sarcasm she said--\n\n\"You can easily go after Mrs. Casaubon and explain your preference.\"\n\n\"Go after her!\" he burst out, with a sharp edge in his voice.  \"Do you\nthink she would turn to look at me, or value any word I ever uttered to\nher again at more than a dirty feather?--Explain!  How can a man\nexplain at the expense of a woman?\"\n\n\"You can tell her what you please,\" said Rosamond with more tremor.\n\n\"Do you suppose she would like me better for sacrificing you?  She is\nnot a woman to be flattered because I made myself despicable--to\nbelieve that I must be true to her because I was a dastard to you.\"\n\nHe began to move about with the restlessness of a wild animal that sees\nprey but cannot reach it.  Presently he burst out again--\n\n\"I had no hope before--not much--of anything better to come.  But I had\none certainty--that she believed in me.  Whatever people had said or\ndone about me, she believed in me.--That's gone!  She'll never again\nthink me anything but a paltry pretence--too nice to take heaven\nexcept upon flattering conditions, and yet selling myself for any\ndevil's change by the sly.  She'll think of me as an incarnate insult\nto her, from the first moment we--\"\n\nWill stopped as if he had found himself grasping something that must\nnot be thrown and shattered.  He found another vent for his rage by\nsnatching up Rosamond's words again, as if they were reptiles to be\nthrottled and flung off.\n\n\"Explain!  Tell a man to explain how he dropped into hell!  Explain my\npreference!  I never had a _preference_ for her, any more than I have a\npreference for breathing.  No other woman exists by the side of her.  I\nwould rather touch her hand if it were dead, than I would touch any\nother woman's living.\"\n\nRosamond, while these poisoned weapons were being hurled at her, was\nalmost losing the sense of her identity, and seemed to be waking into\nsome new terrible existence.  She had no sense of chill resolute\nrepulsion, of reticent self-justification such as she had known under\nLydgate's most stormy displeasure: all her sensibility was turned into\na bewildering novelty of pain; she felt a new terrified recoil under a\nlash never experienced before.  What another nature felt in opposition\nto her own was being burnt and bitten into her consciousness.  When\nWill had ceased to speak she had become an image of sickened misery:\nher lips were pale, and her eyes had a tearless dismay in them.  If it\nhad been Tertius who stood opposite to her, that look of misery would\nhave been a pang to him, and he would have sunk by her side to comfort\nher, with that strong-armed comfort which, she had often held very\ncheap.\n\nLet it be forgiven to Will that he had no such movement of pity.  He\nhad felt no bond beforehand to this woman who had spoiled the ideal\ntreasure of his life, and he held himself blameless.  He knew that he\nwas cruel, but he had no relenting in him yet.\n\nAfter he had done speaking, he still moved about, half in absence of\nmind, and Rosamond sat perfectly still.  At length Will, seeming to\nbethink himself, took up his hat, yet stood some moments irresolute.\nHe had spoken to her in a way that made a phrase of common politeness\ndifficult to utter; and yet, now that he had come to the point of going\naway from her without further speech, he shrank from it as a brutality;\nhe felt checked and stultified in his anger.  He walked towards the\nmantel-piece and leaned his arm on it, and waited in silence for--he\nhardly knew what.  The vindictive fire was still burning in him, and he\ncould utter no word of retractation; but it was nevertheless in his\nmind that having come back to this hearth where he had enjoyed a\ncaressing friendship he had found calamity seated there--he had had\nsuddenly revealed to him a trouble that lay outside the home as well as\nwithin it.  And what seemed a foreboding was pressing upon him as with\nslow pincers:--that his life might come to be enslaved by this helpless\nwoman who had thrown herself upon him in the dreary sadness of her\nheart.  But he was in gloomy rebellion against the fact that his quick\napprehensiveness foreshadowed to him, and when his eyes fell on\nRosamond's blighted face it seemed to him that he was the more pitiable\nof the two; for pain must enter into its glorified life of memory\nbefore it can turn into compassion.\n\nAnd so they remained for many minutes, opposite each other, far apart,\nin silence; Will's face still possessed by a mute rage, and Rosamond's\nby a mute misery.  The poor thing had no force to fling out any passion\nin return; the terrible collapse of the illusion towards which all her\nhope had been strained was a stroke which had too thoroughly shaken\nher: her little world was in ruins, and she felt herself tottering in\nthe midst as a lonely bewildered consciousness.\n\nWill wished that she would speak and bring some mitigating shadow\nacross his own cruel speech, which seemed to stand staring at them both\nin mockery of any attempt at revived fellowship.  But she said nothing,\nand at last with a desperate effort over himself, he asked, \"Shall I\ncome in and see Lydgate this evening?\"\n\n\"If you like,\" Rosamond answered, just audibly.\n\nAnd then Will went out of the house, Martha never knowing that he had\nbeen in.\n\nAfter he was gone, Rosamond tried to get up from her seat, but fell\nback fainting.  When she came to herself again, she felt too ill to\nmake the exertion of rising to ring the bell, and she remained helpless\nuntil the girl, surprised at her long absence, thought for the first\ntime of looking for her in all the down-stairs rooms.  Rosamond said\nthat she had felt suddenly sick and faint, and wanted to be helped\nup-stairs. When there she threw herself on the bed with her clothes on,\nand lay in apparent torpor, as she had done once before on a memorable\nday of grief.\n\nLydgate came home earlier than he had expected, about half-past five,\nand found her there.  The perception that she was ill threw every other\nthought into the background.  When he felt her pulse, her eyes rested\non him with more persistence than they had done for a long while, as if\nshe felt some content that he was there.  He perceived the difference\nin a moment, and seating himself by her put his arm gently under her,\nand bending over her said, \"My poor Rosamond! has something agitated\nyou?\"  Clinging to him she fell into hysterical sobbings and cries, and\nfor the next hour he did nothing but soothe and tend her.  He imagined\nthat Dorothea had been to see her, and that all this effect on her\nnervous system, which evidently involved some new turning towards\nhimself, was due to the excitement of the new impressions which that\nvisit had raised.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "CHAPTER VIII\n\n\n\n\"DON'T I, in looking for things to do, show that I'm not attentive\nenough to Will? Am I impressed enough by his work? I will be. Oh, I will\nbe. If I can't be one of the town, if I must be an outcast----\"\n\nWhen Kennicott came home she bustled, \"Dear, you must tell me a lot more\nabout your cases. I want to know. I want to understand.\"\n\n\"Sure. You bet.\" And he went down to fix the furnace.\n\nAt supper she asked, \"For instance, what did you do today?\"\n\n\"Do today? How do you mean?\"\n\n\"Medically. I want to understand----\"\n\n\"Today? Oh, there wasn't much of anything: couple chumps with\nbellyaches, and a sprained wrist, and a fool woman that thinks she wants\nto kill herself because her husband doesn't like her and----Just routine\nwork.\"\n\n\"But the unhappy woman doesn't sound routine!\"\n\n\"Her? Just case of nerves. You can't do much with these marriage\nmix-ups.\"\n\n\"But dear, PLEASE, will you tell me about the next case that you do\nthink is interesting?\"\n\n\"Sure. You bet. Tell you about anything that----Say that's pretty good\nsalmon. Get it at Howland's?\"\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nFour days after the Jolly Seventeen debacle Vida Sherwin called and\ncasually blew Carol's world to pieces.\n\n\"May I come in and gossip a while?\" she said, with such excess of bright\ninnocence that Carol was uneasy. Vida took off her furs with a bounce,\nshe sat down as though it were a gymnasium exercise, she flung out:\n\n\"Feel disgracefully good, this weather! Raymond Wutherspoon says if he\nhad my energy he'd be a grand opera singer. I always think this climate\nis the finest in the world, and my friends are the dearest people in the\nworld, and my work is the most essential thing in the world. Probably\nI fool myself. But I know one thing for certain: You're the pluckiest\nlittle idiot in the world.\"\n\n\"And so you are about to flay me alive.\" Carol was cheerful about it.\n\n\"Am I? Perhaps. I've been wondering--I know that the third party to a\nsquabble is often the most to blame: the one who runs between A and B\nhaving a beautiful time telling each of them what the other has said.\nBut I want you to take a big part in vitalizing Gopher Prairie and\nso----Such a very unique opportunity and----Am I silly?\"\n\n\"I know what you mean. I was too abrupt at the Jolly Seventeen.\"\n\n\"It isn't that. Matter of fact, I'm glad you told them some wholesome\ntruths about servants. (Though perhaps you were just a bit tactless.)\nIt's bigger than that. I wonder if you understand that in a secluded\ncommunity like this every newcomer is on test? People cordial to her\nbut watching her all the time. I remember when a Latin teacher came here\nfrom Wellesley, they resented her broad A. Were sure it was affected. Of\ncourse they have discussed you----\"\n\n\"Have they talked about me much?\"\n\n\"My dear!\"\n\n\"I always feel as though I walked around in a cloud, looking out at\nothers but not being seen. I feel so inconspicuous and so normal--so\nnormal that there's nothing about me to discuss. I can't realize that\nMr. and Mrs. Haydock must gossip about me.\" Carol was working up a small\npassion of distaste. \"And I don't like it. It makes me crawly to think\nof their daring to talk over all I do and say. Pawing me over! I resent\nit. I hate----\"\n\n\"Wait, child! Perhaps they resent some things in you. I want you to try\nand be impersonal. They'd paw over anybody who came in new. Didn't you,\nwith newcomers in College?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well then! Will you be impersonal? I'm paying you the compliment of\nsupposing that you can be. I want you to be big enough to help me make\nthis town worth while.\"\n\n\"I'll be as impersonal as cold boiled potatoes. (Not that I shall ever\nbe able to help you 'make the town worth while.') What do they say about\nme? Really. I want to know.\"\n\n\"Of course the illiterate ones resent your references to anything\nfarther away than Minneapolis. They're so suspicious--that's it,\nsuspicious. And some think you dress too well.\"\n\n\"Oh, they do, do they! Shall I dress in gunny-sacking to suit them?\"\n\n\"Please! Are you going to be a baby?\"\n\n\"I'll be good,\" sulkily.\n\n\"You certainly will, or I won't tell you one single thing. You must\nunderstand this: I'm not asking you to change yourself. Just want you\nto know what they think. You must do that, no matter how absurd their\nprejudices are, if you're going to handle them. Is it your ambition to\nmake this a better town, or isn't it?\"\n\n\"I don't know whether it is or not!\"\n\n\"Why--why----Tut, tut, now, of course it is! Why, I depend on you.\nYou're a born reformer.\"\n\n\"I am not--not any more!\"\n\n\"Of course you are.\"\n\n\"Oh, if I really could help----So they think I'm affected?\"\n\n\"My lamb, they do! Now don't say they're nervy. After all, Gopher\nPrairie standards are as reasonable to Gopher Prairie as Lake Shore\nDrive standards are to Chicago. And there's more Gopher Prairies than\nthere are Chicagos. Or Londons. And----I'll tell you the whole story:\nThey think you're showing off when you say 'American' instead of\n'Ammurrican.' They think you're too frivolous. Life's so serious to them\nthat they can't imagine any kind of laughter except Juanita's snortling.\nEthel Villets was sure you were patronizing her when----\"\n\n\"Oh, I was not!\"\n\n\"----you talked about encouraging reading; and Mrs. Elder thought you\nwere patronizing when you said she had 'such a pretty little car.' She\nthinks it's an enormous car! And some of the merchants say you're too\nflip when you talk to them in the store and----\"\n\n\"Poor me, when I was trying to be friendly!\"\n\n\"----every housewife in town is doubtful about your being so chummy with\nyour Bea. All right to be kind, but they say you act as though she were\nyour cousin. (Wait now! There's plenty more.) And they think you were\neccentric in furnishing this room--they think the broad couch and that\nJapanese dingus are absurd. (Wait! I know they're silly.) And I guess\nI've heard a dozen criticize you because you don't go to church oftener\nand----\"\n\n\"I can't stand it--I can't bear to realize that they've been saying all\nthese things while I've been going about so happily and liking them. I\nwonder if you ought to have told me? It will make me self-conscious.\"\n\n\"I wonder the same thing. Only answer I can get is the old saw about\nknowledge being power. And some day you'll see how absorbing it is to\nhave power, even here; to control the town----Oh, I'm a crank. But I do\nlike to see things moving.\"\n\n\"It hurts. It makes these people seem so beastly and treacherous, when\nI've been perfectly natural with them. But let's have it all. What did\nthey say about my Chinese house-warming party?\"\n\n\"Why, uh----\"\n\n\"Go on. Or I'll make up worse things than anything you can tell me.\"\n\n\"They did enjoy it. But I guess some of them felt you were showing\noff--pretending that your husband is richer than he is.\"\n\n\"I can't----Their meanness of mind is beyond any horrors I could\nimagine. They really thought that I----And you want to 'reform' people\nlike that when dynamite is so cheap? Who dared to say that? The rich or\nthe poor?\"\n\n\"Fairly well assorted.\"\n\n\"Can't they at least understand me well enough to see that though I\nmight be affected and culturine, at least I simply couldn't commit that\nother kind of vulgarity? If they must know, you may tell them, with my\ncompliments, that Will makes about four thousand a year, and the party\ncost half of what they probably thought it did. Chinese things are not\nvery expensive, and I made my own costume----\"\n\n\"Stop it! Stop beating me! I know all that. What they meant was: they\nfelt you were starting dangerous competition by giving a party such as\nmost people here can't afford. Four thousand is a pretty big income for\nthis town.\"\n\n\"I never thought of starting competition. Will you believe that it was\nin all love and friendliness that I tried to give them the gayest party\nI could? It was foolish; it was childish and noisy. But I did mean it so\nwell.\"\n\n\"I know, of course. And it certainly is unfair of them to make fun of\nyour having that Chinese food--chow men, was it?--and to laugh about\nyour wearing those pretty trousers----\"\n\nCarol sprang up, whimpering, \"Oh, they didn't do that! They didn't poke\nfun at my feast, that I ordered so carefully for them! And my little\nChinese costume that I was so happy making--I made it secretly, to\nsurprise them. And they've been ridiculing it, all this while!\"\n\nShe was huddled on the couch.\n\nVida was stroking her hair, muttering, \"I shouldn't----\"\n\nShrouded in shame, Carol did not know when Vida slipped away. The\nclock's bell, at half past five, aroused her. \"I must get hold of myself\nbefore Will comes. I hope he never knows what a fool his wife is. . . .\nFrozen, sneering, horrible hearts.\"\n\nLike a very small, very lonely girl she trudged up-stairs, slow step by\nstep, her feet dragging, her hand on the rail. It was not her husband\nto whom she wanted to run for protection--it was her father, her smiling\nunderstanding father, dead these twelve years.\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nKennicott was yawning, stretched in the largest chair, between the\nradiator and a small kerosene stove.\n\nCautiously, \"Will dear, I wonder if the people here don't criticize me\nsometimes? They must. I mean: if they ever do, you mustn't let it bother\nyou.\"\n\n\"Criticize you? Lord, I should say not. They all keep telling me you're\nthe swellest girl they ever saw.\"\n\n\"Well, I've just fancied----The merchants probably think I'm too fussy\nabout shopping. I'm afraid I bore Mr. Dashaway and Mr. Howland and Mr.\nLudelmeyer.\"\n\n\"I can tell you how that is. I didn't want to speak of it but since\nyou've brought it up: Chet Dashaway probably resents the fact that you\ngot this new furniture down in the Cities instead of here. I didn't want\nto raise any objection at the time but----After all, I make my money\nhere and they naturally expect me to spend it here.\"\n\n\"If Mr. Dashaway will kindly tell me how any civilized person can\nfurnish a room out of the mortuary pieces that he calls----\" She\nremembered. She said meekly, \"But I understand.\"\n\n\"And Howland and Ludelmeyer----Oh, you've probably handed 'em a few\nroasts for the bum stocks they carry, when you just meant to jolly 'em.\nBut rats, what do we care! This is an independent town, not like these\nEastern holes where you have to watch your step all the time, and live\nup to fool demands and social customs, and a lot of old tabbies always\nbusy criticizing. Everybody's free here to do what he wants to.\" He said\nit with a flourish, and Carol perceived that he believed it. She turned\nher breath of fury into a yawn.\n\n\"By the way, Carrie, while we're talking of this: Of course I like\nto keep independent, and I don't believe in this business of binding\nyourself to trade with the man that trades with you unless you really\nwant to, but same time: I'd be just as glad if you dealt with Jenson or\nLudelmeyer as much as you ran, instead of Howland & Gould, who go to Dr.\nGould every last time, and the whole tribe of 'em the same way. I don't\nsee why I should be paying out my good money for groceries and having\nthem pass it on to Terry Gould!\"\n\n\"I've gone to Howland & Gould because they're better, and cleaner.\"\n\n\"I know. I don't mean cut them out entirely. Course Jenson is\ntricky--give you short weight--and Ludelmeyer is a shiftless old Dutch\nhog. But same time, I mean let's keep the trade in the family whenever\nit is convenient, see how I mean?\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\n\"Well, guess it's about time to turn in.\"\n\nHe yawned, went out to look at the thermometer, slammed the door, patted\nher head, unbuttoned his waistcoat, yawned, wound the clock, went down\nto look at the furnace, yawned, and clumped up-stairs to bed, casually\nscratching his thick woolen undershirt.\n\nTill he bawled, \"Aren't you ever coming up to bed?\" she sat unmoving.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nOh, if I had done nothing simply from laziness!  Heavens, how I should\nhave respected myself, then.  I should have respected myself because I\nshould at least have been capable of being lazy; there would at least\nhave been one quality, as it were, positive in me, in which I could\nhave believed myself.  Question:  What is he?  Answer:  A sluggard; how\nvery pleasant it would have been to hear that of oneself!  It would\nmean that I was positively defined, it would mean that there was\nsomething to say about me. \"Sluggard\"--why, it is a calling and\nvocation, it is a career.  Do not jest, it is so.  I should then be a\nmember of the best club by right, and should find my occupation in\ncontinually respecting myself.  I knew a gentleman who prided himself\nall his life on being a connoisseur of Lafitte.  He considered this as\nhis positive virtue, and never doubted himself.  He died, not simply\nwith a tranquil, but with a triumphant conscience, and he was quite\nright, too.  Then I should have chosen a career for myself, I should\nhave been a sluggard and a glutton, not a simple one, but, for\ninstance, one with sympathies for everything sublime and beautiful.\nHow do you like that?  I have long had visions of it.  That \"sublime\nand beautiful\" weighs heavily on my mind at forty But that is at forty;\nthen--oh, then it would have been different!  I should have found for\nmyself a form of activity in keeping with it, to be precise, drinking\nto the health of everything \"sublime and beautiful.\"  I should have\nsnatched at every opportunity to drop a tear into my glass and then to\ndrain it to all that is \"sublime and beautiful.\"  I should then have\nturned everything into the sublime and the beautiful; in the nastiest,\nunquestionable trash, I should have sought out the sublime and the\nbeautiful.  I should have exuded tears like a wet sponge.  An artist,\nfor instance, paints a picture worthy of Gay.  At once I drink to the\nhealth of the artist who painted the picture worthy of Gay, because I\nlove all that is \"sublime and beautiful.\"  An author has written AS YOU\nWILL: at once I drink to the health of \"anyone you will\" because I love\nall that is \"sublime and beautiful.\"\n\nI should claim respect for doing so.  I should persecute anyone who\nwould not show me respect.  I should live at ease, I should die with\ndignity, why, it is charming, perfectly charming!  And what a good\nround belly I should have grown, what a treble chin I should have\nestablished, what a ruby nose I should have coloured for myself, so\nthat everyone would have said, looking at me: \"Here is an asset!  Here\nis something real and solid!\"  And, say what you like, it is very\nagreeable to hear such remarks about oneself in this negative age.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\n    \"Piacer e popone\n     Vuol la sua stagione.\"\n            --Italian Proverb.\n\n\nMr. Casaubon, as might be expected, spent a great deal of his time at\nthe Grange in these weeks, and the hindrance which courtship occasioned\nto the progress of his great work--the Key to all\nMythologies--naturally made him look forward the more eagerly to the\nhappy termination of courtship.  But he had deliberately incurred the\nhindrance, having made up his mind that it was now time for him to\nadorn his life with the graces of female companionship, to irradiate\nthe gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the intervals of studious\nlabor with the play of female fancy, and to secure in this, his\nculminating age, the solace of female tendance for his declining years.\nHence he determined to abandon himself to the stream of feeling, and\nperhaps was surprised to find what an exceedingly shallow rill it was.\nAs in droughty regions baptism by immersion could only be performed\nsymbolically, Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the utmost\napproach to a plunge which his stream would afford him; and he\nconcluded that the poets had much exaggerated the force of masculine\npassion.  Nevertheless, he observed with pleasure that Miss Brooke\nshowed an ardent submissive affection which promised to fulfil his most\nagreeable previsions of marriage.  It had once or twice crossed his\nmind that possibly there was some deficiency in Dorothea to account for\nthe moderation of his abandonment; but he was unable to discern the\ndeficiency, or to figure to himself a woman who would have pleased him\nbetter; so that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the\nexaggerations of human tradition.\n\n\"Could I not be preparing myself now to be more useful?\" said Dorothea\nto him, one morning, early in the time of courtship; \"could I not learn\nto read Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton's daughters did to\ntheir father, without understanding what they read?\"\n\n\"I fear that would be wearisome to you,\" said Mr. Casaubon, smiling;\n\"and, indeed, if I remember rightly, the young women you have mentioned\nregarded that exercise in unknown tongues as a ground for rebellion\nagainst the poet.\"\n\n\"Yes; but in the first place they were very naughty girls, else they\nwould have been proud to minister to such a father; and in the second\nplace they might have studied privately and taught themselves to\nunderstand what they read, and then it would have been interesting.  I\nhope you don't expect me to be naughty and stupid?\"\n\n\"I expect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in every\npossible relation of life.  Certainly it might be a great advantage if\nyou were able to copy the Greek character, and to that end it were well\nto begin with a little reading.\"\n\nDorothea seized this as a precious permission.  She would not have\nasked Mr. Casaubon at once to teach her the languages, dreading of all\nthings to be tiresome instead of helpful; but it was not entirely out\nof devotion to her future husband that she wished to know Latin and\nGreek.  Those provinces of masculine knowledge seemed to her a\nstanding-ground from which all truth could be seen more truly.  As it\nwas, she constantly doubted her own conclusions, because she felt her\nown ignorance: how could she be confident that one-roomed cottages were\nnot for the glory of God, when men who knew the classics appeared to\nconciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for the glory?\nPerhaps even Hebrew might be necessary--at least the alphabet and a few\nroots--in order to arrive at the core of things, and judge soundly on\nthe social duties of the Christian.  And she had not reached that point\nof renunciation at which she would have been satisfied with having a\nwise husband: she wished, poor child, to be wise herself.  Miss Brooke\nwas certainly very naive with all her alleged cleverness.  Celia, whose\nmind had never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other\npeople's pretensions much more readily.  To have in general but little\nfeeling, seems to be the only security against feeling too much on any\nparticular occasion.\n\nHowever, Mr. Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour\ntogether, like a schoolmaster of little boys, or rather like a lover,\nto whom a mistress's elementary ignorance and difficulties have a\ntouching fitness.  Few scholars would have disliked teaching the\nalphabet under such circumstances.  But Dorothea herself was a little\nshocked and discouraged at her own stupidity, and the answers she got\nto some timid questions about the value of the Greek accents gave her a\npainful suspicion that here indeed there might be secrets not capable\nof explanation to a woman's reason.\n\nMr. Brooke had no doubt on that point, and expressed himself with his\nusual strength upon it one day that he came into the library while the\nreading was going forward.\n\n\"Well, but now, Casaubon, such deep studies, classics, mathematics,\nthat kind of thing, are too taxing for a woman--too taxing, you know.\"\n\n\"Dorothea is learning to read the characters simply,\" said Mr.\nCasaubon, evading the question.  \"She had the very considerate thought\nof saving my eyes.\"\n\n\"Ah, well, without understanding, you know--that may not be so bad.\nBut there is a lightness about the feminine mind--a touch and\ngo--music, the fine arts, that kind of thing--they should study those\nup to a certain point, women should; but in a light way, you know.  A\nwoman should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old\nEnglish tune.  That is what I like; though I have heard most\nthings--been at the opera in Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that\nsort.  But I'm a conservative in music--it's not like ideas, you know.\nI stick to the good old tunes.\"\n\n\"Mr. Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not,\"\nsaid Dorothea, whose slight regard for domestic music and feminine fine\nart must be forgiven her, considering the small tinkling and smearing\nin which they chiefly consisted at that dark period.  She smiled and\nlooked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes.  If he had always been\nasking her to play the \"Last Rose of Summer,\" she would have required\nmuch resignation.  \"He says there is only an old harpsichord at Lowick,\nand it is covered with books.\"\n\n\"Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear.  Celia, now, plays very\nprettily, and is always ready to play.  However, since Casaubon does\nnot like it, you are all right.  But it's a pity you should not have\nlittle recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung--that\nkind of thing, you know--will not do.\"\n\n\"I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears\nteased with measured noises,\" said Mr. Casaubon.  \"A tune much iterated\nhas the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort\nof minuet to keep time--an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after\nboyhood.  As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn\ncelebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to\nthe ancient conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not\nimmediately concerned.\"\n\n\"No; but music of that sort I should enjoy,\" said Dorothea.  \"When we\nwere coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the great organ\nat Freiberg, and it made me sob.\"\n\n\"That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear,\" said Mr. Brooke.\n\"Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to\ntake things more quietly, eh, Dorothea?\"\n\nHe ended with a smile, not wishing to hurt his niece, but really\nthinking that it was perhaps better for her to be early married to so\nsober a fellow as Casaubon, since she would not hear of Chettam.\n\n\"It is wonderful, though,\" he said to himself as he shuffled out of the\nroom--\"it is wonderful that she should have liked him.  However, the\nmatch is good.  I should have been travelling out of my brief to have\nhindered it, let Mrs. Cadwallader say what she will.  He is pretty\ncertain to be a bishop, is Casaubon.  That was a very seasonable\npamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:--a deanery at least.  They\nowe him a deanery.\"\n\nAnd here I must vindicate a claim to philosophical reflectiveness, by\nremarking that Mr. Brooke on this occasion little thought of the\nRadical speech which, at a later period, he was led to make on the\nincomes of the bishops.  What elegant historian would neglect a\nstriking opportunity for pointing out that his heroes did not foresee\nthe history of the world, or even their own actions?--For example, that\nHenry of Navarre, when a Protestant baby, little thought of being a\nCatholic monarch; or that Alfred the Great, when he measured his\nlaborious nights with burning candles, had no idea of future gentlemen\nmeasuring their idle days with watches.  Here is a mine of truth,\nwhich, however vigorously it may be worked, is likely to outlast our\ncoal.\n\nBut of Mr. Brooke I make a further remark perhaps less warranted by\nprecedent--namely, that if he had foreknown his speech, it might not\nhave made any great difference.  To think with pleasure of his niece's\nhusband having a large ecclesiastical income was one thing--to make a\nLiberal speech was another thing; and it is a narrow mind which cannot\nlook at a subject from various points of view.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nBut the period of my dissipation would end and I always felt very sick\nafterwards.  It was followed by remorse--I tried to drive it away; I\nfelt too sick.  By degrees, however, I grew used to that too.  I grew\nused to everything, or rather I voluntarily resigned myself to enduring\nit.  But I had a means of escape that reconciled everything--that was\nto find refuge in \"the sublime and the beautiful,\" in dreams, of\ncourse.  I was a terrible dreamer, I would dream for three months on\nend, tucked away in my corner, and you may believe me that at those\nmoments I had no resemblance to the gentleman who, in the perturbation\nof his chicken heart, put a collar of German beaver on his great-coat.\nI suddenly became a hero.  I would not have admitted my six-foot\nlieutenant even if he had called on me.  I could not even picture him\nbefore me then.  What were my dreams and how I could satisfy myself\nwith them--it is hard to say now, but at the time I was satisfied with\nthem.  Though, indeed, even now, I am to some extent satisfied with\nthem.  Dreams were particularly sweet and vivid after a spell of\ndissipation; they came with remorse and with tears, with curses and\ntransports.  There were moments of such positive intoxication, of such\nhappiness, that there was not the faintest trace of irony within me, on\nmy honour.  I had faith, hope, love.  I believed blindly at such times\nthat by some miracle, by some external circumstance, all this would\nsuddenly open out, expand; that suddenly a vista of suitable\nactivity--beneficent, good, and, above all, READY MADE (what sort of\nactivity I had no idea, but the great thing was that it should be all\nready for me)--would rise up before me--and I should come out into the\nlight of day, almost riding a white horse and crowned with laurel.\nAnything but the foremost place I could not conceive for myself, and\nfor that very reason I quite contentedly occupied the lowest in\nreality.  Either to be a hero or to grovel in the mud--there was\nnothing between.  That was my ruin, for when I was in the mud I\ncomforted myself with the thought that at other times I was a hero, and\nthe hero was a cloak for the mud: for an ordinary man it was shameful\nto defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly defiled, and\nso he might defile himself.  It is worth noting that these attacks of\nthe \"sublime and the beautiful\" visited me even during the period of\ndissipation and just at the times when I was touching the bottom.  They\ncame in separate spurts, as though reminding me of themselves, but did\nnot banish the dissipation by their appearance. On the contrary, they\nseemed to add a zest to it by contrast, and were only sufficiently\npresent to serve as an appetising sauce.  That sauce was made up of\ncontradictions and sufferings, of agonising inward analysis, and all\nthese pangs and pin-pricks gave a certain piquancy, even a significance\nto my dissipation--in fact, completely answered the purpose of an\nappetising sauce.  There was a certain depth of meaning in it.  And I\ncould hardly have resigned myself to the simple, vulgar, direct\ndebauchery of a clerk and have endured all the filthiness of it.  What\ncould have allured me about it then and have drawn me at night into the\nstreet?  No, I had a lofty way of getting out of it all.\n\nAnd what loving-kindness, oh Lord, what loving-kindness I felt at times\nin those dreams of mine!  in those \"flights into the sublime and the\nbeautiful\"; though it was fantastic love, though it was never applied\nto anything human in reality, yet there was so much of this love that\none did not feel afterwards even the impulse to apply it in reality;\nthat would have been superfluous.  Everything, however, passed\nsatisfactorily by a lazy and fascinating transition into the sphere of\nart, that is, into the beautiful forms of life, lying ready, largely\nstolen from the poets and novelists and adapted to all sorts of needs\nand uses.  I, for instance, was triumphant over everyone; everyone, of\ncourse, was in dust and ashes, and was forced spontaneously to\nrecognise my superiority, and I forgave them all.  I was a poet and a\ngrand gentleman, I fell in love; I came in for countless millions and\nimmediately devoted them to humanity, and at the same time I confessed\nbefore all the people my shameful deeds, which, of course, were not\nmerely shameful, but had in them much that was \"sublime and beautiful\"\nsomething in the Manfred style.  Everyone would kiss me and weep (what\nidiots they would be if they did not), while I should go barefoot and\nhungry preaching new ideas and fighting a victorious Austerlitz against\nthe obscurantists.  Then the band would play a march, an amnesty would\nbe declared, the Pope would agree to retire from Rome to Brazil; then\nthere would be a ball for the whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese on\nthe shores of Lake Como, Lake Como being for that purpose transferred\nto the neighbourhood of Rome; then would come a scene in the bushes,\nand so on, and so on--as though you did not know all about it?  You\nwill say that it is vulgar and contemptible to drag all this into\npublic after all the tears and transports which I have myself\nconfessed.  But why is it contemptible?  Can you imagine that I am\nashamed of it all, and that it was stupider than anything in your life,\ngentlemen?  And I can assure you that some of these fancies were by no\nmeans badly composed....  It did not all happen on the shores of Lake\nComo.  And yet you are right--it really is vulgar and contemptible.\nAnd most contemptible of all it is that now I am attempting to justify\nmyself to you.  And even more contemptible than that is my making this\nremark now.  But that's enough, or there will be no end to it; each\nstep will be more contemptible than the last....\n\nI could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time\nwithout feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society.  To\nplunge into society meant to visit my superior at the office, Anton\nAntonitch Syetotchkin.  He was the only permanent acquaintance I have\nhad in my life, and I wonder at the fact myself now.  But I only went\nto see him when that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached\nsuch a point of bliss that it became essential at once to embrace my\nfellows and all mankind; and for that purpose I needed, at least, one\nhuman being, actually existing.  I had to call on Anton Antonitch,\nhowever, on Tuesday--his at-home day; so I had always to time my\npassionate desire to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a\nTuesday.\n\nThis Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth storey in a house in Five\nCorners, in four low-pitched rooms, one smaller than the other, of a\nparticularly frugal and sallow appearance.  He had two daughters and\ntheir aunt, who used to pour out the tea.  Of the daughters one was\nthirteen and another fourteen, they both had snub noses, and I was\nawfully shy of them because they were always whispering and giggling\ntogether.  The master of the house usually sat in his study on a\nleather couch in front of the table with some grey-headed gentleman,\nusually a colleague from our office or some other department.  I never\nsaw more than two or three visitors there, always the same.  They\ntalked about the excise duty; about business in the senate, about\nsalaries, about promotions, about His Excellency, and the best means of\npleasing him, and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside\nthese people for four hours at a stretch, listening to them without\nknowing what to say to them or venturing to say a word.  I became\nstupefied, several times I felt myself perspiring, I was overcome by a\nsort of paralysis; but this was pleasant and good for me.  On returning\nhome I deferred for a time my desire to embrace all mankind.\n\nI had however one other acquaintance of a sort, Simonov, who was an old\nschoolfellow.  I had a number of schoolfellows, indeed, in Petersburg,\nbut I did not associate with them and had even given up nodding to them\nin the street.  I believe I had transferred into the department I was\nin simply to avoid their company and to cut off all connection with my\nhateful childhood.  Curses on that school and all those terrible years\nof penal servitude!  In short, I parted from my schoolfellows as soon\nas I got out into the world.  There were two or three left to whom I\nnodded in the street.  One of them was Simonov, who had in no way been\ndistinguished at school, was of a quiet and equable disposition; but I\ndiscovered in him a certain independence of character and even honesty\nI don't even suppose that he was particularly stupid.  I had at one\ntime spent some rather soulful moments with him, but these had not\nlasted long and had somehow been suddenly clouded over.  He was\nevidently uncomfortable at these reminiscences, and was, I fancy,\nalways afraid that I might take up the same tone again.  I suspected\nthat he had an aversion for me, but still I went on going to see him,\nnot being quite certain of it.\n\nAnd so on one occasion, unable to endure my solitude and knowing that\nas it was Thursday Anton Antonitch's door would be closed, I thought of\nSimonov.  Climbing up to his fourth storey I was thinking that the man\ndisliked me and that it was a mistake to go and see him.  But as it\nalways happened that such reflections impelled me, as though purposely,\nto put myself into a false position, I went in.  It was almost a year\nsince I had last seen Simonov.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nPete took note of Maggie.\n\n\"Say, Mag, I'm stuck on yer shape.  It's outa sight,\" he said,\nparenthetically, with an affable grin.\n\nAs he became aware that she was listening closely, he grew still more\neloquent in his descriptions of various happenings in his career.  It\nappeared that he was invincible in fights.\n\n\"Why,\" he said, referring to a man with whom he had had a\nmisunderstanding, \"dat mug scrapped like a damn dago.  Dat's right.  He\nwas dead easy.  See?  He tau't he was a scrapper.  But he foun' out\ndiff'ent!  Hully gee.\"\n\nHe walked to and fro in the small room, which seemed then to grow even\nsmaller and unfit to hold his dignity, the attribute of a supreme\nwarrior.  That swing of the shoulders that had frozen the timid when he\nwas but a lad had increased with his growth and education at the ratio\nof ten to one.  It, combined with the sneer upon his mouth, told\nmankind that there was nothing in space which could appall him.  Maggie\nmarvelled at him and surrounded him with greatness.  She vaguely tried\nto calculate the altitude of the pinnacle from which he must have\nlooked down upon her.\n\n\"I met a chump deh odder day way up in deh city,\" he said.  \"I was\ngoin' teh see a frien' of mine.  When I was a-crossin' deh street deh\nchump runned plump inteh me, an' den he turns aroun' an' says, 'Yer\ninsolen' ruffin,' he says, like dat.  'Oh, gee,' I says, 'oh, gee, go\nteh hell and git off deh eart',' I says, like dat.  See?  'Go teh hell\nan' git off deh eart',' like dat.  Den deh blokie he got wild.  He says\nI was a contempt'ble scoun'el, er somet'ing like dat, an' he says I was\ndoom' teh everlastin' pe'dition an' all like dat.  'Gee,' I says, 'gee!\nDeh hell I am,' I says.  'Deh hell I am,' like dat.  An' den I slugged\n'im.  See?\"\n\nWith Jimmie in his company, Pete departed in a sort of a blaze of glory\nfrom the Johnson home.  Maggie, leaning from the window, watched him as\nhe walked down the street.\n\nHere was a formidable man who disdained the strength of a world full of\nfists.  Here was one who had contempt for brass-clothed power; one\nwhose knuckles could defiantly ring against the granite of law.  He was\na knight.\n\nThe two men went from under the glimmering street-lamp and passed into\nshadows.\n\nTurning, Maggie contemplated the dark, dust-stained walls, and the\nscant and crude furniture of her home.  A clock, in a splintered and\nbattered oblong box of varnished wood, she suddenly regarded as an\nabomination.  She noted that it ticked raspingly.  The almost vanished\nflowers in the carpet-pattern, she conceived to be newly hideous.  Some\nfaint attempts she had made with blue ribbon, to freshen the appearance\nof a dingy curtain, she now saw to be piteous.\n\nShe wondered what Pete dined on.\n\nShe reflected upon the collar and cuff factory.  It began to appear to\nher mind as a dreary place of endless grinding.  Pete's elegant\noccupation brought him, no doubt, into contact with people who had\nmoney and manners.  It was probable that he had a large acquaintance of\npretty girls.  He must have great sums of money to spend.\n\nTo her the earth was composed of hardships and insults.  She felt\ninstant admiration for a man who openly defied it.  She thought that if\nthe grim angel of death should clutch his heart, Pete would shrug his\nshoulders and say: \"Oh, ev'ryt'ing goes.\"\n\nShe anticipated that he would come again shortly.  She spent some of\nher week's pay in the purchase of flowered cretonne for a lambrequin.\nShe made it with infinite care and hung it to the slightly-careening\nmantel, over the stove, in the kitchen.  She studied it with painful\nanxiety from different points in the room.  She wanted it to look well\non Sunday night when, perhaps, Jimmie's friend would come.  On Sunday\nnight, however, Pete did not appear.\n\nAfterward the girl looked at it with a sense of humiliation.  She was\nnow convinced that Pete was superior to admiration for lambrequins.\n\nA few evenings later Pete entered with fascinating innovations in his\napparel.  As she had seen him twice and he had different suits on each\ntime, Maggie had a dim impression that his wardrobe was prodigiously\nextensive.\n\n\"Say, Mag,\" he said, \"put on yer bes' duds Friday night an' I'll take\nyehs teh deh show.  See?\"\n\nHe spent a few moments in flourishing his clothes and then vanished,\nwithout having glanced at the lambrequin.\n\nOver the eternal collars and cuffs in the factory Maggie spent the most\nof three days in making imaginary sketches of Pete and his daily\nenvironment.  She imagined some half dozen women in love with him and\nthought he must lean dangerously toward an indefinite one, whom she\npictured with great charms of person, but with an altogether\ncontemptible disposition.\n\nShe thought he must live in a blare of pleasure.  He had friends, and\npeople who were afraid of him.\n\nShe saw the golden glitter of the place where Pete was to take her.  An\nentertainment of many hues and many melodies where she was afraid she\nmight appear small and mouse-colored.\n\nHer mother drank whiskey all Friday morning.  With lurid face and\ntossing hair she cursed and destroyed furniture all Friday afternoon.\nWhen Maggie came home at half-past six her mother lay asleep amidst the\nwreck of chairs and a table.  Fragments of various household utensils\nwere scattered about the floor.  She had vented some phase of drunken\nfury upon the lambrequin.  It lay in a bedraggled heap in the corner.\n\n\"Hah,\" she snorted, sitting up suddenly, \"where deh hell yeh been?  Why\ndeh hell don' yeh come home earlier?  Been loafin' 'round deh streets.\nYer gettin' teh be a reg'lar devil.\"\n\nWhen Pete arrived Maggie, in a worn black dress, was waiting for him in\nthe midst of a floor strewn with wreckage.  The curtain at the window\nhad been pulled by a heavy hand and hung by one tack, dangling to and\nfro in the draft through the cracks at the sash.  The knots of blue\nribbons appeared like violated flowers.  The fire in the stove had gone\nout.  The displaced lids and open doors showed heaps of sullen grey\nashes.  The remnants of a meal, ghastly, like dead flesh, lay in a\ncorner.  Maggie's red mother, stretched on the floor, blasphemed and\ngave her daughter a bad name.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "ACT II. SCENE I.\nRome. Before the palace\n\nEnter AARON\n\n  AARON. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus' top,\n    Safe out of Fortune's shot, and sits aloft,\n    Secure of thunder's crack or lightning flash,\n    Advanc'd above pale envy's threat'ning reach.\n    As when the golden sun salutes the morn,\n    And, having gilt the ocean with his beams,\n    Gallops the zodiac in his glistening coach\n    And overlooks the highest-peering hills,\n    So Tamora.\n    Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait,\n    And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown.\n    Then, Aaron, arm thy heart and fit thy thoughts\n    To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress,\n    And mount her pitch whom thou in triumph long\n    Hast prisoner held, fett'red in amorous chains,\n    And faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes\n    Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus.\n    Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts!\n    I will be bright and shine in pearl and gold,\n    To wait upon this new-made empress.\n    To wait, said I? To wanton with this queen,\n    This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph,\n    This siren that will charm Rome's Saturnine,\n    And see his shipwreck and his commonweal's.\n    Hullo! what storm is this?\n\n            Enter CHIRON and DEMETRIUS, braving\n\n  DEMETRIUS. Chiron, thy years wants wit, thy wits wants edge\n    And manners, to intrude where I am grac'd,\n    And may, for aught thou knowest, affected be.\n  CHIRON. Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all;\n    And so in this, to bear me down with braves.\n    'Tis not the difference of a year or two\n    Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate:\n    I am as able and as fit as thou\n    To serve and to deserve my mistress' grace;\n    And that my sword upon thee shall approve,\n    And plead my passions for Lavinia's love.\n  AARON.  [Aside]  Clubs, clubs! These lovers will not keep the\n    peace.\n  DEMETRIUS. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvis'd,\n    Gave you a dancing rapier by your side,\n    Are you so desperate grown to threat your friends?\n    Go to; have your lath glued within your sheath\n    Till you know better how to handle it.\n  CHIRON. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have,\n    Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare.\n  DEMETRIUS. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave?              [They draw]\n  AARON.  [Coming forward]  Why, how now, lords!\n    So near the Emperor's palace dare ye draw\n    And maintain such a quarrel openly?\n    Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge:\n    I would not for a million of gold\n    The cause were known to them it most concerns;\n    Nor would your noble mother for much more\n    Be so dishonoured in the court of Rome.\n    For shame, put up.\n  DEMETRIUS. Not I, till I have sheath'd\n    My rapier in his bosom, and withal\n    Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat\n    That he hath breath'd in my dishonour here.\n  CHIRON. For that I am prepar'd and full resolv'd,\n    Foul-spoken coward, that thund'rest with thy tongue,\n    And with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform.\n  AARON. Away, I say!\n    Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore,\n    This pretty brabble will undo us all.\n    Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous\n    It is to jet upon a prince's right?\n    What, is Lavinia then become so loose,\n    Or Bassianus so degenerate,\n    That for her love such quarrels may be broach'd\n    Without controlment, justice, or revenge?\n    Young lords, beware; an should the Empress know\n    This discord's ground, the music would not please.\n  CHIRON. I care not, I, knew she and all the world:\n    I love Lavinia more than all the world.\n  DEMETRIUS. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice:\n    Lavina is thine elder brother's hope.\n  AARON. Why, are ye mad, or know ye not in Rome\n    How furious and impatient they be,\n    And cannot brook competitors in love?\n    I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths\n    By this device.\n  CHIRON. Aaron, a thousand deaths\n    Would I propose to achieve her whom I love.\n  AARON. To achieve her- how?\n  DEMETRIUS. Why mak'st thou it so strange?\n    She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd;\n    She is a woman, therefore may be won;\n    She is Lavinia, therefore must be lov'd.\n    What, man! more water glideth by the mill\n    Than wots the miller of; and easy it is\n    Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know.\n    Though Bassianus be the Emperor's brother,\n    Better than he have worn Vulcan's badge.\n  AARON.  [Aside]  Ay, and as good as Saturninus may.\n  DEMETRIUS. Then why should he despair that knows to court it\n    With words, fair looks, and liberality?\n    What, hast not thou full often struck a doe,\n    And borne her cleanly by the keeper's nose?\n  AARON. Why, then, it seems some certain snatch or so\n    Would serve your turns.\n  CHIRON. Ay, so the turn were served.\n  DEMETRIUS. Aaron, thou hast hit it.\n  AARON. Would you had hit it too!\n    Then should not we be tir'd with this ado.\n    Why, hark ye, hark ye! and are you such fools\n    To square for this? Would it offend you, then,\n    That both should speed?\n  CHIRON. Faith, not me.\n  DEMETRIUS. Nor me, so I were one.\n  AARON. For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar.\n    'Tis policy and stratagem must do\n    That you affect; and so must you resolve\n    That what you cannot as you would achieve,\n    You must perforce accomplish as you may.\n    Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste\n    Than this Lavinia, Bassianus' love.\n    A speedier course than ling'ring languishment\n    Must we pursue, and I have found the path.\n    My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand;\n    There will the lovely Roman ladies troop;\n    The forest walks are wide and spacious,\n    And many unfrequented plots there are\n    Fitted by kind for rape and villainy.\n    Single you thither then this dainty doe,\n    And strike her home by force if not by words.\n    This way, or not at all, stand you in hope.\n    Come, come, our Empress, with her sacred wit\n    To villainy and vengeance consecrate,\n    Will we acquaint with all what we intend;\n    And she shall file our engines with advice\n    That will not suffer you to square yourselves,\n    But to your wishes' height advance you both.\n    The Emperor's court is like the house of Fame,\n    The palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears;\n    The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull.\n    There speak and strike, brave boys, and take your turns;\n    There serve your lust, shadowed from heaven's eye,\n    And revel in Lavinia's treasury.\n  CHIRON. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice.\n  DEMETRIUS. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream\n    To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits,\n    Per Styga, per manes vehor.                           Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IV\n\n\n          THESEUS (alone)\n          What is there in her mind? What meaning lurks\n          In speech begun but to be broken short?\n          Would both deceive me with a vain pretence?\n          Have they conspired to put me to the torture?\n          And yet, despite my stern severity,\n          What plaintive voice cries deep within my heart?\n          A secret pity troubles and alarms me.\n          Oenone shall be questioned once again,\n          I must have clearer light upon this crime.\n          Guards, bid Oenone come, and come alone.\n\n\n\n\nSCENE V\n          THESEUS, PANOPE\n\n\n          PANOPE\n          I know not what the Queen intends to do,\n          But from her agitation dread the worst.\n          Fatal despair is painted on her features;\n          Death's pallor is already in her face.\n          Oenone, shamed and driven from her sight,\n          Has cast herself into the ocean depths.\n          None knows what prompted her to deed so rash;\n          And now the waves hide her from us for ever.\n\n          THESEUS\n          What say you?\n\n          PANOPE\n          Her sad fate seems to have added\n          Fresh trouble to the Queen's tempestuous soul.\n          Sometimes, to soothe her secret pain, she clasps\n          Her children close, and bathes them with her tears;\n          Then suddenly, the mother's love forgotten,\n          She thrusts them from her with a look of horror,\n          She wanders to and fro with doubtful steps;\n          Her vacant eye no longer knows us. Thrice\n          She wrote, and thrice did she, changing her mind,\n          Destroy the letter ere 'twas well begun.\n          Vouchsafe to see her, Sire: vouchsafe to help her.\n\n          THESEUS\n          Heav'ns! Is Oenone dead, and Phaedra bent\n          On dying too? Oh, call me back my son!\n          Let him defend himself, and I am ready\n          To hear him. Be not hasty to bestow\n          Thy fatal bounty, Neptune; let my pray'rs\n          Rather remain ever unheard. Too soon\n          I lifted cruel hands, believing lips\n          That may have lied! Ah! What despair may follow!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "                [A street.]\n\n                Enter two PORTINGALES, and HIERONIMO\n                meets them.\n\n  I PORT.  By your leave, sir.\n\n  HIERO.  Good leave have you; nay, I pray you go,\n    For I'll leave you, if you can leave me so.\n\n  II PORT.  Pray you, which is the next way to my lord\n    the duke's?\n\n  HIERO.  The next way from me.\n\n  I PORT.                       To the house, we mean.\n\n  HIERO. O hard by; 'tis yon house that you see.\n\n  II PORT.  You could not tell us if his son were there?\n\n  HIERO.  Who?  my lord Lorenzo?\n\n  I PORT.                               Aye, sir.\n\n                He goeth in at one door and comes out at another.\n\n  HIERO.                                        Oh, forbear,\n    For other talk for us far fitter were!\n    But, if you be importunate to know\n    The way to him and where to find him out,\n    Then list to me, and I'll resolve your doubt:\n    There is a path upon your left hand side\n    That leadeth from a guilty conscience\n    Unto a forest of distrust and fear,--\n    A darksome place and dangerous to pass,--\n    There shall you meet with melancholy thoughts\n    Whose baleful humours if you but behold,\n    It will conduct you to despair and death:\n    Whose rocky cliffs when you have once beheld,\n    Within a hugy dale of lasting night,\n    That, kindled with worlds of iniquities,\n    Doth cast up filthy and detested fumes,--\n    Not far from thence where murderers have built\n    A habitation for their cursed souls,\n    There, in a brazen caldron fix'd by Jove\n    In his fell wrath upon a sulfur flame,\n    Yourselves shall find Lorenzo bathing him\n    In boiling lead and blood of innocents.\n\n  I PORT.  Ha, ha, ha!\n\n  HIERO.  Ha, ha, ha!  why, ha, ha, ha!  Farewell, good ha,\n    ha, ha!\n\n                Exit.\n\n  II PORT.  Doubtless this man is passing lunatic,\n    Or imperfection of his age doth make him dote.\n    Come, let's away to seek my lord the duke.\n\n                [Exeunt.]\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nOf course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure\nthat she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior\nspare room--something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday\nweek.\n\nLucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only\nfaced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at\ntimes strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves.\nWhen Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her\nnerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might\nupset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to\nGeorge--they met again almost immediately at the Rectory--his voice\nmoved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she\nreally wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves,\nwhich love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered\nfrom \"things that came out of nothing and meant she didn't know what.\"\nNow Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the\ntroubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.\n\nIt is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, \"She loves young\nEmerson.\" A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is\neasy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome \"nerves\"\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved\nCecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the\nphrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation--she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between\nMr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n\"A nice fellow,\" said Mr. Beebe afterwards \"He will work off his\ncrudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life\ngracefully.\"\n\nLucy said, \"He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the clergyman. \"He is waking up.\"\n\nThat was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell,\nand she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the\nclearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival.\nShe was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.\nHoneychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton\nstation, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy\nand his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for\na solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with\nlittle Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper\nlawn for tea.\n\n\"I shall never forgive myself,\" said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising\nfrom her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.\n\"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on\npaying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.\"\n\n\"Our visitors never do such dreadful things,\" said Lucy, while her\nbrother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial,\nexclaimed in irritable tones: \"Just what I've been trying to convince\nCousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.\"\n\n\"I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,\" said Miss Bartlett, and\nlooked at her frayed glove.\n\n\"All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to\nthe driver.\"\n\nMiss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could\nany one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four\nhalf-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: \"But who\nam I to give the sovereign to?\"\n\n\"Let's leave it all till mother comes back,\" suggested Lucy.\n\n\"No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not\nhampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt\nsettling of accounts.\"\n\nHere Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be\nquoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution\nseemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking\nhis tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned\nround.\n\nBut this did not do, either.\n\n\"Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me\nwretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.\"\n\n\"Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,\" interposed Cecil. \"So it will work\nout right if you give the pound to me.\"\n\n\"Fifteen shillings,\" said Miss Bartlett dubiously. \"How is that, Mr.\nVyse?\"\n\n\"Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we\nshall avoid this deplorable gambling.\"\n\nMiss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered\nup the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For\na moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers.\nThen he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the\nsmiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying\ntwaddle.\n\n\"But I don't see that!\" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched\nthe iniquitous transaction. \"I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the\nquid.\"\n\n\"Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,\" they said solemnly.\n\"Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.\"\n\n\"But I don't see--\"\n\nThey tried to stifle her with cake.\n\n\"No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss\nHoneychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's\nten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss\nWhat's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver.\"\n\n\"I had forgotten the driver,\" said Miss Bartlett, reddening. \"Thank you,\ndear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change\nfor half a crown?\"\n\n\"I'll get it,\" said the young hostess, rising with decision.\n\n\"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get\nEuphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the\nbeginning.\"\n\n\"Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!\" protested Miss Bartlett, and\nfollowed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity.\nWhen they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said\nquite briskly: \"Have you told him about him yet?\"\n\n\"No, I haven't,\" replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue\nfor understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. \"Let me see--a\nsovereign's worth of silver.\"\n\nShe escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were\ntoo uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke\nor caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had\nbeen a ruse to surprise the soul.\n\n\"No, I haven't told Cecil or any one,\" she remarked, when she returned.\n\"I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except\ntwo half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely\nnow.\"\n\nMiss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.\nJohn ascending, which had been framed.\n\n\"How dreadful!\" she murmured, \"how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse\nshould come to hear of it from some other source.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, Charlotte,\" said the girl, entering the battle. \"George Emerson\nis all right, and what other source is there?\"\n\nMiss Bartlett considered. \"For instance, the driver. I saw him looking\nthrough the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.\"\n\nLucy shuddered a little. \"We shall get the silly affair on our nerves\nif we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of\nCecil?\"\n\n\"We must think of every possibility.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's all right.\"\n\n\"Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.\"\n\n\"I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but\neven if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at\nit.\"\n\n\"To contradict it?\"\n\n\"No, to laugh at it.\" But she knew in her heart that she could not trust\nhim, for he desired her untouched.\n\n\"Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what\nthey were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.\"\n\n\"Now, Charlotte!\" She struck at her playfully. \"You kind, anxious thing.\nWhat WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say,\n'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!\"\n\nMiss Bartlett sighed \"I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I\nblush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able\nto look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You\nwill never forgive me.\"\n\n\"Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't.\"\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with\na teaspoon.\n\n\"Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have\nyou seen the young one yet?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have.\"\n\n\"What happened?\"\n\n\"We met at the Rectory.\"\n\n\"What line is he taking up?\"\n\n\"No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all\nright. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly?\nI do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any\nnuisance, Charlotte.\"\n\n\"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.\"\n\nLucy paused. \"Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that\nthere are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious.\" She\npaused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through\nthe window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It\nwas a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from\nthe station.\n\n\"Once a cad, always a cad,\" droned Miss Bartlett.\n\n\"What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into\nall those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we\nought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a\nperson with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire\nme, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and\nhas asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has\nimproved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into\ntears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big\nrailways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa\nwas to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There!\nNow for the garden.\" She took hold of her guest by the arm. \"Suppose we\ndon't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to\nhave a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.\"\n\nLucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected\nan unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one\ncannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly\npeople. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the\nentrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of\nthem Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her\nbrain.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "                [A room in the DUKE's castle.]\n\n                Enter LORENZO, BALTHAZAR and the PAGE.\n\n  LOR.  Boy, talk no further; thus far things go well.\n    Thou art assur'd that thou sawest him dead?\n\n  PAGE.  Or else, my lord, I live not.\n\n  LOR.                  That's enough.\n    As for this resolution at his end,\n    Leave that to him with whom he sojourns now.\n    Here, take my ring, and give it Christophel,\n    And bid him let my sister be enlarg'd,\n    And bring her hither straight.\n\n                Exit PAGE.\n\n    This that I did was for a policy,\n    To smooth and keep the murder secret,\n    Which as a nine days wonder being o'er-blown,\n    My gentle sister will I now enlarge.\n\n  BAL.  And time, Lorenzo; for my lord the duke,\n    You heard, enquired for her yester-night.\n\n  LOR.  Why!  and, my lord, I hope you heard me say\n    Sufficient reason why she kept away;\n    But that's all one.  My lord, you love her?\n\n  BAL.                          Aye.\n\n  LOR.  Then in your love beware; deal cunningly;\n    Salve all suspicions; only soothe me up,\n    And, if she hap to stand on terms with us,\n    As for her sweet-heart, and concealment so,\n    Jest with her gently; under feigned jest\n    Are things conceal'd that else would breed unrest.\n    But here she comes.\n\n                Enter BEL-IMPERIA.\n\n  LOR.  Now, sister.\n\n  BEL.                          Sister?  No!\n    Thou art no brother, but an enemy,\n    Else wouldst thou not have us'd thy sister so:\n    First, to affright me with thy weapons drawn,\n    And with extremes abuse my company;\n    And then to hurry me like whirlwind's rage\n    Amidst a crew of thy confederates,\n    And clap me up where none might come at me,\n    Nor I at any to reveal my wrongs.\n    What madding fury did possess thy wits?\n    Or wherein is't that I offended thee?\n\n  LOR.  Advise you better, Bel-imperia;\n    For I have done you no disparagement,--\n    Unless, by more discretion then deserv'd,\n    I sought to save your honour and mine own.\n\n  BEL.  Mine honour?  Why, Lorenzo, wherein is't\n    That I neglect my reputation so\n    As you, or any, need to rescue it?\n\n  LOR.  His Highness and my father were resolv'd\n    To come confer with old Hieronimo\n    Concerning certain matters of estate\n    That by the viceroy was determined.\n\n  BEL.  And wherein was mine honour touch'd in that?\n\n  BAL.  Have patience, Bel-imperia; hear the rest.\n\n  LOR.  Me, next in sight, as messenger they sent\n    To give him notice that they were so nigh:\n    Now, when I came, consorted with the prince,\n    And unexpected in an arbor there\n    Found Bel-imperia with Horatio--\n\n  BEL.   How then?\n\n  LOR.  Why, then, rememb'ring that old disgrace\n    Which you for Don Andrea had endur'd,\n    And now were likely longer to sustain\n    By being found so meanly accompanied,\n    Thought rather, for I knew no readier mean,\n    To thrust Horatio forth my father's way.\n\n  BAL.  And carry you obscurely somewhere else,\n    Lest that his Highness should have found you there.\n\n  BEL.  Ev'n so, my lord?  And you are witness\n    That this is true which he entreateth of?\n    You, gentle brother, forg'd this for my sake?\n    And you, my lord, were made his instrument?\n    A work of worth!  worthy the noting too!\n    But what's the cause that you conceal'd me since?\n\n  LOR.  Your melancholy, sister, since the news\n    Of your first favorite Don Andrea's death\n    My father's old wrath hath exasperate.\n\n  BAL.  And better was't for you, being in disgrace,\n    To absent yourself and give his fury place.\n\n  BEL.  But why I had no notice of his ire?\n\n  LOR.  That were to add more fuel to your fire,\n    Who burnt like Aetna for Andrea's loss.\n\n  BEL.  Hath not my father then enquir'd for me?\n\n  LOR.  Sister, he hath; and this excus'd I thee.\n\n                He whispereth in her ear.\n\n    But, Bel-imperia, see the gentle prince;\n    Look on thy love; behold young Balthazar,\n    Whose passions by thy presence are increas'd,\n    And in whose melancholy thou may'st see\n    Thy hate, his love, thy flight, his following thee.\n\n  BEL.  Brother, you are become an orator--\n    I know not, ay, by what experience--\n    Too politic for me, past all compare,\n    Since I last saw you.  But content yourself;\n    The prince is meditating higher things.\n\n  BAL.  'Tis of thy beauty, then, that conquers kings,\n    Of those thy tresses, Ariadne's twines,\n    Wherewith my liberty thou hast surpris'd,\n    Of that thine ivory front, my sorrow's map,\n    Wherein I see no hav'n to rest my hope.\n\n  BEL.  To love and fear, and both at once, my lord,\n    In my conceit, are things of more import\n    Then women's wit are to be busied with.\n\n  BAL.  'Tis I that love.\n\n  BEL.                  Whom?\n\n  BAL.                                  Bel-imperia.\n\n  BEL.  But I that fear.\n\n  BAL.                  Whom?\n\n  BEL.                                  Bel-imperia.\n\n  LOR.  Fear yourself?\n\n  BEL.                  Aye, brother.\n\n  LOR.                                  How?\n\n  BEL.                                          As those\n    That, when they love, are loath and fear to lose.\n\n  BAL.  Then, fair, let Balthazar your keeper be.\n\n  BEL.  No, Balthazar doth fear as well as we;\n    Et tremulo metui pavidum junxere timorem,\n    Est vanum stolidae proditionis opus.\n\n                Exit.\n\n  LOR.  Nay, and you argue things so cunningly,\n    We'll go continue this discourse at court.\n\n  BAL. Led by the loadstar of her heav'nly looks,\n    Wends poor oppressed Balthazar,\n    As o'er the mountains walks the wanderer\n    Incertain to effect his pilgrimage.\n\n                Exeunt.", "summary": "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", "document": "[The Duke's Castle]\n\n                Enter HORATIO and BEL-IMPERIA.\n\n  HOR.  Now, madame, since by favour of your love\n    Our hidden smoke is turn'd to open flame,\n    And that with looks and words we feed our thought,--\n    Two chief contents where more cannot be had,--\n    Thus in the midst of love's fair blandishments\n    Why show you sign of inward languishments?\n\n                PEDRINGANO showeth all to the PRINCE and\n                LORENZO, placing them in secret.\n\n  BEL.  My heart, sweet friend, is like a ship at sea:\n    She wisheth port, where, riding all at ease,\n    She may repair what stormy times have worn,\n    And, leaning on the shore, may sing with joy\n    That pleasure follows pain, and bliss annoy.\n    Possession of thy love is th' only port\n    Wherein my heart, with fears and hopes long toss'd,\n    Each hour doth wish and long to make resort,\n    There to repair the joys that it hath lost,\n    And, sitting safe, to sing in Cupid's choir\n    That sweetest bliss is crown of love's desire.\n\n                BALTHAZAR, above.\n\n  BAL.  O sleep, mine eyes; see not my love profan'd!\n    Be deaf, my ears; hear not my discontent!\n    Die, heart; another joys what thou deserv'st!\n\n  LOR.  Watch still, mine eyes, to see this love disjoin'd!\n    Hear still, mine ears, to hear them both lament!\n    Live, heart, to joy at fond Horatio's fall!\n\n  BEL.  Why stands Horatio speechless all this while?\n\n  HOR.  The less I speak, the more I meditate.\n\n  BEL.  But whereon dost thou chiefly meditate?\n\n  HOR.  On dangers past and pleasures to ensue.\n\n  BAL. On pleasures past and dangers to ensue!\n\n  BEL.  What dangers and what pleasures dost thou mean?\n\n  HOR.  Dangers of war and pleasures of our love.\n\n  LOR.  Dangers of death, but pleasures none at all!\n\n  BEL. Let dangers go; thy war shall be with me,\n    But such a war as breaks no bond of peace.\n    Speak thou fair words, I'll cross them with fair words;\n    Send thou sweet looks, I'll meet them with sweet looks;\n    Write loving lines, I'll answer loving lines;\n    Give me a kiss, I'll countercheck thy kiss:\n    Be this our warring peace, or peaceful war.\n\n  HOR.  But, gracious madame, then appoint the field\n    Where trial of this war shall first be made.\n\n  BAL.  Ambitious villain, how his boldness grows!\n\n  BEL.  Then be thy father's pleasant bow'r the field,--\n    Where first we vow'd a mutual amity.\n    The court were dangerous; that place is safe.\n    Our hour shall be when Vesper 'gins to rise,\n    That summons home distressful travelers.\n    There none shall hear us but the harmless birds:\n    Haply the gentle nightingale\n    Shall carroll us asleep ere we be ware,\n    And, singing with the prickle at her breast,\n    Tell our delight and mirthful dalliance.\n    Till then, each hour will seem a year and more.\n\n  HOR.  But, honey-sweet and honourable love,\n    Return we now into your father's sight;\n    Dang'rous suspicion waits on our delight.\n\n  LOR.  Aye, danger mix'd with jealous despite\n    Shall send thy soul into eternal night!\n\n                Exeunt.\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "\nThe brick front was just in a line with the street, or rather the road.\nBehind the door hung a cloak with a small collar, a bridle, and a black\nleather cap, and on the floor, in a corner, were a pair of leggings,\nstill covered with dry mud. On the right was the one apartment, that was\nboth dining and sitting room. A canary yellow paper, relieved at the\ntop by a garland of pale flowers, was puckered everywhere over the badly\nstretched canvas; white calico curtains with a red border hung crossways\nat the length of the window; and on the narrow mantelpiece a clock with\na head of Hippocrates shone resplendent between two plate candlesticks\nunder oval shades. On the other side of the passage was Charles's\nconsulting room, a little room about six paces wide, with a table,\nthree chairs, and an office chair. Volumes of the \"Dictionary of Medical\nScience,\" uncut, but the binding rather the worse for the successive\nsales through which they had gone, occupied almost along the six shelves\nof a deal bookcase.\n\nThe smell of melted butter penetrated through the walls when he saw\npatients, just as in the kitchen one could hear the people coughing in\nthe consulting room and recounting their histories.\n\nThen, opening on the yard, where the stable was, came a large\ndilapidated room with a stove, now used as a wood-house, cellar, and\npantry, full of old rubbish, of empty casks, agricultural implements\npast service, and a mass of dusty things whose use it was impossible to\nguess.\n\nThe garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with espaliered\napricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from the field. In the\nmiddle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal; four flower beds with\neglantines surrounded symmetrically the more useful kitchen garden bed.\nRight at the bottom, under the spruce bushes, was a cure in plaster\nreading his breviary.\n\nEmma went upstairs. The first room was not furnished, but in the second,\nwhich was their bedroom, was a mahogany bedstead in an alcove with red\ndrapery. A shell box adorned the chest of drawers, and on the secretary\nnear the window a bouquet of orange blossoms tied with white satin\nribbons stood in a bottle. It was a bride's bouquet; it was the other\none's. She looked at it. Charles noticed it; he took it and carried it\nup to the attic, while Emma seated in an arm-chair (they were putting\nher things down around her) thought of her bridal flowers packed up in\na bandbox, and wondered, dreaming, what would be done with them if she\nwere to die.\n\nDuring the first days she occupied herself in thinking about changes in\nthe house. She took the shades off the candlesticks, had new wallpaper\nput up, the staircase repainted, and seats made in the garden round the\nsundial; she even inquired how she could get a basin with a jet fountain\nand fishes. Finally her husband, knowing that she liked to drive out,\npicked up a second-hand dogcart, which, with new lamps and splashboard\nin striped leather, looked almost like a tilbury.\n\nHe was happy then, and without a care in the world. A meal together,\na walk in the evening on the highroad, a gesture of her hands over her\nhair, the sight of her straw hat hanging from the window-fastener, and\nmany another thing in which Charles had never dreamed of pleasure, now\nmade up the endless round of his happiness. In bed, in the morning, by\nher side, on the pillow, he watched the sunlight sinking into the down\non her fair cheek, half hidden by the lappets of her night-cap. Seen\nthus closely, her eyes looked to him enlarged, especially when, on\nwaking up, she opened and shut them rapidly many times. Black in the\nshade, dark blue in broad daylight, they had, as it were, depths of\ndifferent colours, that, darker in the centre, grew paler towards the\nsurface of the eye. His own eyes lost themselves in these depths; he saw\nhimself in miniature down to the shoulders, with his handkerchief round\nhis head and the top of his shirt open. He rose. She came to the window\nto see him off, and stayed leaning on the sill between two pots of\ngeranium, clad in her dressing gown hanging loosely about her. Charles,\nin the street buckled his spurs, his foot on the mounting stone, while\nshe talked to him from above, picking with her mouth some scrap of\nflower or leaf that she blew out at him. Then this, eddying, floating,\ndescribed semicircles in the air like a bird, and was caught before\nit reached the ground in the ill-groomed mane of the old white mare\nstanding motionless at the door. Charles from horseback threw her a\nkiss; she answered with a nod; she shut the window, and he set off. And\nthen along the highroad, spreading out its long ribbon of dust, along\nthe deep lanes that the trees bent over as in arbours, along paths where\nthe corn reached to the knees, with the sun on his back and the morning\nair in his nostrils, his heart full of the joys of the past night, his\nmind at rest, his flesh at ease, he went on, re-chewing his happiness,\nlike those who after dinner taste again the truffles which they are\ndigesting.\n\nUntil now what good had he had of his life? His time at school, when\nhe remained shut up within the high walls, alone, in the midst of\ncompanions richer than he or cleverer at their work, who laughed at his\naccent, who jeered at his clothes, and whose mothers came to the school\nwith cakes in their muffs? Later on, when he studied medicine, and never\nhad his purse full enough to treat some little work-girl who would have\nbecome his mistress? Afterwards, he had lived fourteen months with the\nwidow, whose feet in bed were cold as icicles. But now he had for life\nthis beautiful woman whom he adored. For him the universe did not extend\nbeyond the circumference of her petticoat, and he reproached himself\nwith not loving her. He wanted to see her again; he turned back quickly,\nran up the stairs with a beating heart. Emma, in her room, was dressing;\nhe came up on tiptoe, kissed her back; she gave a cry.\n\nHe could not keep from constantly touching her comb, her ring, her\nfichu; sometimes he gave her great sounding kisses with all his mouth on\nher cheeks, or else little kisses in a row all along her bare arm\nfrom the tip of her fingers up to her shoulder, and she put him away\nhalf-smiling, half-vexed, as you do a child who hangs about you.\n\nBefore marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that\nshould have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought,\nhave been mistaken. And Emma tried to find out what one meant exactly in\nlife by the words felicity, passion, rapture, that had seemed to her so\nbeautiful in books.\n\n\n", "summary": "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", "document": "SCENE IV.\nRome. Before the palace\n\nEnter the EMPEROR, and the EMPRESS and her two sons, DEMETRIUS\nand CHIRON;\nLORDS and others. The EMPEROR brings the arrows in his hand that\nTITUS\nshot at him\n\n  SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen\n    An emperor in Rome thus overborne,\n    Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent\n    Of egal justice, us'd in such contempt?\n    My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods,\n    However these disturbers of our peace\n    Buzz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd\n    But even with law against the wilful sons\n    Of old Andronicus. And what an if\n    His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits,\n    Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,\n    His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness?\n    And now he writes to heaven for his redress.\n    See, here's 'To Jove' and this 'To Mercury';\n    This 'To Apollo'; this 'To the God of War'-\n    Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!\n    What's this but libelling against the Senate,\n    And blazoning our unjustice every where?\n    A goodly humour, is it not, my lords?\n    As who would say in Rome no justice were.\n    But if I live, his feigned ecstasies\n    Shall be no shelter to these outrages;\n    But he and his shall know that justice lives\n    In Saturninus' health; whom, if she sleep,\n    He'll so awake as he in fury shall\n    Cut off the proud'st conspirator that lives.\n  TAMORA. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,\n    Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts,\n    Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age,\n    Th' effects of sorrow for his valiant sons\n    Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep and scarr'd his heart;\n    And rather comfort his distressed plight\n    Than prosecute the meanest or the best\n    For these contempts.  [Aside]  Why, thus it shall become\n    High-witted Tamora to gloze with all.\n    But, Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick,\n    Thy life-blood on't; if Aaron now be wise,\n    Then is all safe, the anchor in the port.\n\n                       Enter CLOWN\n\n    How now, good fellow! Wouldst thou speak with us?\n  CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistriship be Emperial.\n  TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the Emperor.\n  CLOWN. 'Tis he.- God and Saint Stephen give you godden. I have\n    brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.\n                                   [SATURNINUS reads the letter]\n  SATURNINUS. Go take him away, and hang him presently.\n  CLOWN. How much money must I have?\n  TAMORA. Come, sirrah, you must be hang'd.\n  CLOWN. Hang'd! by'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a\nfair\n    end.                                          [Exit guarded]\n  SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs!\n    Shall I endure this monstrous villainy?\n    I know from whence this same device proceeds.\n    May this be borne- as if his traitorous sons\n    That died by law for murder of our brother\n    Have by my means been butchered wrongfully?\n    Go drag the villain hither by the hair;\n    Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege.\n    For this proud mock I'll be thy slaughterman,\n    Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great,\n    In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.\n\n                   Enter NUNTIUS AEMILIUS\n\n    What news with thee, Aemilius?\n  AEMILIUS. Arm, my lords! Rome never had more cause.\n    The Goths have gathered head; and with a power\n    Of high resolved men, bent to the spoil,\n    They hither march amain, under conduct\n    Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus;\n    Who threats in course of this revenge to do\n    As much as ever Coriolanus did.\n  SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths?\n    These tidings nip me, and I hang the head\n    As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.\n    Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach.\n    'Tis he the common people love so much;\n    Myself hath often heard them say-\n    When I have walked like a private man-\n    That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully,\n    And they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor.\n  TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is not your city strong?\n  SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius,\n    And will revolt from me to succour him.\n  TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like thy name!\n    Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it?\n    The eagle suffers little birds to sing,\n    And is not careful what they mean thereby,\n    Knowing that with the shadow of his wings\n    He can at pleasure stint their melody;\n    Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.\n    Then cheer thy spirit; for know thou, Emperor,\n    I will enchant the old Andronicus\n    With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,\n    Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep,\n    When as the one is wounded with the bait,\n    The other rotted with delicious feed.\n  SATURNINUS. But he will not entreat his son for us.\n  TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will;\n    For I can smooth and fill his aged ears\n    With golden promises, that, were his heart\n    Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,\n    Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.\n    [To AEMILIUS]  Go thou before to be our ambassador;\n    Say that the Emperor requests a parley\n    Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting\n    Even at his father's house, the old Andronicus.\n  SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message honourably;\n    And if he stand on hostage for his safety,\n    Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.\n  AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually.            Exit\n  TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus,\n    And temper him with all the art I have,\n    To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths.\n    And now, sweet Emperor, be blithe again,\n    And bury all thy fear in my devices.\n  SATURNINUS. Then go successantly, and plead to him.\n                                                          Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "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."}]